Part 3

“Well, well, when were you flogged last, eh--eh? Your master is very kind to you all, is he not? Have you had any rebellions lately, eh--eh? Naughty boys, you know, sometimes. Should you not like to have a holiday, if I hear a good character of you, eh--eh? Well, well, we will see about it, but be good boys. Who is to have the Montem this year?”

On being told he would remark:

“Lucky fellow, lucky fellow.”

The royal visit was a general topic of conversation during the day, and though one of such frequent occurrence--nay, almost every week during the hunting season--still was it always attended with delight, and the anticipation of something good to follow. It was highly amusing to hear the various remarks made by some of the boys who happened not to have been present at the time of the royal cavalcade passing, and who, of course, were anxious to hear what had occurred.

“Well, what did old George say? Did he say that he would ask for a holiday for us? By Jove, I hope that he will, for I want to ride Steven’s new chestnut to Egham.”

“You be hanged,” a companion would retort; “I want to go to Langley to see my aunt, who has promised to give me syllabubs, the first ‘_after four_’ that I can go.”

Another perhaps wanted to have a drive to Virginia Water, a favourite excursion with the boys. Such and the like expectations of holiday happiness were as often anticipated, and frequently realised, by the ride of kindly old George III. through the town of Eton.

In a regulation costume of knee-breeches and black silk stockings (any 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]