holes in the latter being concealed by ink) the Eton boys going up to
the Castle would stroll about the terrace, which, like the river, was
“in bounds” though the approaches to it were not. There the King mixed
freely with them, asking any one he did not know by sight, “What’s
your name? Who’s your tutor? Who’s your dame?” And on receiving the
answer he would generally remark: “_Very_ good tutor, _very_ good dame.”
[SN: MONTEM PARADE]
On the evening of the picturesque “Montem,” the terrace was the scene
of what was called “Montem parade,” in which the fantastic costumes of
the boys were conspicuous features. On one occasion George III. kept
all the boys to supper at the Castle, taking care, however, to forget
all about the masters, who were consequently annoyed. The old king more
than once interfered to prevent Eton boys from being punished, and
actually gave one offender who had been expelled for poaching in the
Home Park a commission in the Guards.
William the Fourth also took a great interest in Eton, as did Queen
Victoria, who sometimes sent for privileged boys. On one occasion
she attended speeches, and all the school considered it a compliment
when she invited Dr. Hawtrey to tea. In the earlier portion of her
reign, whenever she passed through Eton she was loudly cheered by
the Etonians, and would check the speed of her carriage out of
consideration for those who ran beside it.
The memory of George III., as every one knows, is still preserved at
Eton by the celebration of his birthday--June 4th. What, however, every
one does not know is that the present costume of the Eton boys--black
jackets and tail coats--is in reality but a sort of perpetual mourning
for the old king.
At the end of the eighteenth century the costume of an Etonian
consisted of a blue coat, knee breeches, white waistcoat and ruffled
shirt, but a few years later white ducks and pantaloons began to be
worn by Oppidans, though the Collegers were compelled to adhere to the
older dress for some time longer.
After 1820 the smaller boys wore jackets and black slip-knot
ties (handkerchiefs they were called at first), the bigger ones
swallow-tailed dress-coats and spotless white ties. For a considerable
period the latter had no collars, but stiff neckcloths about a yard
long, tied twice round. The first boy who started a single tie and
collar was one of the master’s sons, and at first the innovation was
regarded with disfavour as much too free-and-easy. The masters kept a
sharp eye upon the boys’ tails, any one attempting something like a
“morning” coat being at once called to account and told by his tutor
not to “dress himself like a bargeman.” No objection, however, was made
to an indulgence in studs, bunches of charms, and other jewellery; and
many boys decorated their coats with summer flowers, in the arrangement
of which they showed some taste.
Towards the middle of the nineteenth century morning coats took the
place of the swallow-tails. Since then, with the exception of a
diminution in the height of the top hat, which in the late fifties of
the last century was preposterous, the dress of an Etonian has remained
pretty well unchanged, though, of course, from time to time there
have been varying fashions as regards waistcoats. Thirty years ago the
most popular of these were those made of a sort of corduroy relieved
by coloured silk. At present, I understand, some perturbation has been
caused amongst the upper boys by a report that the Headmaster proposes
to prohibit every sort of fancy waistcoat; but it is to be hoped that
such an interference with Etonian liberty will not be carried into
effect.
[SN: FADS]
The custom of swells wearing stick-up collars, instead of the turn-down
ones worn by their undistinguished schoolfellows, is now of some
antiquity and appears likely to last.
Up to about fifty or sixty years ago Eton boys never wore greatcoats
at all. The famous Headmaster, Dr. Keate, was a warm supporter of this
Spartan habit, which underwent only gradual modification as time went
on; for, even after greatcoats were allowed the boys very seldom wore
them, and never by any chance put them on unless they were sure that
some of the swells of the school had given them a lead. So strong is
the force of custom in this matter, that when a few years ago the
Headmaster issued a circular that every boy, no matter his place in the
school, was to wear a greatcoat whenever he liked, no notice whatever
was taken of it, the old state of affairs continuing to exist. Another
curious usage is that which ordains that no boy except a swell may
carry his umbrella rolled up, akin to which was the idea, prevalent
thirty years ago, and very likely prevalent to-day, that turning up the
bottom of the trousers must not be attempted by any but those occupying
a distinguished position in the school.
Before the era of steam, wonderful costumes were worn by Eton boys as
they started away for the holidays. On Election Monday the whole road
from Barnes Pool Bridge to Weston’s Yard would be filled with a crowd
of vehicles, whilst round the corner of the Slough Road, where the new
schools now stand, just beyond Spier’s sock shop, a number of youths,
gorgeously dressed in green coats with brass buttons, white breeches,
top-boots and spurs, would take horse and ride away to town, much to
the admiration of a crowd of lower boys. At Spier’s, at the corner
opposite the entrance to Weston’s Yard, Collegers were in the habit of
leaving their gowns when going out of bounds towards Slough. Shelley
as an Eton boy was a great frequenter of this sock shop, where the
excellent brown bread and butter and a pretty girl, Martha--the Hebe of
Spier’s--as he called her, made a great impression upon his youthful
mind.
Farther away down Datchet Lane on breaking-up day, sporting spirits
would find traps of various sorts waiting for them--tandems were
occasionally driven by Eton boys during the school-time, fags being
taken out to act as tigers on surreptitious drives to Salt Hill or
to Marsh’s Inn at Maidenhead, once a favourite place of resort on
account of the cock-pit there. On one of these outings in a curricle,
a horse bolted, and the driver, brutalized by terror, ordered his fag
to jump on the horse’s back and saw at his bit. The foolhardy feat
was accomplished, and the horse stopped, but the small boy’s arms
were almost pulled out of their sockets, and one of them got badly
dislocated. According to one account it was Mr. Gladstone, then an Eton
boy, who tried to rectify the injury before a doctor arrived.
[SN: TRADITIONS]
The old Eton traditions were essentially aristocratic in their nature,
as was only natural considering that the vast majority of the boys
sent to the school were of good birth. Whilst amongst themselves the
boys were highly intolerant of all assumptions of superiority not
based upon the distinctions of good fellowship and physical prowess,
they were rather prone to regard the rest of the world with easy and
good-natured contempt; indeed they thought themselves the finest
fellows in the world, and little was done by the authorities to dispel
such an idea. According to a certain standpoint, this, no doubt, was
mere snobbishness, the main object of a favourite form of modern
altruism being to assume that the lowest is better than the highest,
and give way to everybody no matter who. It is, however, to be hoped
that the latter spirit--the spirit of defeat, not of victory--will not
be allowed to annihilate that individualism and independence which has
ever been held dear by those educated amidst Eton’s classic shades.
In former days, no doubt, somewhat extravagant respect was paid to
rank; but it must be remembered that the aristocracy were at that time
the real leaders of the country, and titles not merely honorary labels
purchased by “plebeian money bags,” through contributions to their
party war chests. For the most part they then carried with them real
territorial power.
In its main features, the Eton of our forefathers was a true democracy,
though one enclosed in an aristocratic frame. In spite of Socialists
and sentimentalists “all men are born unequal,” and our ancestors were
fully alive to the odious affectation of ignoring social distinctions
which always have existed, and always must exist in every society.
[SN: BADGE GIVING]
The position of noblemen, as they were called (this included the
eldest sons of Peers), at Eton, then, somewhat resembled that of the
gentlemen commoners at the University. Like the latter, they had to pay
for their privileges, double fees being exacted from their parents’
pockets. The privileges in question, it should be added, hurt nobody.
On the festivals of St. Andrew, St. Patrick, St. David, and, if in the
school-time, St. George, the Headmaster entertained Scotch, Irish,
Welsh or English boys of high birth at breakfast, and on such days he
and the Lower Master wore an appropriate “badge,” presented to them by
the boy who was highest in rank of the nation which was celebrating its
patron saint. Not infrequently the boy’s tutor was presented with one
of these badges, sometimes quite valuable gifts, costing five or six
pounds apiece. There was no fixed pattern, the design being always left
to the boy’s own taste, or to that of his parents; care, however, was
taken to introduce the shamrock, thistle, or leek, according to the day
which was to be celebrated.
The quaint old usage was formerly quite a feature of the school-time
during which it took place. As late as 1862 a London newspaper gave
an account of its observance. In that year, on St. Patrick’s day,
Lord Langford, as the highest Irish nobleman who was an Eton boy at
the time, presented badges of St. Patrick, beautifully embroidered
in silver, to the Headmaster, the Reverend E. Balston, and to the
Lower Master, the Reverend W. Carter, both of whom wore these badges
throughout the day. On the same date, according to ancient custom,
twenty-four noblemen and gentlemen, as they were termed--that is to
say, Eton boys--attended a great breakfast given by the Headmaster.
Why such an inoffensive and pretty custom was ever allowed to become
obsolete it is difficult to understand.
According to one account, the individual responsible for the
discontinuance was the late Duke of Sutherland, who, when it came
to the turn of his son, Lord Stafford, to present the badge,
discouraged him from carrying out the old usage, which he branded
as mere nonsense. Probably the cost of the badges contributed to the
discontinuance of their presentation. It seems a pity that a fixed
pattern worth some trifling sum was not adopted in order to prevent
extravagance.
Though the badges seem still to have been given up to the middle
sixties of the last century, by 1879--amongst the boys at least--all
tradition of anything of the sort had died away. One who had been at
Eton about 1866 told the writer that he had a vague remembrance of
hearing of the custom, but it had then ceased to be observed.
It should be added that Dr. Hawtrey, in his monument in the College
Chapel, is represented wearing the badge of Scotland and the motto
_Nemo me impune lacessit_.
[SN: PRIVATE TUTORS]
Till about 1835, noblemen who came to Eton usually brought private
tutors with them, and boarded at dames: they were not obliged to have
school tutors. The most distinguished of these private tutors would
appear to have been John Moultrie, who in 1822 acted in this capacity
to Lord Craven, who three years later presented him with the living of
Rugby. As a youthful Colleger Moultrie had shown considerable poetic
power, and had he died at an early age speculation might have been busy
as to the great poems which English literature had lost through his
death. His early reputation rested chiefly on “My Brother’s Grave,” in
the style of Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon,” first published in the
College Magazine and then in the _Etonian_. Often reprinted since,
it is probably the most widely read of his writings. He was a warm
lover of Eton, and paid a fine tribute of affection to his old school
in an introduction to an edition of Gray. Bringing private tutors to
Eton seems to have entailed considerably great cost, for the Duke of
Atholl told William Evans that his expenses under this system were
£1000 a year! Dr. Hawtrey, it was, who made the rule that every boy
should have a school tutor, after which the custom of bringing private
tutors practically ceased. Even in the sixties, however, it survived
in a modified way. Lord Blandford, Lord Lorne, his brother, Lord
Archibald Campbell, and his cousin, Lord Ronald Leveson Gower, all had
private tutors--the last three, indeed, lived with one in a house by
themselves. George Monckton, afterwards Lord Galway, who was at Eton
about the same time, also enjoyed the same dubious advantage.
[SN: CHAPEL]
As has already been mentioned at page 28, up to about 1845, boys who
were noblemen, sons of peers or baronets, sat in the stalls (ruthlessly
torn down during the so-called “restoration” of 1845-47) at the west
end of the chapel, near the Provost and Headmaster; and, according
to custom, a newcomer distributed packets of almonds and raisins to
his companions in the other seats of honour. Originally, it would
seem, this curious usage was limited to the Sixth Form boys, who also
followed it when for the first time they took their places as such.
Considerable obscurity, however, surrounds the whole subject of “chapel
sock,” as it was called; probably it was the continuance of some
medieval custom, the meaning of which had disappeared ages before. The
eating of almonds and raisins during divine worship seems very strange
to those of a later generation; in former times, however, it must be
remembered the chapel was sometimes used for other purposes besides
the celebration of services. The election of the College Fellows, for
instance, took place there, and sometimes some of the electors tucked
themselves up as well as they could and went to sleep. The general tone
of the school up to about seventy years ago was not very religious, or,
it is to be feared, very reverent; there was, indeed, too much chapel
and too little devotion.
Two long collegiate services on Sundays and whole holidays, and one on
every half-holiday, made the boys tired of the whole thing. New boys
sometimes did take prayer-books in with them the first Sunday, but
never ventured to defy public opinion to that extent a second time.
Some of the Upper School were nearly nineteen years old, but amongst
them taking the sacrament was almost unheard of. The chaplain (or
“Conduct” as he was called) often misconducted himself by gabbling and
skipping--whilst the masters, perched in desks aloft, kept themselves
just awake by watching boys whom they “spited.” The boys themselves
had their own resources wherewith “to palliate dullness, and give time
a shove.” Kneeling with head down, as if in deep devotion, many a one
of them contrived to carve his initials on his seat without being
observed, and very few took the least interest in the service. As for
the interminable sermons, those they frankly disliked and despised, the
preachers being generally prosy and sometimes incoherent. As a fellow
of some originality said in one of his quaint discourses, the hearts
of the boys were like gooseberry tarts without sugar, and the vast
majority took little trouble to conceal their dislike for chapel during
the “restoration,” when the school attended service in a temporary
building. The forms on which they sat there being somewhat flimsy,
every effort was made to smash as many as possible, in order that boys
might have an excuse for absenting themselves owing to lack of seats.
Most of the congregation looked upon the enormously lengthy services
as so much extra school and took no interest in the responses, for
years uttered by an old clerk named Gray, who was an Eton institution
dating from 1809. With the lapse of years he had become somewhat
deaf, and consequently made occasional blunders which were a constant
source of amusement. Especially did his hearers delight in old Gray’s
performances on certain festivals, such as the service for the queen’s
accession, when he generally canonized her twice in the same verse of
the Psalm. “And blessed be the name of Her Majesty for ever, and all
the earth shall be full of Her Majesty.”
On the whole, the service was not conducted in a very reverent or
attractive manner, and the impression which it would have seemed to
convey was that every one, including the “Conduct,” was anxious to
get through it as quickly as possible. A great day, however, was
Oak Apple day, when the picturesque old service in memory of the
Restoration of Charles II. was duly gone through, all the boys sporting
oak leaves as a memento of the Merry Monarch of joyous memory. On
all other occasions, however, the services proceeded with monotonous
and unvarying regularity, which more or less still prevailed in the
writer’s Eton days thirty years ago, though at that time they had been
considerably brightened and no irreverence prevailed.
The chapel bell always stopped five minutes before the hour, but the
Provost and Fellows never made their appearance till just as the
clock struck; it seemed to be the object of all the bigger boys in
the school to come in as nearly as possible at the same time as the
College authorities did, yet without running it so fine as to cause
a disagreeable rush at the last moment. These loiterers, always the
“swells” of the school, took their places just before the entry upon
their heels of the Sixth Form boys, who always headed the procession,
which was closed by the Provost. His entry was the signal for the
commencement of the service, and the “Conduct” or chaplain whose turn
it was at once began. Everything was got through at a pretty good pace,
though after about 1840 no slovenliness was to be observed.
[SN: A FATAL SQUIB]
From time to time, of course, even in the days when irreverence was
common, the boys were moved by some extraordinary service which
impressed the most unthinking minds. One of these occasions was the
funeral service of a boy named Grieve, son of the English physician to
the Czar of Russia, at the commencement of the nineteenth century. On
the 5th of November, then a day of much riot at Eton, poor Grieve had
filled his pockets with what proved to him the instruments of death,
in order to enjoy the frolics of the evening, which were suddenly
ended when a young nobleman unluckily “squibbed,” as it was called,
his unfortunate friend. Some of the fireworks which were in his pocket
immediately ignited, which, communicating to the rest their deadly
errand, exploded, and literally tore off a portion of flesh from his
bones. The poor fellow’s screams were dreadful, and he died in four
days’ time.
This sad affair threw a gloom over the school for a long time, and
games and sports were almost forgotten. When the day came for Grieve’s
burial, its awe was strongly augmented by the solemnity with which the
funeral service (that most beautiful and sublime selection of prayers)
was read by the headmaster, Dr. Goodall; indeed, among the whole body
of upwards of five hundred boys, not a dry eye was to be seen. One of
these has left on record how to his dying day he could never forget
the impression made on his mind, when, with a trembling anticipation
of the approaching procession, he heard the first words, “I am the
resurrection and the life,” and his poignant emotion as the funeral
procession slowly wound into the chapel and the sky-blue coffin[2]
broke upon his sight.
An old Eton Sunday institution was “prose,” held in Upper School, where
the Headmaster would read a few pithy moral sentences. As a rule it is
to be feared these were pearls thrown before swine, and the swine-herd
seemed to feel disgusted as he threw them. He then gave out the
subjects of exercises for the ensuing week, and informed the boys what
would be the amount of holidays in it.
In the old days a number of the Eton masters were not the earnest
men who are to be found in the school to-day. At a time when the
aristocracy possessed great power, it was not extraordinary that young
noblemen should have been treated with a great measure of leniency. A
certain tutor, for instance, behaved with great philosophy when one of
his pupils, belonging to a great family, rolled him down the hundred
steps, and reaped the reward by afterwards rising to a position of high
eminence in the Church. Not a few masters were shackled by hide-bound
conservatism, whilst a certain type of eighteenth century pedagogue was
quite unfitted to inculcate learning.
Lo! on a pile of dusty folios thron’d,
Her Janus brows with dog’s-ear’d fool’s-cap crown’d,
Fenc’d with a footstool, that no step should go
Too rashly near, nor crush her gouty toe,
Obese Tuition sits, and ever drips
An inky slaver from her bloated lips!
Unwholesome vapours round her presence shed,
Dim ev’ry eye, and muddle ev’ry head,
Stunt the young shoots, which smil’d with promise once,
And breathe a deeper dulness on the dunce.
It is not fair to criticise the old Eton masters too severely, but
undoubtedly some were incompetent. They were quite content that matters
should proceed as they understood they had proceeded in the past,
and thought it no part of their duty to attempt improvement in the
time-honoured curriculum which for generations had been in vogue at
“Eton School.”
[SN: A BABY OPPIDAN]
In the early twenties of the nineteenth century, boys who were mere
children, hardly out of petticoats, were sent to Eton in order that
they might gradually work their way up and get to King’s. Oppidans also
were then very young, a child aged four and a half being admitted in
1820. At that time a boy could rise to the top of the school merely
by seniority, due importance not being attached to hard work and
sound scholarship. The “trials” were then more or less nominal, but
the curious thing is, that in spite of all this Eton produced some
very fine classical scholars, while the vast majority of the boys
were better acquainted with Latin and Greek than their successors who
went to Eton when a more exacting curriculum came into force. In 1827
there were no examinations after the Fifth Form was reached, nor any
distinction attainable except that of being sent up “for good,” the
reward for which then was a sovereign, and every third time, a book.
When a master came across some peculiarly good set of verses he would
send them up to the Headmaster “for good”; in due course the writer
would be called up by the Head, who would compliment him and read
out the lines to the assembled boys in Upper School. A guinea was
afterwards given to the boy by his dame. Sending up “for good” seems
now on the increase, but in my own school-days one seldom heard of
any one achieving such a distinction, whilst sending up “for play”
was rarer still. In the past, getting into Sixth Form did not change
an Eton boy’s life nearly so much as it does to-day. True, he had his
seat in the stalls in chapel, and came into church later than any one
else except the Provost and Fellows; in Upper School on certain public
occasions, he had also the honour of making speeches. Beyond this,
however, and the release from shirking the masters, his position was in
no wise altered or improved.
Fifty years ago Eton in respect to school work somewhat resembled
an oriental state in which the first symptoms of modernisation are
beginning to appear. In the main the old classical traditions
commanded a rigid adherence, boys with a totally insufficient knowledge
of Greek being by a polite fiction supposed to be able to construe
Homer with ease, whilst dunces who could not write a sentence in
correct English were every week obliged to show up a copy of Latin
verses. The wonder is how all this was ever done at all, but done it
was; and, considering the vast ignorance of the majority, who frankly
regarded the whole thing with a sort of good-humoured contempt, done
fairly well. Perhaps this was in no small degree owing to the fact that
in almost every house there was some easy-going clever boy who, having
received a good grounding at a private school, was able and ready to
help his less gifted schoolfellows.
[SN: MAP MAKING]