prevailed--bull-baiting on Batchelor’s Acre and cock-fighting in
Bedford’s Yard being quite ordinary amusements. Small wonder that at
one time strong complaint was made as to the habits of the school.
Ascot Races were regularly attended by many of the older boys. Hunting
and tandem-driving were not uncommon. Henry Matthews, author of the
_Diary of an Invalid_, a very clever and eccentric boy, drove a tandem
right through Eton and Windsor; a later rival, however, of Keate’s
day, when James Clegg of Windsor provided sporting boys with horses
and traps, drove one through the school-yard. Billiards continued to
be very popular, not only with the boys but with their Masters, who
claimed “first turn” at the tables.
Copying the London bucks, Upper boys would sally out on dark nights
and wrench bell-pulls and knockers from the dames’ houses, or make
hay in the poultry-yard of old Pocock, the farmer at the corner of
“Cut-throat” Lane, as Datchet Lane was then sometimes called.
Poaching expeditions in Windsor Park were quite common. On one occasion
young Lord Baltimore and a companion, when out after game, were pursued
by a Master. The young Peer, however, escaped, but eventually gave
himself up in order to save his friend (who had refused to divulge his
associate’s name) from expulsion.
Guns could then be hired for the purpose of shooting swallows and
swifts on the Brocas bank, where a number of sporting “cads,” then
known as “Private Tutors,” assisted in all sorts of sprees, providing
dogs, fishing-tackle, badgers, ferrets, rats, fighting dogs, horses,
and even, it is said, bulls for baiting.
Eighty or ninety years ago a dozen or more of such men were constantly
to be seen loitering in front of the College every morning, making
their arrangements with their pupils, the Oppidans, for a day’s sport,
to commence the moment school was over. At one time they used actually
to occupy a seat on the low wall in front of the College, but Dr. Keate
interfered to expel the assemblage; nevertheless, they continued to
carry on their intercourse with the boys, and walked about watching
their opportunity for communication.
A number supplied cats for hunts upon the Brocas, while a number
organised duck hunts, a duck being put into the river and hunted with
considerable brutality. A few, however, escaped by diving and tiring
the dogs out.
Some of these men were strange characters, who showed great
recklessness when times were bad, and would be ready to let boys have a
shot at them at a distance of seventy-five yards or so, three shillings
a shot being the accepted price.
[SN: “PICKY POWELL”]
Others would jump from the middle of Windsor Bridge for a
consideration. The stake-holder on such occasions was usually Jem
Powell, known as “Picky” Powell, who about 1824 was celebrated in
Eton for his “quart of sovereigns,” it being his invariable practice
when elated--for Jem, needless to say, was no teetotaller--to march up
and down in front of his house with a silver-gilt tankard filled with
his savings, all in gold.
This Picky Powell would appear to be identical with the individual
who, years later, enjoyed a considerable reputation as having been
professional bowler to the school. During the annual matches with
Harrow at Lord’s, Picky usually made a point of having an informal
sparring match with a well-known Harrow “cad,” Billy Warner by name,
who, like his bigger antagonist, was supposed to have been a notable
cricketer in his youth. A favourite taunt of Picky’s which usually
inaugurated hostilities was, “All the good I sees in ‘Arrow’ is that
you can see Eton from it if ye go up into the churchyard.”
The last appearance of Powell at Lord’s appears to have been in 1858,
when, as usual, he croaked defiance at his hereditary foe. On this
occasion, however, no sparring was permitted, but Picky reaped a rich
harvest of silver, bestowed upon him by old Etonians.
[Illustration: Jack Hall, Fisherman of Eton. _Print lent by G.
Culliford, Esq._]
A well-known character of the past on the Brocas was Jack Hall,
nicknamed “Foxy Hall,” by all accounts the most worthy of Eton
“cads,” and celebrated as an expert angler. His portrait, taken from
an old print, is here reproduced. Others were Joe Cannon, Fish,
“Shampo Carter” (who taught swimming in 1824 with the Headmaster’s
permission), Jack Garraway, and the Anti-Catholic Jim Miller,
the patriarch of “cads,” who signed a petition against Catholic
Emancipation “upon principle.” “For,” he said, “when the d----d rogues
burnt Cranmer and Ridley, they never paid for the fagots--unprincipled
varmints!” A great deal of license was accorded to these wall loungers,
most of whom were ready to abet the boys in every kind of mischief.
One of the most noted sporting “cads” was old Jimmy Flowers, whose
speciality was badger-baiting on the Brocas, his stock-in-trade
consisting of a badger in a sack and an old tub with one end knocked
out. Dogs used to be put into the tub to fetch the badger out, the
charge being sixpence, unless the fight with the badger lasted very
long, when Old Jimmy used to exact a further fee. When the fun, if it
can be called fun, had lasted long enough, the badger, whose opinion
of the proceedings it would have been interesting to have heard, was
replaced in the sack, and with a cheery “Good day, gentlemen, your dogs
have had good sport,” Jimmy would walk away.
Another well-known character in the beginning of the nineteenth century
was Old Matty Groves, who was much teased by the boys on account of
his rooted antipathy to clergymen, whom he used to denounce as the
“black slugs” of the country. He it was who led the procession which
every seven years went round to beat the Eton boundary, and nailed up
a cross of old iron hoops on a venerable willow near the grounds of
Black Potts, where in after years Dr. Hornby had a retreat. Old Matty
was very unconventional in his ways, and had been known in flood-time,
when the stream was running strong, to plunge into it in his clothes at
Barnes Pool Bridge and swim across to his cottage.
[SN: FLOODS]
Floods have always been liable to occur at Eton, though, for the most
part, they have generally subsided before becoming serious. In 1809,
however, there was a tremendous one, which carried away six of the
central arches of the old “Fifteen Arch” Bridge on the Slough Road that
spans the stream which feeds Fellows’ Pond. For five days the only
communication with some of the boarding-houses was by boats and carts,
and the school had practically a week’s holiday. The boys lay in bed
till a late hour, and when they got up it was to play cards and get
into other mischief. Driving down Eton Street in carts, with the risk
of getting spilt into the water, was one of their favourite amusements.
Two subsequent floods have been almost, if not quite, as serious--one
in 1852, the year that the Duke of Wellington died, and one in 1894,
when all the boys had to be sent home. Many of the Masters, however,
remained behind, and spent their time in rescuing people in the
surrounding country and supplying them with food.
[SN: SPANKIE]
Though in 1829, owing to the adoption of stern measures, the “Private
Tutors” under whose auspices many a boy had shot his first moor-hen
and laid his first eel-pot were expelled from the College precincts,
the “sock cads” continued to haunt the “wall” for many years later.
The most celebrated of these, of course, was the famous Spankie, who
flourished about half a century ago. Spankie never failed to appear in
the playing fields during summer, whilst in winter he was more or less
of a fixture at the wall. Of him was written, one summer’s day when the
cricket was getting slow in Upper Club, the line, “Totaque tartiferis
Spancheia fervet ahenis.” A ridiculous and unfounded school tradition
declared that he was a son of a General le Marchant, and he was often
playfully apostrophised by that name.
The principal characteristics of this worthy, besides a rubicund
countenance, a long blue frock coat, and an old top hat (invariably
worn on one side of his head), were extreme oiliness of manner,
combined with an unlimited amount of cheek. His wares, chiefly tartlets
of all sorts, were contained in a sort of huge tin can supported on
legs. At the proper season he also sold pots of flowers.
Spankie was imbued with a tremendous veneration for the aristocracy,
and prided himself upon his acquaintance with the history of every
noble family in England. Rumour, indeed, declared that most of his
time out of sock-selling hours was devoted to studying the _Peerage_
and the _Landed Gentry_, both of which works he was supposed to know
pretty well by heart. This, no doubt, was a schoolboy exaggeration,
but certain it was that Spankie had a curious and not inaccurate
knowledge of the noble houses whose youthful scions furnished him
with a comfortable income. It was a way of his to address the sons of
distinguished people by their fathers’ names, whilst, it should be
added, often fleecing them in a merciless manner, for, sad to tell,
his methods were not above suspicion. A favourite trick was carefully
to array a few very fine strawberries or cherries at the top of a
pottle after filling up the lower portion with very inferior fruit; as,
however, he made a practice of giving liberal tick, little was ever
said about this. He made quite a comfortable fortune out of the Eton
boys, as was realised when it became known that he had contributed no
less than £50 to the fund for building a new parish church in the High
Street.
By the lower members of the school Spankie was looked up to as a
perfect oracle, for he seemed to know everything, could predict who
would be members of the Eleven or Eight, and tell the name and history
of the latest comer, stringing on to it, if necessary, a list of all
his relations, with their various achievements. One of this celebrated
sock cad’s chief peculiarities was that he could scarcely utter three
consecutive words without a “sir” coming at the end of them; and it was
marvellous how he could change them as easily as he did into “my lord”
when any of the young aristocracy came up to him.
In addition to entertaining an unlimited respect for the British
aristocracy, Spankie nurtured a deep contempt for trade, as the small
sons of rich manufacturers, especially when they had failed to meet
their liabilities, frequently had reason to know. “Good morning,
sar,” Spankie would say to a scion of some house not unconnected
with “cotton,” who might be rather backward in settling his debts.
“Glad to see you back, sar. Bought some pocket-handkerchiefs at your
establishment in the vacation, sar; cheap enough, only six shillings a
dozen; but I don’t find them wash well, sar.”
According to some, Spankie made quite a comfortable little sum by
supplying the names of visitors to Eton to the London papers, whilst
rumour also declared that on occasion the College authorities employed
him to trace and recapture runaways.
[SN: SOCK CADS]
One of Spankie’s best-known predecessors was a sock cad named Charley
Pass, who was to be seen daily stationed at the wall near the gateway
with a curious tin apparatus containing pies, kept hot by a charcoal
brazier. He had a peculiar cry, somewhat resembling that of the long
obsolete pieman. “Ham and Veal; Mutton Eel,” he would call out as the
boys were emerging from school. Young Collegers who knew his ways would
drive him to fury by shouting “and dog--that’s what I want.” Trotman
with his barrow was also a familiar figure in the “forties.”
Another sock cad who had some pretensions to being a rival to Spankie
was a hook-nosed little man known as Levi, the Jew. Spankie and he
constantly indulged in verbal sparring, in which the Hebrew, who was a
man of few words, as a rule got much the worst of it. On one occasion
this so infuriated Levi that a battle royal ensued. Goaded to frenzy
by some taunt of Spankie’s, Levi challenged him to come on, and an
animated tussle ensued, speedily ended only by the appearance of one of
the Masters, who, separating the combatants, thoroughly frightened both
by declaring that he had a good mind to see that the two of them should
be prevented from frequenting the neighbourhood of the wall. The idea
of this thoroughly cowed even the irrepressible Spankie, and henceforth
Levi and he lived at peace.
A less assertive character than either of the two worthies mentioned
above was old Brion or Bryant, a white-headed sock cad whose invariable
costume was a grey coat. According to current report he had no less
than twenty-one children. His speciality lay in purveying small glasses
of cherry jam dashed with cream at fourpence, which must have yielded
him a good profit.
Bryant outdid the other sock cads in owning a huge barrow, which every
day was wheeled to the wall. A portly, good-natured man, he was not
as astute as Spankie, and consequently was frequently imposed upon by
his young customers. Sometimes, however, he showed a keen aptitude for
business. When, for instance, a little boy complained that he had
given him but a small pennyworth of preserve in his jam-bun, he would
evince the amiability of his intentions by saying, “I was afraid it
might disagree with you, sir.”
Another well-known character in the sixties of the last century was an
old lady known as “Missis,” who sat by the entrance to the school-yard
selling apples, nuts, bullfinches, and dormice.
During more recent years there have been no sock cads of such
marked individuality as those mentioned above, nor do they enjoy
the privileges which were accorded to their predecessors of a more
easy-going age, their appearance at the wall being discouraged. Some,
however, still ply their trade in the playing fields and at the
bathing-places. The most original of the modern school was “Hoppie.”
Every portion of this worthy’s costume, according to his own account,
had belonged to some prominent old Etonian. During the summer half
he was a constant frequenter of “Upper Hope,” where perhaps he still
parades “the Duke of Wellington’s coat” and “Lord Roberts’ trousers” as
of yore.
Thirty years ago there were several individuals known as “Jobey”--a
name taken from almost the last of the old Eton characters, “Jobey
Joel,” who died not very long ago. He remembered the school when far
more latitude was allowed the boys, and had many a queer tale to tell
of that vanished institution, the Christopher, now but a fading memory
in the minds of a few.
[SN: THE CHRISTOPHER]
The ancient hostelry in question would seem to have flourished as
long ago as the sixteenth century. The mention of a certain Nicholas
Williams lodging “ad signum Christoferi” occurs in the Eton Audit Book
for 1523. The old inn served as a refuge to the “ever memorable” Eton
Fellow, John Hales, who for his unwavering allegiance to the King was
deprived of his fellowship.
In later days the Christopher became a great social centre of local
life. All the coaches stopped at its door, and before Dr. Hawtrey
abolished the Eton Market there was a weekly ordinary for farmers, and
occasionally a hunt dinner, with noise enough to have driven the Muses
back to Greece. Its rooms were in great request with parents come down
to see their promising or unpromising offspring, whilst old Etonians
revisiting Eton made the old place their headquarters as a matter of
course.
“Lord! how great I used to think anybody just landed at the
Christopher!” wrote Horace Walpole when he returned to his old school
in 1746. The place recalled many memories of boyhood to his mind, and
he declared that he felt “just like Noah, with all sorts of queer feels
about him.”
Horace Walpole had passed some happy days at Eton, where one of his
greatest friends was the studious and quiet Gray, who read Virgil for
amusement out of school. The writer of the famous letters had a great
affection for Eton, and Cambridge, as he said, seemed a wilderness to
him as compared with the “dear scene” he had left. In after life the
recollection of his school-days was ever keen. When, for instance, he
first saw a balloon he declared that he was at once reminded of an Eton
football. Though fond of reading, like many other Eton boys, the writer
of the famous letters showed little enthusiasm for the school work.
“I remember,” says he, “when I was at Eton, and Mr. Bland had set me
on an extraordinary task, I used sometimes to pique myself upon not
getting it, because it was not immediately my school business. What!
learn more than I was absolutely forced to learn! I felt the weight
of learning that, for I was a blockhead, and pushed above my parts.”
Spending much of his time in the playing fields musing, he retained the
recollection all his life.
“No old maid’s gown,” said he, “though it had been tormented into all
the fashions from King James to King George, ever underwent so many
transformations as these poor plains have in my idea. At first I was
contented with tending a visionary flock and sighing some pastoral
name to the echo of the cascade under the bridge. As I got further
into Virgil and Clelia, I found myself transported from Arcadia to
the garden of Italy; and saw Windsor Castle in no other view than the
Capitoli immobile saxum.”
In Horace Walpole’s day Kendall, himself an old Etonian, presided over
the Christopher. Later came Garraway and Jack Knight.
The rattling of coach wheels over the cobblestones outside the old inn
was a never-failing source of excitement and interest to the boys. Most
of them knew the drivers, whom they delighted to hail with volleys of
chaff.
[SN: STAGE COACHMEN]
A famous Eton stage coachman was Jack Bowes of the “Original,” which
started from the Bolt in Tun, Fleet Street, and called at Hatchett’s
in Piccadilly. Often on his arrival at the Christopher, Bowes would be
welcomed with a brisk fusillade fired by boys from pea-shooters. He had
been a soldier and seen a good deal of service, and was a most popular
character with all sorts of people, and especially with the relatives
and fathers of Eton boys; for, like Moody, another Eton coachman, Bowes
knew all that there was to be known about the College and its ways.
He was a kindly man, and reassured many a small boy fresh from home
and nervous as to the ordeal awaiting him when he reached the great
public school. One idea which not a few new boys had firmly implanted
upon their minds was that by way of initiation into the privilege of
becoming an Etonian they would be pitched off Windsor Bridge and made
to struggle for their life. There was, of course, not the slightest
foundation for such an idea, which no doubt arose because in former
days it was no very uncommon thing for Etonians, anxious to show their
powers as swimmers, to take a header from the Bridge into the Thames
beneath. Many indeed were experts at such feats.
Less kindly than Bowes were some of the hangers-on who gained a
livelihood by lounging about the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly,
which was always a great rendezvous for all sorts of queer characters,
itinerant orange-vendors and others, who flocked round the coaches
hoping to make a more or less honest penny. Amongst these was one
well-known individual who gained a livelihood by doing odd jobs in the
way of carrying parcels and helping with luggage. He was especially
active on days when the Eton boys were returning to school, and as
he took some little fellow’s trunk to hoist it on to the coach would
cheerfully impart the information that “he had never seen such a fine
load of birch as had gone down the day before.”
“Bishop”--a particular kind of punch--and Bulstrode ale were the two
beverages for which the Christopher was famous. Garraway brought the
latter into fashion, and a huge amount of it was drunk, and though
Garraway had only purchased a small stock of this famous old ale at the
sale at Bulstrode, by some miraculous process it continued to be served
out in plentiful quantities ever after. This became a standing joke
against mine host of the Christopher, who afterwards made a speciality
of an excellent tap, which he called the Queen’s, from some he had
purchased at Windsor. This was sold in small quarts, at a shilling per
jug.
[SN: THE OPPIDANS’ CLUB]
The old place was often quite full of undergraduates, young officers,
and bucks come down to take a look at the school they had so recently
left, and some of these young men, especially those from Oxford (where
formerly so many Etonians went on account of its being the headquarters
of classical learning) formed what was known as the “Oppidans’ Club.”
The main object of this convivial association, which met in one of the
cellars, next to consuming large quantities of port, was to sally out
after nightfall and abduct the shops’ signs--barbers’ poles and other
insignia of trade--from the houses in the High Street, afterwards
bearing them back to the Christopher in triumph. The tradesmen bore
these eccentricities with considerable fortitude, for in the end they
were pretty sure not to suffer.
Representations to the masters and authorities were scarcely necessary
to redress such whimsical grievances, the injured parties being well
aware that they would receive due compensation. The next day the
spoils and trophies were arranged in due form in the cellar at the
old inn, which became well known by the name of “Oppidan’s Museum.”
Here the merry wags were to be found in council, holding a court of
claims, to which all the shopkeepers who had suffered any loss were
successively summoned; and after pointing out from among the motley
collection the article they claimed, and the price it originally cost,
they were handsomely remunerated or the sign replaced. The good people
of Eton generally chose the former, as it not only enabled them to
sport a new sign, but to put a little profit upon the cost price of
the old one. The trophies thus acquired were then packed up in hampers
and despatched to Oxford, where they were on similar occasions not
infrequently displayed or hung up in lieu of some well-known sign,
such as the Mitre, etc., which had been removed during the night.
Some Collegers once played a joke of this sort on Dr. Keate. A
Windsor hatter, Jones by name, had outside his shop an immense tin
three-cornered cocked hat as a sign, the exact counterpart, except much
larger, of the one Keate wore. This was stolen one winter’s evening
by a detachment of Collegers; they managed to send it to London, and
thence, carefully packed, it was forwarded to Keate. Meanwhile, a
letter was sent to Jones saying that the writer could give him some
inkling of who was the thief, for that Dr. Keate had long been observed
to eye this magnificent cocked hat with longing envy, and there was no
doubt if a search warrant was procured, it would be found in the house
of the Headmaster.
The cellar in which met the so-called “Oppidans’ Club” was known
as “the Estaminet.” The usual fare here was bread and cheese, beer
and porter, and in its general features it seems to have been the
precursor of the present Tap. Lower boys had no share in its amenities.
On occasion, however, stronger potations were indulged in, and of
course this was more especially the case when old Etonians from the
Universities were paying a visit to their old school.
[Illustration: THE OPPIDAN’S MUSEUM _or Eton Court of Claims at the
Christopher_. _From a coloured print in the possession of the Rt.
Honble. Lewis Harcourt, M.P._]
No doubt, these visitors had rather a demoralising effect upon the
boys who stood by in admiration, envying the bucks who lounged over
the rails of the gallery and indulged in chaff with those below,
whilst they ogled any pretty girl who might chance to meet their roving
glance, or chaffed any mischievous Etonians who hung about the old
yard, occasionally pulling the bungs out of the casks which were ranged
there.
In the old Christopher the assistant masters at one time had a room
reserved for them in which they were wont to meet, whilst regular
convivial assemblies were sometimes organised there by Eton boys, one
of the chief being on St. Andrew’s Day, when Colleger had met Oppidan
at the wall.
[SN: A RAID]