invincible dislike of being birched, and some have actually preferred
to undergo expulsion rather than kneel at the block. The 4th Marquis
of Ailesbury (notorious for his follies) when a boy at Eton, having
been complained of, ran away in order to avoid a punishment to which
he declared he would never submit. This, I believe, happened twice,
after which he was at last obliged to confront the Lower Master, who
administered a certain number of strokes. On rising from the block,
however, the irrepressible culprit made use of such language that his
sojourn at Eton was at once cut short. In most cases, however, fear
of expulsion has generally made those summoned to the block submit. A
peculiar case was that of a boy high up in the school, and a well-known
swell at athletics, who, going up to Oxford in order to matriculate,
instead of returning to Eton directly the examination was over,
outstayed his leave and remained for some days amusing himself with a
Christchurch friend. As a consequent result, when he did return the
voice of a praepostor was heard inquiring “Is ---- in this division?
He is to stay.” The culprit, who considered himself a grown man, at
first stoutly declared that nothing would induce him to undergo a
flogging, and it required a good deal of persuasion to make him realise
that continued resistance would entail his going away from Eton without
a leaving book; that is to say, practical expulsion, which is liable
to injure a boy’s prospects in after life. Eventually, concluding
that it would be best to submit, he duly paid the required visit to
the library, where Dr. Balston officiated in a most sympathetic but
efficient manner.
In rougher days, scapegraces used to make a flogging the occasion
for all sorts of jokes. One boy, for instance, got a friend who had
some knowledge of art to paint a rough portrait of the Headmaster on
that portion of his body which has always been associated with the
punishment of youth. When the Head was about to deliver his blows he
was at first considerably taken aback by being confronted by his own
likeness upon such an unconventional background. However, he rose to
the occasion, and, with the aid of a couple of birches, completely
obliterated all trace of any portrait.
In the case of big boys there is some humiliation in being flogged. A
certain captain of the boats, who had indulged too freely in champagne,
a very tall and powerful young man, about to be flogged by Dr. Hawtrey,
begged hard that he should receive his punishment in private, and thus
escape the degradation of being observed on the block by a large crowd
of boys looking through the open door. The Headmaster, however, would
not hear of this for a moment, declaring that publicity was the chief
part of the punishment.
[SN: SABBATH CASTIGATION]
When Election Saturday was in full swing, a certain number of boys made
a point of indulging in insubordination, thinking that so close to the
end of the half they would escape punishment. Some of the masters,
however, made a point of punishing irregularities at such a time with
ruthless determination, and never failed to complain of any boy whom
they found to be intoxicated on Election Saturday, with the result that
floggings on the Sunday (the boys then went home on the Monday) were
not infrequent.
In order to castigate such offenders. Dr. Goodford would be ready in
his room on Sunday, where he would sometimes attend at 10.30 at night,
in order to flog boys going by an early train next day. Even those
leaving Eton altogether had to submit, for otherwise they would have
been ranked as being expelled. Mr. Brinsley Richards tells of a boy,
nearly six feet high, and with a moustache, who debated in agony of
mind whether he would take a swishing on the night before leaving the
school. He had actually got a commission in the cavalry; his uniforms
were ordered, and he was to join his regiment in ten days; but on
Election Saturday night he got uproariously drunk, was seen by a strict
master, and put in the bill. He duly surrendered to his fate, received
twelve cuts with “two birches,” and the following day took leave of
Dr. Goodford on the pleasantest terms possible.
Dr. Goodford seems to have taken a genial view of flogging; on the
morning of one St. Andrew’s Day he swished a Scotch boy who was coming
to breakfast with him, and greeted him later on at that meal with a
cheery “Here we are again!”
An amusing story used to be told of a boy just about to leave Eton
who, having refused to be flogged, on his arrival at home discovered,
to his horror, that his refusal to bow to constituted authority would
prevent him from being allowed to enter the career upon which he had
set his heart. Hoping to put matters right, he at once set out for
Eton, only to find on his arrival there that the Headmaster had gone
to Switzerland. The ingenious youth, determined to get flogged, then
somehow procured two birches and hurried off to Geneva, only to find
that the Head had gone on to Lucerne. To that city he too followed,
but, missing the pedagogue whom he sought, again had to continue his
pursuit, which eventually ended in the refectory of the Monastery
of Mont St. Bernard, where he eventually persuaded the Doctor to
administer the sought-for flogging amidst a circle of edified monks.
The ordeal over, the Headmaster was presented with the leaving fee,
which was then customary, in return handing the relieved youth a
leaving book in the shape of a _Guide_ to the Alps, which happened to
be the only volume procurable.
[SN: A SWISHING TRADITION]
During the writer’s school days at Eton, though flogging was in full
swing, the castigations administered by Dr. Hornby--and he speaks from
personal experience--were not severe. On the other hand the Lower
Master, the Rev. J. L. Joynes, tempered the severity of his floggings
according to the offence which they were intended to correct. On one
occasion the writer remembers him laying with a will into a boy who is
now a distinguished officer. The latter, however, although he received
some thirty-two strokes, administered with two birches (the first one
after a time became useless owing to the force with which it was used),
never flinched in the least, though this “real flogging” must have
occasioned considerable pain, very different from the mild sensation
produced by the usual ones--often little more than a disagreeable form.
At that time the tradition still prevailed that the wielder of the rod
whilst “swishing” was not allowed to lift his hand above his shoulder.
Though, as far as the writer can remember, this rule was adhered to by
the executioner, he has since heard that the sole foundation for the
idea was a curious underhand motion of the right arm peculiar to Dr.
Hawtrey which his successors seem to have copied.
From time to time more or less public protests have been made against
the use of the birch, which has always been an object of detestation in
the eyes of sentimentalists and professional humanitarians.
In 1856 a long correspondence appeared in the _Times_ dealing with the
question of flogging. This arose out of the case of a boy named Morgan
Thomas, whose father upheld him in not submitting to be flogged.
A report that in future no Upper boys will be flogged, recently called
forth some controversy in the newspapers, most old Etonians being,
it would appear, of opinion that the abolition of the birch and the
substitution of other punishments, including, I believe, caning, are
to be deplored. The inevitable sentimentalist, however, was of course
well to the front, declaring that “birching, or even caning, is out
of date, it being much better to bring boys up to do the right thing
and to avoid doing the wrong thing from a sense of honour and pledge.”
Apparently this gentleman was under the impression that such a method
of education was a new and entire innovation!
In future it appears that amongst Upper boys, flogging is to be
supplanted by something resembling the painful process once known
as a “College hiding.” At the time when Oppidan Fourth Form boys
used to delight in jeering at Tugs, a good many, being captured by
Collegers, were dragged off and given a number of cuts with a cane--a
far more painful ordeal, it was said, than an ordinary swishing by the
Headmaster.
[SN: ABDUCTING THE BLOCK]
On the evening of the 12th May 1836 three old Etonians--Lord Waterford,
Lord Alford, and Mr. J. H. Jesse, who had been entertaining some boys
to dinner at the Christopher after a boat race against Westminster,
being in particularly high spirits, determined to have some fun before
driving back to town. Not being able to get into Upper School (where
the block was then kept) by the door, Mr. Jesse and Lord Waterford,
at considerable risk, crept along the narrow stone ledge over the
colonnade, and, entering Upper School by an open window, forced the
lock of the door from within, and carried their prize off in triumph,
in spite of an attempt to stop them on the part of the College
watchman. The trophy, I believe, was never returned, and is still in
existence at Curraghmore.
Though the abduction of the block was considered a capital joke, a more
serious view was taken of another exploit afterwards perpetrated by Mr.
Jesse. During Ascot week of the following year he contrived to wrench
the sceptre from the hand of the statue of the founder in School Yard
and get away with it. This aroused a very strong feeling of indignation
amongst boys as well as masters, and the emblem of sovereignty was, in
consequence, soon restored with an apology. This is the only time that
the bronze effigy of Henry VI., erected by Provost Godolphin in the
early years of the eighteenth century, has ever been molested.
The block in Lower School has also had its adventures. In or about 1863
a King’s scholar, Lewis by name, during some disturbance abstracted
it--according to tradition to save it from being destroyed during
some disorder. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter, he kept
it, and when, a short time later, he obtained a Postmastership at
Merton, took it away to Oxford with the rest of his belongings. On his
death this block passed into the possession of Dr. Lewis, who lived
in Glamorganshire; and when this gentleman died, Mr. F. T. Bircham,
obtaining it from his widow, handed it back to the Headmaster of Eton
on May 3, 1890.
The venerable, though somewhat gruesome relic in question is of some
historical interest, for on it are carved a number of names, amongst
them Milman, Lonsdale, Routh, Wellesley, and H. Hall (1773). It is to
be hoped that, should Lower boys ever cease to need the discipline of
the birch, this relic of sterner days will be kept in Lower School,
with the old-world appearance of which it so well accords.
The present block, the one used in the library, was, I believe,
abducted some three or four years ago, two boys having carried out
the extraordinary feat of climbing into Upper School through a window
and smuggling out the awesome relic of torture, which they eventually
sent to the authorities of the British Museum, who returned it to the
authorities of the school.
[SN: THE OFFICIAL BIRCHMAKER]
An important functionary in connection with Eton castigations has
always been the Headmaster’s servant, rod-making being one of his
traditional functions. Under Keate the office was held by Cartland,
opprobriously nicknamed “Sly” by Collegers, who abhorred him. In Dr.
Hawtrey’s day came Finmore, who, after the former’s death, continued in
office as servant to Dr. Goodford. Part of the duties of the office lay
in seeing that there were always at least half a dozen new rods in the
cupboard of the “library,” Dr. Goodford being apt to get very angry if
an execution had to be adjourned for want of birches. A dozen new rods
were supposed to be at hand in the cupboard every morning, for there
was no calculating the number of floggings that might be inflicted in a
day. Finmore used to make the rods at his own house, with the help of
his wife, and brought them to the library quietly after Lock Up, or in
the morning before early school. Sometimes, however, when the supply of
rods ran short Finmore had to bring in fresh birches in the middle of
the day, which, for several reasons, was a somewhat hazardous task.
One afternoon, after three o’clock school, when there were only three
birches available, six boys were up to be flogged. The Head flogged
three of the culprits and adjourned the others till six o’clock, at
the same time ordering the Sixth Form praepostor to be sure and tell
Finmore that the cupboard must be replenished before six. Some Lower
boys, however, getting wind of this, and hearing that Finmore was bound
to come to the library between four and five, lay in wait for him,
and in due course espied him hovering near the top of Keate’s Lane,
empty-handed, but walking suspiciously near to a grocer’s cart making
its way towards Weston’s Yard. Suddenly a shout was raised, and the
crowd of boys, scampering off, stopped the cart just as it was turning
into the yard, surrounded it yelling, and extracted from it six new
birches wrapped in a cloth. Finmore, breathless and almost choking with
emotion, vainly tried to save his rods. Half a dozen boys, however,
soon ran off with one apiece, the unfortunate official being left to
bewail his evil fate. In Dr. Hornby’s day the custodian of the birches
was White, a spruce, neatly-dressed figure whom many old Etonians will
still remember.
He it was who, in consideration of a fee of a guinea, saw that
the names of boys leaving Eton were cut in Upper School. For a
consideration he would also supply birches tied up with blue ribbon to
any one desirous of carrying away such grim mementoes.
Whilst the block, for Lower boys at least, remains one of the features
of Eton, fighting, once a characteristic institution of the school, has
long disappeared, having seemingly fallen out of favour in the late
fifties of the last century.
In the period preceding Waterloo the combats were fierce and frequent;
there was one nearly every day, and so determined were the Etonians of
that era that there is a case on record of two boys rising at six in
the morning to begin the conflict, and sparring away for three hours!
[SN: “SIXPENNY CORNER”]
Whilst the Oppidans, according to immemorial custom, settled their
differences in “Sixpenny Corner,” the Collegers fought their battles
in Long Chamber. An unwritten code decreed that when a King’s scholar
wished to fight he must ask permission of the Captain of the school to
be allowed to do so after Lock Up, and this, as may be imagined, was
never refused. About nine o’clock a fairly spacious ring was formed
just below the second fireplace, boys standing on bedsteads placed
around, holding candles, which enabled the combatants to see one
another. It would appear that in the old fighting days the Collegers
fought fewer battles than the Oppidans,--the fights of the former were
usually short and sharp, the boys being so well acquainted with each
other’s strength and powers, that after a round or two the fight was
discontinued and the quarrel made up.
The old-fashioned encounters in “Sixpenny Corner,” which seem to have
been conducted in a more or less formal style, were, of course, most
frequent in the days when the Prize Ring occupied a prominent place
amongst sports patronised by men of fashion.
Young Corinthians who had only just left school no doubt indoctrinated
friends still at Eton with enthusiasm for the knights of the fist, and
caused them to regard pugilism as a science worthy of attention.
A curious piece of etiquette in connection with fighting was, that if a
Lower boy wanted to fight one in the Upper School, he could do so only
after having obtained leave from the Captain of the school.
At one time Eton battles were fought with hats on, which caused the
Westminster boys to declare that, owing to the damage inflicted upon
knuckles by the hat brims, most Etonian encounters were not of a
serious kind.
The Sixth Form and Upper boys were expected to see that fair-play was
enforced, and that when one combatant was clearly overmatched and
plainly worsted, a reconciliation took place. Both were made to shake
hands, and having vented their ill-feeling in a manly and honourable
way, they were afterwards often found to be the best of friends.
A great battle at the beginning of the nineteenth century was the fight
between Calthorp and Forster.
“Sixpenny Corner,” at the angle where the wall game now takes place,
was the traditional scene of battle, and here the great Duke of
Wellington, as little Arthur Wellesley, fought Bobus Smith, brother of
Sydney Smith, the fight, according to all accounts, ending in a draw.
A redoubtable pugilist was Stratford de Redcliffe, who emerged victor
from many a tough contest. Less successful was Shelley, who is said to
have received a severe thrashing from little Sir Thomas Styles. During
another fight the youthful poet attracted a good deal of attention
by refusing to rest on the knee of his second, preferring to stride
round the ring quoting Homer! No wonder the boys used to call him “mad
Shelley”! It must be remembered, however, that he was a constant butt
for a large portion of the school. “My belief,” said Dr. Hawtrey, “is
that what Shelley had to endure at Eton made him a perfect devil.”
[SN: THRASHING A LIFEGUARDSMAN]
In the early days of the nineteenth century a gigantic boy named Wyvill
became celebrated for his fistic powers. He once gave a Lifeguardsman
a severe thrashing in Windsor, and the soldier was so much upset that
he went to the Headmaster, Dr. Goodall, to complain of his mauling.
The latter, who hated to have to take notice of any Eton escapade,
said, “My good fellow, how can you expect me to know what boy it was?”
“Boy!” he answered with a country accent; “he is the biggest mun in the
tuttens,” or two towns. And so Wyvill ever after went by the name of
“the biggest mun in the tuttens.”
When a challenge had been given and accepted, the details of the
forthcoming fight were arranged by friends, after which the combatants
just walked into the playing fields with their seconds, stripped off
their jackets, and went to work, the boys forming a ring, no other
formalities being observed--hardly even a sponge or a watch. When a
minute was supposed to have elapsed, one got up from his second’s
knee and said, “Come on.” A little hot blood flowed, and as soon as
either felt he had enough he had only to say so. Drawn battles were
not common or popular, boys preferring to have matters brought to an
issue. There was the most perfect fair-play, and if things were carried
at all too far, interference was pretty sure to be at hand, though
not otherwise. When, during a fight, Keate just showed himself at the
corner of the playing fields, the hint was immediately taken.
Fights between Lower boys, it should be added, were deemed of small
account, but a battle between two well-known Uppers always attracted a
large crowd.
The most tragic fight which ever took place at Eton was a fierce
battle between a small boy named Ashley Cooper and a big one named
Wood (afterwards Sir A. Wood). For three hours the unequal combat was
carried on, till, in the last round before Lock Up, the former fell
senseless and had to be carried to his tutor’s house, where, half an
hour later, he expired. His death, however, seems to have been caused
by a quantity of brandy given him by his elder brother, rather than by
the effects of the fight. Also, had medical attendance been procured,
Cooper’s life would probably have been saved. After, however, he had
been carried senseless to his house, every effort was made to conceal
the state in which he was in, gloves being placed upon his hands so
that their dreadful condition might not be visible. The boy died the
same night.
The sequel of the encounter was a trial at Aylesbury, where, on March
9, 1825, Charles Alexander Wood, seventeen years old, was charged
before Mr. Justice Gazelee with the manslaughter of the Hon. Francis
Ashley Cooper, after a quarrel in the Eton playing fields. The fight,
it was proved, had been conducted in the strictest accordance with the
rules of the Prize Ring, which at that time still flourished. No less
than sixty rounds were shown to have been fought with the fiercest
determination--the time occupied, two hours. Cooper, who was two years
younger than his antagonist, had been given nearly a pint of brandy to
enable him to continue the struggle against a more powerful opponent.
Wood was, of course, acquitted; besides which, Cooper’s brother
entirely exonerated him, taking all the blame on himself for having
administered the brandy.
[SN: AN ILLEGIBLE INSCRIPTION]
This battle--the most serious schoolboy fight which ever took
place--probably had some effect in decreasing the popularity of fistic
encounters. It certainly created a great sensation, being, according
to some, commemorated by an inscription (now illegible) upon the white
stone let into the wall at Sixpenny Corner. The late Mr. Brownlow
North, Lord Kintore tells me, declared that he had been a second at the
fight, and remembered the insertion of the stone as a memorial.
The Gasworks eventually superseded “Sixpenny” as a fistic arena, though
the time-honoured phrase, “Will you fight me in ‘Sixpenny’?” still
remained the recognised form of challenge.
In 1858 fighting was already beginning to go out of fashion. In 1865,
while the Public Schools Commissioners were sitting, they examined
a Lower boy touching fights, and asked him if he had any theory to
explain why regular stand-up fights had become so rare? The boy
answered, “Oh! I suppose it’s because the fellows funk each other.”
The real reason of the disappearance of fighting was that it came to
be thought bad form, and consequently no longer received any patronage
from boys who were the swells of the school. Once it began to be
considered “scuggish,” the fate of Eton pugilism was sealed, and though
informal encounters occasionally occur--there was a determined battle
near the railway arches in 1893--within the last forty years fighting
has become a thing of the past.
IV “CADS,” AND THE “CHRISTOPHER”
Though a century or so ago fights and floggings were ordinary incidents
of school life, a large number of boys contrived to make time pass
very pleasantly indeed. At that time the sporting Etonian was quite a
recognised type.
The following sketch, from the _Sporting Magazine_, of Etonian ways
in 1799, whilst, of course, a somewhat exaggerated caricature, was
evidently based upon a very solid substratum of truth:--
_Sunday._--Not well--church a bore--headache increased by bell--sent
an excuse--up at ten--dressed by eleven--sipped tea in a back
room--read half a page of _Sporting Magazine_--d--d good--much
pleased with the Oxonian’s diary--walked to Castle--prayers with
Bluster--rowed the cut of Bluster’s coat--bad taylor--smoked a
Cockney, and his blue silks--kicked his wig in the kennel--teach the
dog good manners--came down to dinner--no appetite--Dame’s hash,
like shoe-leather--drank wine at the Christopher--bad port--waiter,
jawed--shoved him out--during evening church, finished Oxonian
diary--tight cock--wish I knew him--drank tea at Coker’s--bad
company--Spanker and self adjourned to Cloisters--good fun--returned
to Dame’s--sat with Pink--bad supper--four beer--rowed the
maids--picked teeth--went to bed.
_Monday._--Waked at eight--keep up pretence of headache--up
at ten--dressed by eleven--Smith’s burgamot, not so good as
usual--breakfast--at one, walked to billiards--no one there--beat the
marker.--Mem. Not go to Huddlestone’s again--came down--dinner better
than usual--new cook--dull evening--went to bed early.
_Tuesday._--Sham leave--hunted with King’s hounds--Steven’s blood
lame--d--d bore--forced to ride the grey--new boots--bad leather--cut
Webb for the future, and employ Atkins--Alderman S----y, wretched
quiz--his chesnut horse broke down--let him fall into a ditch--hat
and wig, both lost--looked like a bumble bee in a tar pot--good
hunt--hard riding--go along--keep moving.--Mem. Always row the
Alderman and not forget to cram Pink--came home tired--sandwiches and
wine at the White Hart--merry evening--got drunk--Dame jawed.
_Wednesday._--Whole school day--very dull--walked to Steven’s--Grey,
knocked up--pain in my side--evening, cards, etc.--much
better--betting in my favour--beat Dashall at cribbage--won nine
shillings--lucky dog--went to bed in good spirits.
Elaborate hoaxes were common at the commencement of the nineteenth
century. A young Etonian acquired a good deal of notoriety by sending
the town-crier, whom he had fee’d for the purpose, to announce a
general illumination in honour of the battle of Vittoria. It created
quite a sensation in both Windsor and Eton; and although no one knew
from whence the orders came, G. R.’s and coloured lamps in abundance
were displayed in the windows of many of the houses. A meeting of the
magistrates was hastily summoned, and the hoax was discovered. The
writing gave a clue to the culprit, who in due course underwent the
punishment usual in such cases.
[SN: SPORTING BOYS]