great moral danger by the authorities, they began to make determined
efforts to prevent boys from being within its doors, and one St.
Andrew’s Day a raid was suddenly made. Just as the revelry had reached
its height, Smut, otherwise known as Beelzebub, the head waiter,
announced the appearance of a party of masters. Great confusion ensued,
and as an ominous creaking of boots was heard on the staircase, the
landlord’s daughter turned off the gas, and all was left in darkness.
A stentorian voice was heard crying, “I require the landlord of this
house to provide me with a light.” Meanwhile, one of the masters groped
his way to the door of the banqueting-room and held it so that no one
could pass. One of the raiding party, a master named Goodford, who
afterwards became “Head,” greatly distinguished himself by embracing
Smut, whom in the darkness he mistook for a boy trying to make his
escape. However, he was rudely undeceived by a gruff voice grunting
out, “Come, none of this nonsense!” At length a light was procured, and
as the boys filed out, one by one, their names were entered in a “black
list.”
The curious thing is that little organised effort seems ever to have
been made to prevent boys from being allowed to enter the old inn;
raiding them when within its walls naturally did little good; in fact,
it merely stimulated the spirit of adventure and made them go there
more. A cousin of the writer--well-known as master of the West Kent
foxhounds--describing Eton life under Hawtrey, could not help speaking
with glee of how he and a companion were the only boys out of twenty
who managed to escape during one of these raids, the perilous method
adopted having been to climb down a waterpipe and then drop into the
yard at the back.
The Christopher finally ended its career as a hostelry in 1842, owing
to the Crown giving up the lease to the College. Its abolition had
been constantly urged ever since Dr. Hawtrey had become Headmaster.
A violent foe to the old inn and its enemy, he branded it as the
greatest evil in Eton life, and after it had been numbered with things
of the past he was so pleased that, as a sort of thank-offering, he
wanted it to be pulled down and a chapel of ease erected on the site.
This scheme, however, was not carried out, St. John’s Church being
built in the High Street instead and the Christopher turned into a
boarding-house, the tap-room becoming a court of justice, where petty
sessions were held.
Another part of the building was appropriated to the use of the Eton
Debating Society, commonly called “Pop” (it is said, from “popina,”
an eating-house), which celebrated its centenary in the present year.
Its original domicile was over the small shop of Mrs. Hatton, the
confectioner, quarters very useful for gratifying a love of “sock.” It
is said that at the Saturday four-o’clock meetings the proceedings were
often delayed by the consumption of ices and cakes and the drinking of
cherry brandy.
[SN: WILLIAM JOHNSON]
The vestibule, where so many wild young bucks had kicked their heels,
was turned into a pupil room, in which for a time presided one of the
most gifted, if eccentric, Eton masters who ever existed, William
Johnson (who afterwards changed his name to Cory), the author of
_Ionica_ and of the Eton boating song. Highly unconventional in his
ways, he could never remain unmoved when he heard the sound of drums
outside in the street, indicating that some regiment was passing
through the College. Eton has given many a gallant officer to England,
and, as the large number of memorials in the Chapel shows, the roll of
Etonian soldiers is associated with numberless glorious memories. These
stirred the imaginative mind of the clever master, and, keenly desirous
that the rising generation should imbibe a due portion of that martial
ardour which was the heritage of their school, he would lead his pupils
out to the archway, and, pointing to the passing regiment, proudly
exclaim, “Boys, the British army!”
Mr. Johnson was an Eton master from 1845 to 1872, during which
period he showed all the qualifications of a gifted teacher, though
at times betraying considerable eccentricity. He was much given to
introspection, and amused boys would often regale themselves with the
sight of Billy Johnson, as they irreverently called him, standing wrapt
in profound meditation all alone in the school-yard, totally oblivious
of everything about him. He was very short-sighted, which gave rise to
the story that he had been seen furiously rushing down Windsor Hill,
making futile grabs at a fleeing hen, which he believed to be his hat,
blown off by the wind. In school, owing to this infirmity, he was
unable to perceive what boys were doing, and the carving of names and
cutting into desks and forms was carried on in perfect safety beneath
his very nose. Against positive disorder, however, he could well defend
himself, and his paradoxical utterances and epigrammatic sayings kept
even the most turbulent spirits in check.
His powers of satire were generally recognised as being highly
formidable, and masters as well as boys sometimes felt the keen thrust
of his rapier. In a school book, _Nuces_, written by him for the use of
the lower forms, was to be found a sentence which Etonians universally
agreed was a hit at a somewhat unpopular master, conspicuous for the
length of his flowing beard. This ran: “Formerly wise men used to grow
beards. Now other persons do so.”
[SN: THE BOATING SONG]
Though the poetical masterpiece of Mr. Johnson is the small volume
entitled _Ionica_, which contains some beautiful verse, a more
generally known composition of his is the Eton boating song, which
has been carried by old Etonians practically all over the world. An
interesting account of how this song came to be written is given by
the Reverend A. C. Ainger in his admirable work on _Eton in Prose and
Verse_. It would seem to have been composed in the winter of 1863
for the 4th of June of that year. Some little time later the words
were printed in the third number of a periodical called the _Eton
Scrap-book_, of which Everard Primrose was one of the joint-editors.
A copy of the words were sent in 1865 to a subaltern in the Rifle
Brigade, Algernon Drummond by name, who was then with his battalion at
Nowshera, in India. This young officer, who, four or five years before,
had been one of Johnson’s pupils, was haunted by the words till the
tune came to them, and eventually, owing to him, a number of officers
who had been at Eton made a practice of singing it nightly after mess.
Gradually guests learnt it, with the result that old Etonians in other
regiments took to singing the song which recalled to them their old
school in distant England.
The composition of this boating song, it should be added, cost William
Johnson much trouble and some sleepless nights; nevertheless, its
final form contains some lines which are scarcely worthy of an author
who, in _Ionica_, has shown himself a true poet. It must, however, be
remembered that the song, as we have it, was never intended for the
wide publicity which it so speedily attained. No doubt its popularity
has been in a great measure caused by the charming tune to which it was
set, whilst the whole-hearted and somewhat touching devotion to Eton
expressed in the words makes an irresistible appeal to all true sons of
the school, particularly to those who remember the days when, free from
care, they passed many a happy hour
Skirting past the rushes,
Ruffling o’er the weeds,
Where the lock stream gushes,
Where the cygnet feeds.
The fact that “the rushes” are now no more, having been entirely swept
away by the great flood of 1894, will not cause Etonians of a later
date to sing the words less heartily, and many a generation yet to come
will probably continue to accord this boating song the appreciation
which it first obtained nearly half a century ago.
No man, perhaps, ever expressed better the true Eton spirit than Mr.
Johnson in some words he uttered a few months before his death. He was
a sufferer from heart disease, and realised that his end might at any
time occur. Declining a friend’s invitation, he said, “I think it
unmannerly to drop down dead in another man’s grounds.”
The pupil room in which he sat has now ceased to serve that purpose;
the old structure of the Christopher, having undergone further changes,
is now used merely to accommodate masters, and has ceased to be an
Eton house. The only external trace of the inn yard as it was, are
some of the old balustrades of the ancient gallery facing the site of
the livery stables which were swept away in 1901. Many will remember
Charley Wise, the proprietor, who used to be such a familiar figure
standing under the archway thirty years ago.
[SN: SHELLEY]
The original sign of the Christopher, it should be added, hangs at
the modern Christopher in the High Street. Shelley, when an Eton boy,
one night stole the great gilded bunch of grapes from this, and hung
it in front of the Headmaster’s door, so that the astounded pedagogue
ran into it as he was hurrying into school in the morning. The whole
character of Shelley was a mass of contradictions, and he seems to have
been far from happy at school, where he seldom joined in any sports;
according to some he never went on the river, but this is doubtful.
The young poet’s favourite ramble was Stoke Park and the picturesque
churchyard close by, rendered famous for all time by Gray’s _Elegy_, of
which Shelley is said to have been very fond.
As was shown by the incident of the Christopher’s grapes, Shelley,
though as a rule of a meditative disposition, was on occasion given to
playing pranks. He once bought a large brass cannon at an auction in
Windsor, and harnessed many Lower boys to draw it down into College.
It was captured by one of the tutors and kept till the holidays at
Hexter’s. He was fond of experimenting in science, and set fire to a
tree in south meadow by laying a train of gunpowder to it; another
time, by means of an electrical machine, he flung his tutor against the
wall.
This tutor’s name was Bethell, and, according to all accounts, he was
a somewhat unattractive character. Amongst the boys he was known as
“Vox et praeterea nihil” and “Botch” Bethell, because he was supposed
always to be making errors or botches in altering their verses. His
favourite phrase, which he used to alter as it might be for a long or
a short verse, was for the former “sibi vindicat ipse,” for the latter
“vindicat ipse sibi,” in consequence of which an impudent boy in his
house, being one day asked at meal-time what he would take, said, “Sir,
I vindicate to myself a slice of mutton.” Towards the boys under his
charge Bethell was harsh, and sometimes even brutal. Meeting a Lower
boy one day coming in with a bowl full of sausages covered by his hat
to keep them warm, Bethell sternly inquired, “What have you got there?”
The boy, fearing trouble, whimpered, “Nothing, sir,” upon which Bethell
jerked up the bowl with his hand and sent hat and sausages flying into
the road.
In Shelley’s day, life at Eton had changed a good deal, compared with
that led some twenty years before, when Arthur Wellesley was a shy,
retiring Lower boy, in whom neither masters nor schoolfellows saw any
germs of future greatness.
[SN: THE GREAT DUKE]
He was about twelve years old when he went to Miss Naylor’s, and
in spite of his shyness he is supposed to have taken part with his
companions in several escapades. Traditions used to be current at Eton
about his shooting expeditions up the river at unpermitted seasons and
hours; and during the middle of the last century a tree standing near
the site of his dame’s was known as “the Duke’s Tree,” because it was
said that as a boy the old duke had been fond of climbing it. Arthur
Wellesley was not very long at Eton, but nevertheless in after life he
cherished a great love for the school to which in due course he sent
his sons. One of his first acts on going down to visit them there was
to take them to see the door at his old house where, when a boy, he had
cut his own name. Though no great athlete himself, he fully appreciated
the manly character induced by games and sport, and Creasy declares
that not many years before his death he was passing by the playing
fields, where numerous groups were happily busied at their games of
cricket. Pointing to them, the old Field-Marshal said, “There grows the
stuff that won Waterloo.”
The great Duke’s elder brother, Lord Mornington, afterwards Marquis of
Wellesley, had, as is well known, a fanatical love for Eton, where,
by his express wish, he was buried, his own beautiful Latin lines[3]
recording the satisfaction with which he looked forward to resting
there. According to a request which he left behind him, six weeping
willows were planted in different parts of the playing fields, and a
bench fixed at a particular spot which commanded his favourite view.
As an Eton boy he was a particularly fine elocutionist, as was shown
by two recitations of his at Speeches on Election Monday 1778, before
a large number of royal visitors; in Strafford’s dying speech he drew
tears from the audience. David Garrick, hearing of it, complimented the
youthful speaker on having done what he had never achieved, namely,
made the King weep. To which the clever Etonian returned the graceful
answer, “That is because you never spoke to him in the character of a
fallen favourite.”
In many ways this brother of the Iron Duke may be considered the
type of the perfect Etonian, and, as far as classical learning went,
scarcely any boy educated at the school ever equalled him. When Dr.
Goodall, a contemporary at Eton of Lord Wellesley, was examined in 1818
before the Education Committee of the House of Commons respecting the
alleged passing over of Porson in giving promotions to King’s College,
he at once declared that the celebrated Greek scholar was not by any
means at the head of the Etonians of his day; and on being asked by
Lord Brougham, the Chairman, to name his superior, he at once said,
“Lord Wellesley.”
[SN: A SUGGESTION]
Curiously enough, there appears to be no record of where the young
nobleman boarded. Presumably it was at Miss Naylor’s, where later came
his illustrious brother. A commemorative tablet should surely be set up
near the spot where those two great Etonians lived when Eton boys. The
houses where a number of other prominent men spent their school days
are for the most part known, and several others might be honoured in
a similar manner, arousing a spirit of noble emulation and pride in a
splendid record of those who have deserved well of their country.
A somewhat remarkable coincidence is that George Canning, Gladstone,
and the late Lord Salisbury in turn boarded at the same house. In
Canning’s time the dame was Mrs. Harrington, in Gladstone’s Mrs.
Shurey, whilst in Lord Robert Cecil’s day the Rev. G. Cookesley was in
control. Amongst modern politicians Lord Rosebery boarded at Vidal’s,
Mr. Balfour at Miss Evans’s, Lord Curzon at Mr. Oscar Browning’s, and
Mr. Lewis Harcourt at the Rev. A. C. Ainger’s. The room of the present
Colonial Secretary was celebrated as being the best decorated in Eton.
The writer has a vivid recollection of being impressed by the number of
well-arranged pictures which he saw when, as a small boy, he enjoyed
the honour of being asked to breakfast there. The whole place was full
of evidences of the artistic taste which admittedly distinguished Mr.
Harcourt as First Commissioner of Public Works.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] See Chapter VI.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Herbert Stockhore, the “Montem Poet,” going to Salt Hill
in 1823.]
V MONTEM
Though even to-day a few old Etonians survive who took part in the last
Eton Montem, the memory and the recollection of the quaint glories of
this ancient and unique festival will soon have become totally obscured
by the sordid dust of modern life.
Whilst the lover of old customs may lament that the merry voices of
Montem are drowned for ever, it is absolutely certain that even had
the famous triennial pageant been allowed to continue after 1844, its
celebration could never have been prolonged up to the present day in
its ancient form; for, besides being utterly out of accord with modern
ideas and ways, the ceremony would have brought such crowds to Eton as
to have rendered any procession to Salt Hill more or less impossible.
To some, however, it may be a matter for regret that no attempt was
made to perpetuate the memory of Montem by holding a modified festival
in the playing fields.
It is all very well to denounce old customs as merely useless relics
of a bygone age. The individual who carries such a view to an
extreme is in reality even more unreasonable than he who delights in
contemplating the past alone. Both in their different ways are in the
wrong: the fanatical worshipper of ancient ways being apt to lose
sight of the improvements wrought by progress, whilst he who despises
antiquity forgets that the state of society in which we live, and the
institutions of the country itself, are all derived from preceding
ages. Do or think what we will, our ancestors are far more necessary to
us than posterity.
The tumulus or mound, to which the whole school formerly marched in
procession at Whitsuntide once in every three years, stands in a field
just off the Bath road in the hamlet known as Salt Hill. Supposed by
some to be an ancient barrow, it appears to have never been opened,
though a portion was sliced off in 1893 when some cottages were built
close by. It seems a pity that this hillock--the scene of so many
picturesque gatherings in the past--should not have been preserved
intact, and some memorial, inscribed with a brief account of the
ceremony of Montem, placed upon its summit.
[Illustration: The Montem of 1823. _From an old print._]
[SN: THE PARSON AND HIS CLERK]
The exact origin of “Montem” is involved in considerable obscurity.
Perhaps the most plausible explanation is that it arose in a similar
manner as the old Winchester custom of “going on Hills.” Another theory
is that the festival was of feudal origin, the tenure of the College
estates having been held by the payment of “salt-silver”--an ancient
legal term signifying money paid by tenants in certain manors in lieu
of service of bringing their lord’s salt from the market. It may have
also been originally connected with the curious ceremony of electing
a “Boy-Bishop.” In a number of old Montem Lists, which the writer has
been fortunate enough to acquire, the parson occupies a prominent place
in the procession, coming immediately after the Captain and being
followed by the clerk. Both ecclesiastical characters, it should be
added, were always personated by Collegers, and it was the custom for
them to indulge in gross buffoonery, the parson delivering a burlesque
sermon on Salt Hill, down which he afterwards kicked the clerk. In 1778
this proceeding so scandalised Queen Charlotte, who was present, that
she begged it might never occur again, and henceforth both parson and
clerk ceased to figure in the ceremony.
According to some, the original date for celebrating Montem was
December 6th, the very day dedicated to St. Nicholas, and usually
chosen for the election of the “Boy-Bishop” in ancient times. Be
this as it may, in Elizabeth’s reign the procession took place
about the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. Granted that it was
ever celebrated on St. Nicholas’ Day, those who derive it from the
“Boy-Bishop” have a coincidence of time in their favour, whence it
is not unreasonable to suppose a connection between the triennial
festival at Eton and the ancient ecclesiastical mimicry of an episcopal
election. Another circumstance favourable to the same supposition is
found in a singular custom which formerly made part of the Montem
festival. The parson at one period, receiving a Prayer-book, used to
read part of the Service to the crowd; which usage bore an obvious
resemblance to the mimic services performed by the “Boy-Bishop” in the
distant past. Till 1759, when the date was changed to Whit-Tuesday,
Montem was annual; it then became biennial, and finally after 1775
triennial.
In those days it had already assimilated some striking features of that
curious alliance of licensed mendicity, brigandage, and gaiety--the
modern charity bazaar. Of its ancient character as a semi-religious
festival nothing remained, and it had become a collection for the
benefit of the Captain of the Collegers who might have been fortunate
enough to obtain a vacancy at King’s College, Cambridge.
[SN: “MONTEM-SURE”]
The proceedings in College which heralded the approach of Montem were
characteristic and peculiar. In former days it was the custom that
any vacancy at King’s should be immediately announced at Eton by
the “resignation man,” generally the coachman of the Provost of that
College, a delay of three weeks all but a day being allowed to the
Captain of the school in which he might make his preparations for
leaving. If, however, this period of grace should chance to expire on
the very eve of Whitsun-Tuesday Montem-day, the right of being Captain
would lapse to the Colleger who was next on the list, so that the
twentieth day before Whitsun-Tuesday in that year was a very critical
day for the Captain and second Colleger. Till midnight it could not
be known for certain who would be Captain. The boys called that night
“Montem-Sure Night,” when wild excitement prevailed amongst the
Collegers in Long Chamber, and as the last stroke of midnight sounded
from the clock in Lupton’s Tower, some fifty-two stout oaken beds
would be let fall on to the floor with a thundering crash, numberless
shutters would be slammed with furious energy, and “Montem-Sure,”
shouted by many powerful young throats, would ring out all over Eton.
Whoever was Captain of the school on the Whitsun-Tuesday in a Montem
year became _ipso facto_ Captain of Montem. But, as has before been
said, the Captain of the school could not be known for certain till
within twenty days of the eventful Whitsun-Tuesday.
A King’s scholar could, if he succeeded in passing his “election
trials” every year at the end of July, remain at Eton a twelvemonth
after passing the last examination, provided he was not yet nineteen.
If by that time he had not gone to King’s College, Cambridge, he was
superannuated, and had to leave Eton. At the examination at the end
of every July those boys who had passed their eighteenth birthday
were placed in school order of merit, and were called from thence to
Cambridge at any time of the year, whenever, through death, marriage,
or any cause, a vacancy occurred in the number of the seventy members
of King’s College, in order to supply which King Henry VI. founded his
school at Eton of seventy scholars. Montem only happened every third
year, for which reason it was only possible that a boy who was born
in such a year that he would have passed his eighteenth birthday on
the July previous to a Montem could ever become captain of Montem, and
obtain the financial benefits accruing from the collection made at that
festival.
[SN: “SALT! SALT”]
William Malim, the Headmaster, who wrote an account of Eton for the
Royal Commission who visited the school in 1561, thus described the
Montem of his day:--