Chapter VII: Part 7

A great College institution was Fire-place--a supper held before a roaring blaze, carefully set going by Lower boys in one of the two huge grates in Long Chamber, under the eyes of the captain of the room, who enjoyed the privilege of granting an extension of revelling time (known as a half-holiday) beyond the hour of ten, when boys were expected to be in bed. Five bedsteads were run out in two parallel rows around the Upper Fire-place, one facing the cheerful glow, and an impromptu supper took place, the boys consuming such provisions as they had been able to smuggle in. A certain amount of these were obtained from the Christopher “on tick,” whilst a common dish was a grill made of scrag ends of mutton and bones purloined from Hall. Songs followed this supper, the proceedings, which terminated at eleven, being enlivened by College songs roared in chorus. These were chiefly of a Bacchanalian or nautical order; some also dealt with poaching. A favourite song was “The fine old Eton Colleger--one of the Olden Time.” The last verse of this ran:--

Now times are changed, and we are changed, and Keate has passed away,
Still College hearts and College hands maintain old Eton’s sway;
And though our chamber is not filled as it was filled of yore,
We still will beat the Oppidans at bat and foot and oar,
Like the fine old Eton Collegers,
Those of the olden time.

[SN: JOHNNY BEAR]

Not infrequently very palatable viands were obtained by the Upper boys and real banquets held, the pleasures of which were enhanced by the potations which “Johnny Bear” brought from the Christopher and pushed through the bars of Lower Chamber, the usual receiving-room of all smuggled goods, on the ground floor and adjoining the school-yard. The Lower boy whose turn it was to watch for Johnny’s arrival had pretty good cause to remember such visits on cold nights.

The Headmaster’s servant, it should be added, was entrusted with the duty of seeing that no Colleger got out at night. Strict fidelity to this duty made him highly unpopular, for he would never consent to be bribed. Principal and only locker-up and gaoler to the boys, birch collector, and rod distributor, he was generally known by the mythological appellation of Cerberus.

Life in Long Chamber, like most unpleasant ordeals, had its alleviations. Once a year, for instance, there was an impromptu masquerade, concluded by a march round, for which Jobey Joel, an Eton character who survived till a few years ago, supplied the music, and, extraordinary as it may seem, theatricals flourished unchecked. Such performances dated back to the early eighteenth century, since which time they had been given with the full knowledge of the authorities. In 1762, it is true, Dr. Barnard, who was then Headmaster, had tried to stop them, bursting in upon a representation of _Cato_, and, much to his disgust, finding that a long wig which he tore from one of the actor’s heads belonged to the Vice-Provost; but no drastic measures were taken, and theatricals continued to take place as before. Out of Long Chamber, however, the drama was tabooed. Both Drs. Keate and Hawtrey connived at the performances in Long Chamber, the latter especially ignoring all theatrical preparations even when they were right under his nose. Favourite pieces were _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _High Life below Stairs_, and _Orlando Furioso_. For the purposes of this last play, Anson--a powerful Colleger--once actually smuggled a donkey into College, where it was stabled and fed till brought out to carry Bombastes. The last play ever given in Long Chamber was _A Night in China_, written by a Colleger named King, and played in 1845. After this, however, some Collegers, amongst whom was Frank Tarver, afterwards well known to several generations of Etonians as French Master, indulged in theatricals at the back of Turnock’s tailor’s shop in the town.

[SN: MR. BOURCHIER’S ETON DAYS]

Eton has furnished some capital recruits to the London stage--Charles Kean, the brothers Hawtrey, Mr. Willie Elliot, and others, including that excellent actor, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, who even as an Eton boy was celebrated for his dramatic zeal. About 1882, with Bogle Smith, Collet, Gilmor, and a few more, he organised the “Eton Strollers,” the prologue for whose first play was written by the Hon. Arthur Bligh, a boy of considerable literary and poetic taste, who, in collaboration with Bourchier, wrote a drama which was sent to Irving for production. “Do these boys play cricket?” inquired the great actor when he received the manuscript; as a matter of fact both were very fair cricketers, Bourchier being a good wicket-keep.

Mr. Bourchier’s first theatrical _entrepreneur_ was Lord Kenyon, in whose room at Cameron’s he made his _début_ in _Uncle’s Will_, in which he acted with Johnson and Berkeley-Levett. When Mr. Cameron, who was not sympathetic to theatricals, left Eton, Bourchier went to the Rev. T. Dalton’s, where his aspirations received far greater encouragement; indeed his Housemaster became imbued with such enthusiasm for theatricals that a colleague once chaffingly inquired of him, “Is it true that young Bourchier is going to bring you out on the Music Hall stage?” Regular performances were now given in Pupil Room, for which a small charge--generally a penny a seat--was made, the proceeds going to the Eton Mission, for the benefit of which the whole company, including Mr. Dalton (who gave a humorous recitation), gave an entertainment at Hackney Wick.

The exigences of the drama, however, occasionally clashed with discipline. When, for instance, in _Still Waters Run Deep_, after the lines, “Do you smoke?” “Yes, I’ll have a cigar,” two of the actors lit up, Mr. Dalton from his place amongst the audience shouted out, “No, you don’t,” and was only appeased by an examination of the cigars, which proved to be dummies. On another occasion when a careless or mischievous Lower boy had manufactured snow for the duel scene in the _Corsican Brothers_ by tearing up a pile of “extra-works” which had been lying on Mr. Dalton’s desk for correction, the latter became so scandalised at seeing the duellists enveloped in a “cloud of equations” that, after ejaculating, “One minute! This performance now ceases,” he set actors and audience to the uncongenial task of putting the pieces together. The most ambitious effort of the company was an elaborate performance of _The Merchant of Venice_, in which Reggie Lucas (see Chapter X.) took part.

Bourchier was celebrated for his imitations of Masters, about the most amusing of which was an impersonation of a certain squeaky-voiced tutor after he had been cut over by an imaginary cricket ball. As luck would have it, the latter, whilst playing in an eleven of Masters against boys, one of whom was Bourchier, did happen to sustain a painful injury, with the result that he proceeded to give an almost exact reproduction of himself as portrayed by his imitator, who could not help being convulsed with laughter as he led the sufferer off the ground. Later on, the victim, who, of course, had no idea of the real cause of this merriment, said to a colleague, “What hurt me more than the pain was the brutality of the boy Bourchier.”

[SN: “UNDER THE CLOCK”]

In course of time Bourchier formed his imitations into a sketch, entitled _Under the Clock_, which depicted a number of Eton Masters at Lord’s, and before he left the late Mr. R. A. H. Mitchell arranged that this should be heard by the individuals concerned, whom he posted behind trees in Poet’s Walk whilst the author gave his performance close by. They were all very much amused, and when it was over came forward to congratulate the youthful aspirant to dramatic fame, whom they shook warmly by the hand and wished him all success in his future career.

To return to the story of College--the pleasures as well as the trials of Long Chamber came to an end in 1845, for in September of that year the new buildings were opened and the old days of College became mere memories of an obsolete age. The discomforts and hardships of Long Chamber were then forgotten by most of the boys who had slept there. In spite of the far better conditions they chafed at the lack of freedom and the end of “Fire-place” with its suppers and choruses. The Chamber itself, though not pulled down, was entirely remodelled, cubicles for a limited number of boys being constructed and the whole place made habitable and clean.

Election Saturday, the glories of which have now departed for ever, was a great day not only for those in College, whom it more immediately concerned, but for the whole school. At two o’clock the Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, attended by two examiners called “Posers,” drove into Weston’s Yard. The arrival of his yellow coach, drawn by four smoking horses, always produced great excitement. Meeting the Provost of Eton, a kiss of peace was exchanged (abandoned in Dr. Hawtrey’s days for a handshake). A speech was then made in Latin by the captain of the school under the archway of Lupton’s Tower, its main purport being the offering of congratulations to the Provost on his arrival at the College. The rest of the programme was much the same as that still gone through on the 4th of June--speeches in the Upper School at eleven, banquet of dons in the College Hall at two, processions of the boats in the evening to Surly Hall, with fireworks off the Eyot on the return, and finally, sock suppers in all the houses. The fun on Election Saturday, however, was always more fast and furious than on the 4th of June, because the school was to break up on the following Monday, and the boys who were going to leave looked upon themselves as already emancipated. For this reason turbulent spirits did not scruple to commit all sorts of extravagances, being pretty sure that just preceding the holidays they would escape unpunished.

[SN: THE POSERS]

On the Tuesday and Wednesday following, candidates for College were examined, as well as scholars seeking election to King’s. The “Posers,” or examining chaplains, were terrific gentlemen in the eyes of the boys; whilst examination took place, Election-chamber was to most an awful room, then rendered somewhat weird and uncanny by the light filtering through an immense red curtain, let down at the large oriel window, which imparted a sort of devilish appearance to the “Posers.”

A very quaint old usage existed in connection with these “Posers,” each of them being attended by a Colleger, who waited upon him in Hall and elsewhere if required, for which the boy--quaintly called the “Poser’s child”--received a fee of a guinea, selection for the office by the Headmaster being regarded as being a sort of minor honour. The existence of this curious custom, which of course died a natural death with the “Posers” themselves, has generally, I think, escaped mention in books dealing with Eton. It was brought to my notice by my old tutor, Mr. H. W. Mozley (Newcastle Scholar, 1860), who in this and other ways has given me valuable information which I here acknowledge; he himself had been “Poser’s child” in 1859.

The days following Election Saturday were always particularly depressing and gloomy, and the poor King’s scholars had a melancholy time. The gentlemen, as the tradespeople had the impertinence to call the Oppidans, went home on the Monday, whilst Collegers had to wait until the Thursday. All the shops were shut up, and scarcely any one about.

Collegers, like Oppidans, then remained at Eton longer than at present--as late as 1874 there was a King’s Scholar, Tuck by name, who was said to have been nine years at the school. In the days when such a close connection existed between Eton and King’s, a Colleger leaving to go to Cambridge used to go through the old form known as “Ripping.” This was performed at the Provost’s Lodge. The two folds of the Colleger’s serge gown were sewn together in front, and the Provost “ripped” them asunder, pronouncing some Latin formula, after which he congratulated the embryo scholar of King’s, and gave him good advice as to his future career. The gown, it must be remembered, was then an essential part of the Colleger’s equipment out of as well as in school. Although the rule was not strictly adhered to, they were even supposed to wear their gowns whilst playing games.

[SN: ETON’S DIVORCE FROM KINGS]

All the picturesque features of Election disappeared in the sixties, when new statutes were substituted for those of the Founder, and the relations between King’s College, Cambridge, and Eton entirely changed. In 1861 William Austen Leigh and Felix Cobbold were elected to King’s. With them ended the ancient succession of Eton scholars after it had continued, with few if any interruptions, under the statutes of Henry VI., for the period of four hundred and nineteen years, William Hatecliffe (1443), afterwards Secretary to King Edward IV., and Felix Thornley Cobbold (1862) being the first and last scholars. The right of the latter to a scholarship at King’s was, it should be added, disputed, as was that of William Austen Leigh, the Provost and Fellows of the Cambridge College urging that the new statutes were already in operation. This question, which never ought to have been raised, inasmuch as the names of these boys were on the indenture before the existence of the new statutes, was submitted to legal opinion and then to the “Visitor.” It was eventually justly decided that the two Eton scholars were entitled to scholarships at King’s College, with all their rights, emoluments, and consequences, and with this terminated the ancient and sisterly connection between the two Foundations.

The new statutes provided that four scholarships at King’s should be annually offered for competition to the scholars of Eton, tenable for six years, value £80 per annum, with tuition, rooms, and commons free. The injury done to the interests of Eton by the new arrangements was very great, for four scholarships per annum did not amount to the average of the old succession, which ranged from four and a half to five, while the difference between a scholarship of six years’ tenure and one which led to a Fellowship that might be held for life was so great as to be difficult to calculate. The remarkable features in these iniquitous changes were the earnestness with which they were pressed by King’s, which seemingly was anxious to rid itself of its connection with Eton--that is, as far as it could--and the weakness of Eton and its dereliction of duty to itself and its scholars in acquiescing in them without any attempt to obtain any mitigation or revision which might certainly have been effected. Henry Norris Churton, the first Colleger to be affected by the new state of affairs, declined to accept the scholarship at King’s to which he was elected in July, but Richard Durnford, elected in the same month, did accept, and thus became the first Eton scholar who went to King’s under the new statutes.

A few years later--in 1871--the repeal of the entire code of statutes which had regulated Eton since the 21st December, 1443, did a good deal more towards nullifying the wishes of Henry VI. The old statutes laid down that there should be seventy _poor_ scholars--an important clause which the new ones abolished. At present, directly contrary to the Founder’s intention, there is nothing to prevent the son of a multi-millionaire from competing for an Eton scholarship.

FOOTNOTE:

[9] This appeared in the _Illustrated London News_ during the forties of the last century.

VIII SCHOOL WORK

Whilst Eton has occasionally produced some very fine scholars--the Marquis Wellesley was a case in point--it cannot be said that the traditions of the school are very favourable to learning, which to a large proportion of Etonians has seemed of less importance than the acquisition of worldly wisdom. More than a hundred years ago De Quincey noted the peculiar tone which prevailed amongst Eton boys, who showed a premature knowledge of the world far exceeding that possessed by the scholars at any other school. The graceful self-possession of the boys attracted his attention, but he thought them lacking in self-restraint. Such an accusation, however, could not justly be made in more modern days, when a sort of genial unconcern has come to be regarded as one of the principal characteristics of the typical Etonian, who, preferring anecdote to argument, is profoundly convinced that amongst human institutions his school stands easily first.

With respect to most modern criticisms which have been levelled against the system of education, it must be remembered that in their efforts to teach, the masters are handicapped by one or two fundamental difficulties not easy to surmount.

Eton, in a much larger proportion than any other school, has contained, and does contain, the children of rich parents, boys of good birth and large expectations, most of whom realise very early in life that there is no absolute necessity for them to work; consequently something like a leaven of indolence permeates the school, the tone of which it is, perhaps unjustly, said has of late years been impaired by an increasing number of sons of millionaire parvenus, who are allowed extravagant sums by parents anxious to forward the social success of their offspring by any kind of means. Such parents for the most part have no real wish that their boys should be educated at all, and send them to Eton simply to form friendships and to be turned into gentlemen; or perhaps merely because Eton enjoys the reputation of being a fashionable school. Be this as it may, the number of rich boys sprung from the commercial, or rather financial, classes has undoubtedly increased, whilst foreigners now flock to Eton in ever-swelling numbers. As a result tales, probably untrue, have been circulated of wealthy boys achieving a spurious popularity owing to their pockets being constantly replenished from home, whilst, according to one incredible rumour, the sons of certain rich speculators, imbued with an hereditary faculty for money-making, have, on occasions, not hesitated to loan portions of their abundant funds at an extravagant rate of interest. The writer, be it understood, does not for a moment say that such a state of affairs really exists, but the fact remains that such things have been whispered, of course with no increase to the prestige of the school. It is not healthy for boys to be allowed unlimited pocket-money, and men of moderate means--belonging to what may be called “old Eton families”--do not care to expose their sons to the contamination of mingling with schoolmates of alien blood whose sole claim to consideration lies in their parent’s enormous wealth. In addition to this, quite a number of foreign boys are sent to be educated at Eton, which has occasionally not proved altogether advantageous to the best interests of the school.

[SN: MODERN ETON]

Modern Eton as it is to-day may be said to have originated from the recommendations of the Public School Commission, which began its work in 1861, at which time a wind of change was blowing about old places in England, with the result that many a weather-worn relic went down before it. As a result of the labours of this body, the charm of the school’s celestial quiet was broken, some of the evidence taken having revealed an unsatisfactory state of affairs which seemed to call for drastic change. It was, for instance, conclusively shown that the masters had more on their hands than they could do, and some did not make any scruple about complaining. “We are enormously overworked,” said one. “There is no time,” said another, “for society, for meeting each other, for relaxation, and no time, I may say, for private reading, and I consider that prejudicial to the school.” In fact, as Mr. Commissioner Vaughan put it, it seemed a characteristic of the Eton system that “the masters did too much for the boys, and the boys did too little for themselves.” The real state of affairs at Eton at that time was that an immense deal of work was got out of the masters, and little out of the boys. Since those days the number of masters has swelled to the very adequate number of sixty-five or more, exclusive of the Head and Lower Master, but the tutorial system, which has at various times aroused a good deal of adverse criticism, remains unchanged, and in all probability will continue to flourish as long as Eton lasts.

[SN: DEAD AND LIVING TONGUES]

Half a century ago it was urged that the main mistake in the Eton system lay in the retention of the dead languages as the staple of school work, whilst the panacea put forward for the admitted ignorance of Young England was the adoption by the majority of boys of what is known as a “special education.” With some justice it was urged that as a boy when he goes out into the great world is unlikely to read much Greek, and even less likely to write much Latin verse, his school days had much better be occupied in learning something which is practical and useful. Whilst the classics are still the main feature of the school curriculum, a boy may now, on having reached a certain standard (usually attained about the age of 16-1/2), learn modern languages, science, history, mathematics, or continue to study Greek and Latin, according as he, or rather his parents, may decide. In addition to this, the Army class provides an alternative course of study for those about to enter upon a military career.

An entirely new feature is that a number of boys going to Eton now enter for the foundation examination, though without any idea of becoming King’s scholars should they pass. In July 1910 three of the nineteen scholars who passed into Eton entered as “Oppidan scholars.”

With regard to the modern languages mentioned above, it is to be hoped that the old Eton method of teaching has been discarded. In the past the time set apart for French was too often merely a farcical interlude, during which boys devoted all their energies to teasing the master! The old classical system would be preferable if anything of the sort survives, for, after all, even a slight knowledge of the classics is better than an imperfectly assimilated smattering of a modern tongue. In old days very thorough methods were adopted in connection with Latin and Greek. One luckless lad in Keate’s division construed _Exegi_, I have eaten; _monumentum_, a monument; _perennius_, harder; _aere_, than brass. “Oh, you have, have you?” said the Doctor; “then you’ll stay afterwards, and I’ll give you something to help digest it,” and he did. On the whole, educational authorities are still loth to exclude Latin and Greek. The Commission of fifty years ago, after hearing much evidence, were of this opinion. The Commissioners reported:--

We believe that for the instruction of boys, especially when
collected in a large school, it is material that there should be
some one principal branch of study, invested with a recognised and,
if possible, a traditional importance, to which the principal weight
should be assigned and the largest share of time and attention given.
We believe that this is necessary in order to concentrate attention,
to stimulate industry, to supply to the whole school a common ground
of literary interest, and a common path of promotion.... We are of
opinion that the classical languages and literature should continue
to hold, as they do now, the principal place in public school
education.

There is certainly much to be said for Latin as an aid to the acquirement of “exact expression,” but Greek is another matter altogether. According to the writer’s own experience, the majority of boys never obtained any real grip upon that defunct tongue, besides which, for all but an infinitesimal number, in after life Greek, as Mr. Andrew Carnegie has somewhat bluntly put it, “is of no more use than Choctaw.”

The old Eton system was largely composed of paradoxical omissions, and by an extraordinary fiction boys were supposed to be thoroughly acquainted with subjects such as modern geography and arithmetic, of which, in reality, they knew nothing at all.

[SN: MATHEMATICS]

Within comparatively recent years mathematics had no regular place in the curriculum of the school. It is true that there was an “extra” master or two who was allowed to take those who liked to be taught and charged, but he had no means of enforcing discipline, and, however irritated he might be, had no right to complain to the Headmaster. In Mr. Gladstone’s Eton days Major Hexter, who kept a boarding-house, and was styled the writing-master, taught mathematics. Only the Lower boys, however, went to him, and when they were certified as proficient in long division the Major troubled them no more. When in 1836 the Rev. Stephen Hawtrey came to the school as mathematical master he was only allowed to give his lessons as “extras,” and to the first thirty boys in the school, because Major Hexter was supposed to have a vested interest in the ignorance of the remainder. The whole thing ended in Mr. Hawtrey paying the Major a pension of £200 a year, so that the latter’s opposition to the teaching of Euclid and algebra might be withdrawn.

Even after he had obtained a more or less regular position, Mr. Stephen Hawtrey’s lot was none too happy, and this most kindly man passed many irritating half-hours in the round theatrical-looking building which some called the “Station House.” Those boys whose parents desired it were entered on the books of this establishment, but the time spent there was one rather of recreation than of study. Mischievous boys were constantly turning off the gas or letting off squibs and crackers, especially in November, which was a particularly merry season. Besides this, the unfortunate master did not receive much sympathy or commiseration from his classical superiors, being in a measure regarded as an interloper and an enemy to versification.

The last writing-master as provided for by the ancient statutes was a Mr. Harris, who always resented not being allowed to wear a cap and gown like the other masters. Highly tenacious of such privileges as he could contrive to obtain, he was always well pleased when small boys touched their hats to him in the street, punctiliously returning such salutations with a grand sweep of the arm. A hater of steel pens, one of his principal occupations was mending quills and trying their nibs on his thumb-nail. He had always a quill behind one of his ears, occasionally behind both; and, being a little absent-minded, would sometimes, to the general delight, sally forth from school with his hat on and a pair of fresh-mended quills sticking out underneath. Mr. Harris taught only Lower boys, but big ones, whose bad hand-writing had attracted attention, were sometimes sent to him to learn how to write properly; this, needless to say, was looked upon as a great humiliation.

The old Eton system could not, of course, fit a boy for a commercial or business career--as a matter of fact it was never intended to do so. The modern system, on the other hand, makes something more than a pretence of equipping Etonians for any profession they may select, though, considering the traditions of the school, this is no easy task. The old idea was that, exclusive of the Collegers, a number of whom were always fine scholars, it did not much matter if the boys were taught Sanscrit or Chinese, the main purpose of an Eton education being not so much to inculcate what was vulgarly called “book-learning,” as to fit Etonians to take their place in the great world outside.

[SN: “TARDY-BOOK”]

Of late years, however, the authorities have made real progress in their efforts to convert “an Eton education” into more of a reality. The facilities for study at Eton have always been good, and within recent years much has been done to improve them, with, it would seem, satisfactory results. White tickets have been invented as a final supreme punishment when yellow tickets have failed to make a culprit realise his own shortcomings, whilst the quaintly named “Tardy-book,” an institution of entirely modern origin, has been devised to strike terror into those who make a practice of being late for school.

The old haphazard methods which formerly prevailed have been discarded in favour of more business-like ways, the school office, which undertakes the distribution of much connected with the work of the school, being a thoroughly workmanlike and efficient institution. In its early days, however, a few things somehow got mislaid, which, of course, furnished unscrupulous boys who had failed to do any punishment with the plausible excuse that their lines had got lost there.

Much less idleness seems now to prevail, the boys being certainly forced to work more than was the case in the writer’s day, when so many of them, it must be admitted, learnt very little indeed, contriving to go through the school with a really surprising lack of mental effort. To such as these the only real time of danger was Trials, when they were absolutely obliged to make some attempt at working. Most idlers, however, took such an ordeal very lightly, occasionally supplementing their defective memories by various ingenious contrivances. An expert once, it is said, equipped himself as follows: Right waistcoat pocket, Greek verbs; left waistcoat pocket, Latin verbs; breast pocket, crib to Horace; right tail pocket, crib to Virgil; left tail pocket, crib to Homer; finger-nails, important dates. His ingenuity, however, was all wasted, for he was plucked. The amount of application and intelligence needful to take a good place in such examinations was formerly quite moderate.

Cunning boys had all sorts of ways of avoiding work. Some could calculate to a nicety when they were likely to be put on to construe, and learnt only a particular bit. One master for a long time made it a practice to call upon each boy in turn right through his division, with the result that they confined themselves to learning only about a dozen lines or so apiece. At last, however, the trick was discovered, and one fatal morning the master caused consternation by putting on the first boy at the end instead of the beginning. A general collapse ensued, boy after boy standing dumbfoundered and speechless, instead of rattling off his portion with glib proficiency.

[SN: SUNDAY QUESTIONS]

Thirty or forty years ago, it may safely be affirmed, any boy of ordinary intelligence who had received a good grounding at a private school could manage to make his way up to the higher forms without once “muffing Trials,” and yet not increase his stock of learning in the very slightest degree. He lived, as it were, upon a capital of knowledge imbibed in the very different atmosphere of some hard-working preparatory school. The enthusiasm for learning which inspired many a boy fresh from such modest seminaries was too often quickly cooled by the banks of the Thames. It was, indeed, admitted by not a few that the longer a boy remained at Eton the more lazy he became. One cheeky lad, indeed, being lectured for idleness by his tutor, who at the same time eulogised the industry of a comparatively new comer, was met by the answer, “Well, sir, I have been here three years and he only one.” The tone, at least amongst the majority of the Oppidans, was not encouraging to enthusiasm of any kind, besides which the frank absurdity of certain portions of the Eton curriculum was calculated merely to depress a boy gifted with even average intelligence. Sunday questions, for instance, instituted by Dr. Goodford about 1854, usually resembled nothing so much as a page of acrostics, the correct solution of which, whilst involving a vast amount of trouble, conduced to anything but a love of the Bible. As an aid to holy living, for which purpose, I believe, they were supposed to be devised, no more pitiful failure ever existed, the sole effects produced being unmitigated boredom and much bad language. In modern days they may have been improved, but in their original form these questions, a number of which dealt with the genealogies of Hebrew kings, were a most unstimulating exercise for the youthful brain.

In many other respects the school-work was idiotically useless and bad, a great part of it having seemingly been devised to entail a maximum of drudgery with a minimum of useful information. Above all, it lacked elasticity, little or no effort being made to encourage a boy in any particular subject for which he exhibited aptitude.

Some features of the curriculum might have been modelled upon the ancient Chinese system. What could have been more ridiculous than to make boys who could scarcely construe a simple sentence attempt to turn out Latin verse? It would have been far better to teach greater Eton--that is, the mass of more or less ignorant dunces--how to write a good letter in their own language, or driven into their brains some knowledge of modern geography, yet nothing of the sort was ever attempted.

The writing of Latin verse was one of the most time-honoured Eton traditions which had to be undertaken by every boy who emerged from the Lower Forms of the school, and every week a copy of verses was set by the masters who took the divisions of the Fifth Form. These verses had to be done by the boys as best they could, being submitted for correction to the tutors, who got the verses into shape, eliminating “false quantities” and all other mistakes, in the course of which operation they themselves often composed a good deal of Latin poetry. The revised copy was then returned to the boy, who wrote a “fair copy” out of school, and afterwards showed up both copies to the Division Master. The strain on the tutors was at times great, and unscrupulous boys, with the additional help of a clever friend, would sometimes go through the whole of their Eton career without in the least understanding anything at all about verse-writing.

[SN: “TUGS” AND “SAPS”]

Such a state of affairs exerted a demoralising effect upon the minds of earnest, well-meaning boys, who gradually came to see that certain features of their education were entirely futile. Besides this, owing to the general tone of the school, a large part of which regarded school-work as being merely a sort of useless way of wasting time, their estimation of the value of effort of all kind lessened, whilst the conviction was forced upon them that no particular _kudos_ was to be gained by conscientious study, which they came to look upon as the peculiar appanage of “Tugs” and “Saps.”

No feat of learning on the part of a King’s scholar ever aroused the slightest surprise, it being generally assumed that “Tugs,” unlike the rest of the school, having been born “Saps,” or always made to work, could master every kind of learning with the greatest ease. The Newcastle Scholar, always a boy of high intellectual attainments, excited no interest amongst the mass of the school--the majority indeed scarcely knew who had won it, and, if asked, would generally reply, “Oh, some Colleger or other.” No aspirations to gain Balliol scholarships or places in the class-lists disturbed the serenity of the Oppidan’s mind. Such petty ambitions might excite the miserable rivalry of boys at other schools, vain mortals toiling in the lower world of scholarship, “vying with and outrunning and outwitting one another.” In such contests Eton could afford to look calmly on, secure in that “repose of character” which has for so many generations marked her students. There existed, indeed, a sort of tacit understanding that it was the business of the Collegers to do the intellectual work and to win the school and University honours, whilst the Oppidans were to prove victorious at Henley and, if possible, beat Harrow and Winchester at cricket. A great portion of the school, assuming a natural licence to be idle, had a deeply implanted conviction that reading was not in their line, and at heart believed it was rather a slow thing to do.

The general result of this unsatisfactory standard of course yielded bad results. Calmly secure in the conviction that to be in the eight or eleven was to have reached the highest pinnacle of boyish ambition, those who excelled in athletics became naturally prone to undervalue intellectual effort and attainments.

[SN: GAMES, NOT WORK]

To excel at games, not at work, was the ideal set before their youthful eyes; no wonder that for one who persevered in conscientious preparation of his school-work ten succumbed and became content to sink lower and lower in Trials, till at last they just scraped through a few places from the bottom. Admiration for athletics indeed was carried to an almost absurd extreme. Whilst there can be no doubt that exercise and an indulgence in manly games and healthful forms of relaxation are excellent for schoolboys, they should be regarded from a sane and proper point of view, and not held up as the sole end and aim of human existence. Curiously enough, scarcely any great men have been keen athletes during their youthful days, whilst a large proportion of those who have excelled in the cricket field or on the river have been utterly unheard of in after life, where capacity to propel a boat through the water at high speed or drive a cricket ball to the boundary counts scarcely at all. An entire absorption in games to the exclusion of practically all other interests cannot be called a healthy feature of education. Loafing, every one agrees, is a slovenly and demoralising habit, but fanatical interest in cricket, football, or the river is bad in another way, for though it may produce muscle, it may also, when carried to an extreme, produce atrophy of the brain.

In the rough old days, though sporting pursuits, like fighting, were in high repute, games do not appear to have been taken very seriously at Eton, where there was nothing approaching the modern spirit which makes heroes of the eight and the eleven. In the eighteenth century, though games were played, not a few of the more clever boys would appear to have viewed them with something of good-humoured contempt.

“I can’t say I’m sorry that I was never quite a schoolboy,” wrote
Horace Walpole; “an expedition against Bargemen, or a match at
cricket may be very pretty things to recollect; but, thank my stars,
I can remember things that are very near as pretty.”

[SN: HOOPS]

His friend Gray, though in his famous ode he touched upon the school games, expressed no particular enthusiasm for athletics:--

What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle’s speed.
Or urge the flying ball?

Gray, it should be added, originally wrote

To chase the hoop’s elusive speed,

for, extraordinary as it may appear to the modern Etonian, the hoop was formerly in high favour with Eton boys. Trundling a hoop has long been recognised as one of the best forms of exercise; indeed, the writer has been told that the present Headmaster of Eton, in his day an athlete of high distinction, being once abroad where no games could be played, in order to keep himself fit purchased a hoop and took to trundling it with great zest.

As late as the early part of the nineteenth century, during the October half, the majority of Lower School used to indulge in the somewhat infantile delights of trundling a hoop with a stout stick. The Eton hoop was made differently from the ones still used by children, being formed out of a strong ash lathe with a remnant of bark upon its surface. The inevitable collisions of hoops and their trundlers not infrequently led to hostilities, and on several occasions regular pitched battles occurred between Collegers and Oppidans. A famous encounter once took place at the end of the wall near the Chapel door, about twenty boys being on each side, one Saturday after four, big boys in front, little ones behind. Thanks to their gowns, which they adroitly twisted round one arm, the Collegers had the best of the encounter, though the Oppidans were able to draw off without having been definitely beaten. The contest excited great interest, a crowd of people watching the battle, and though the masters were fully aware of what was going on, no attempt was made to interfere. For some reason or other, however, there was no more hoop-trundling till the following year.

_“Say Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race.
Disporting on thy margent green.
The paths of pleasure trace.”
GRAY’S ODE._

_From a scarce print in the possession of the Earl of Rosebery, K.G._]

In long-past days another form of amusement, generally associated with childhood--marbles--enjoyed an occasional popularity amongst Lower boys, many of whom prided themselves on the variegated colours contained in their collections, whilst for a time “Bandalore”--which, as “Diabolo,” quite recently enjoyed a great vogue all over England--quite captivated the school.

Peg-tops were once in great favour, Weight, who kept a grocer’s shop and was known as “Old Tallow Weight,” doing a brisk business in such tops and the whip-cord necessary to spin them. The Rev. E. D. Stone (see page 61) says that in his day, under Hawtrey, backgammon and knuckle bones were popular in College.

About 1770 the games[10] popular at Eton were “Cricket, Fives, Shirking Walls, Scrambling Walls, Bally-cally, Battledores, Pegtop, Peg in the ring, Goals, Hopscotch, Heading, Conquering Lobs, Hoops, Marbles, Trap-ball, Steal-baggage, Puss in the corner, Cat-gallows, Kites, Cloyster and Flyer gigs, Tops, Humming-Tops, Hunt the Hare, Hunt the dark lanthorn, Chuck, Sinks, Store-Caps, Hustle-cap.” Of football, it will be observed, there is no mention; nevertheless it was played, though not in very good repute. Fives, of course, was then played between the buttresses of the Chapel, the favourite time being before eleven-o’clock school, when a ring of spectators would assemble to watch good players. As every one knows, the pepper-box of the modern fives court takes its origin from the stone termination of the steps leading up to the Chapel door, which was copied in the first regular fives court built at Eton in 1847.

It would seem that the old Eton authorities, whilst not disapproving of games, did not attach any very considerable importance to them. In theory, indeed, boating on the Thames was forbidden, but in practice even Keate tolerated the joys of the river, though he made violent efforts to prevent any rowing before Easter, in order to prevent the boys from catching chills.

[SN: HOCKEY]

In the ’forties of the last century foot races and the three-mile steeplechase, with its almost impossible jumps and immersions, were a source of considerable interest just before Easter. The winter games were then football and hockey, the latter of which, however, only held its ground for a time, during which it was patronised by many of the swells. There was then a tradition, which still seems to exist, that it had been from time to time forbidden as dangerous; nevertheless it was played for years without either injury or any reprimand. The sticks were not rough, but smoothed and artificially bent, with blades about a foot long. There were two clubs, called upper and lower hockey; but football gradually superseded it, and the game entirely disappeared about the year 1853. With regard to the prohibition, a writer mentions (in 1832) hockey and football as the chief winter games at Eton, and says that more came away “hobbling” from the latter than from the former, but speaks further on of a boy having in his room “an illegal hockey-stick.” He observes that this fine old game had died out in England, except at Eton and Sandhurst, and adds quaintly: “It is one of the most elegant and gentlemanly exercises, being susceptible of very graceful attitudes, and requiring great speed of foot.”

As time went on, athletics began to exercise more and more influence, till in the ’sixties they attained to much the same preponderant position as they hold at Eton to-day. A few, however, viewed the growing worship of skilfully trained brute force with unconcealed dislike. In the early ’seventies of the last century a little magazine, called the _Adventurer_, contained an article signed E. G. R. called “Eton as it is,” which scathingly attacked the growing deification of muscle rather than brain:--

“While in the world around us, for which we are here preparing
ourselves, a vast worship of intellect universally prevails, at Eton
it is the worship of the body which enslaves the whole community.
What, in our estimation, is mind, intellect, hard and successful
cultivation of the faculties? Nothing. What is cricket, rowing,
athletics, football? Everything. And our School is meanwhile being
degraded almost to the level of an Athletic Club.... Idleness holds
sway everywhere, and _such_ idleness! As a man who has never had
dealings with the Chinese can have but a faint idea of what swindling
is, so a man who has never been at Eton has but a poor conception of
what idleness is.”

[SN: “POP”]

This protest was not, however, well received by the school, the _Adventurer_ being expelled from the rooms of “Pop,” which, curiously enough, on its foundation in 1811 by Charles Fox Townshend as a political and literary society, had only elected the captain of the boats in order to show that the members _had no prejudice_ against athletics.

Its tone was distinctly Conservative. Fourteen years later, in Mr. Gladstone’s day, only one member, a Colleger, was suspected of having Liberal tendencies. Originally “Pop” was located in the upper room of Mother Hatton’s “sock shop.” In 1846, when the house, together with another, was formed into Drury’s, “Pop” migrated to the yard of the old Christopher. The site of Drury’s is now covered by part of that huge and incongruous building--the “Memorial Hall.”

The early members of “Pop,” it is curious to find, were originally known as the Literati, their first debate, held on February 9, 1811, dealing with the question of whether the passage of the Andes by Pizarro or the passage of the Alps by Hannibal was the greater exploit. No political event within fifty years was permitted as a subject for debate. Mr. Gladstone, who was elected a member in 1825, made his maiden speech before this Society, the subject being “Is the Education of the Poor on the whole Beneficial?”

The future Prime Minister took great pains to improve himself as an orator, going, it is said, to rehearse his “Pop” speeches in Trotman’s gardens, on the site of which the old fives courts were afterwards built. To the end of his days he continued to take great interest in the “Eton Society.” His correspondence as to its records, in which every speaker has written his speech, has been amusingly described by Lord Rosebery, who on succeeding the great statesman in office one day received a letter in which the Grand Old Man expressed himself much distressed because during a recent visit to the rooms of “Pop” he had seen a picture of a recent Derby winner over the chimney-piece. A generation, wrote Mr. Gladstone, which had such depraved tastes could not, in his opinion, be fitted to have the custody of the invaluable records of the Eton Society, and he therefore begged Lord Rosebery to address the authorities at Eton on the subject. The state of affairs of which Mr. Gladstone complained, did not cause the recipient of his appeal so much disquiet, for the Derby winner which hung over the “Pop” mantelpiece was Lord Rosebery’s own horse, Ladas, which won the great classic race in 1894.

Lord Rosebery, who, even in his Eton days, was a most effective debater, is another member of “Pop” who has risen to high distinction. Retaining a singularly keen interest in everything connected with his old school, he it was who made the most eloquent and witty speech at the dinner in the Memorial Hall, where, on July 14, 1911, 400 Etonians, the vast majority old members of “Pop,” met to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Society’s foundation. In the aforesaid speech he very happily described “Pop” as being a noble companionship like the Garter, not always given for merit, but a high companionship with illustrious tradition to which anybody might be proud to belong.

[SN: ETON VICEROYS]

Though athleticism has now in a great measure dominated the “Eton Society,” it must be confessed, as another distinguished old Etonian, Lord Curzon, said at the same dinner, that neither title, means, nor athletic distinction _per se_ ever enabled a man to get inside the walls of “Pop.” There must be something else--he must be what the world calls “a good sort,” and it is well that this happy state of affairs still remains unchanged. On the same occasion Lord Curzon pointed out that Eton had laid a vigorous hand on India, six out of the last seven Viceroys having been old Eton boys, whilst that illustrious veteran Lord Roberts was also an old Etonian.

In the course of the nineteenth century the importance of the captain of the boats has gradually grown, and at the present day his personality dominates Eton. He occupies a unique position, being envied and admired by the Upper part of the school and regarded as a sort of superior being by Lower boys.

When, about half a century ago, a Royal Commission was taking evidence as to the state of affairs prevailing at Eton, it was elicited in evidence that “the captains of the boats and the eleven were scarcely ever distinguished in scholarship or mathematics.” One master indeed declared that he had “not observed any boys, during a short experience, distinguished both in intellect and athletic pursuits.” Young Lord Boringdon, himself one of the “eight” for two years, was “afraid that the crews of the boats were generally distinguished for want of industrious habits.” Cricket the Commission pronounced to have been found “hardly compatible with high scholarship.” Although the Collegers formed the larger proportion of the oldest boys in the school, they were seldom in the eleven, because they were unwilling to spare so much time from the school work as was considered necessary for practice.

In my own Eton days, thirty years ago, the captain of the school--head of Sixth Form--was nobody at all in the eyes of the Oppidans. Few of them indeed knew him by sight, and fewer still felt any curiosity to do so. As far as I remember he enjoyed no particular privileges except the right of presenting a new Headmaster with a birch tied up with ribbon of Eton blue. The captain of the Oppidans held a slightly better position, a sort of idea prevailing that there must have been something extraordinary about him or he would not have risen so high in the school, Oppidans as a rule not being generally considered very clever or apt to work.

[SN: “SWAGGERS”]

Next to the captain of the boats in popular estimation came the captain of the eleven, who in his own circle commanded a good deal of attention, and of course stood infinitely higher than any boy distinguished only for intellectual attainments. The members of the eight and eleven followed after, together with a few other “swaggers,” who on account of their prowess at football, rackets, running, fives, and sometimes even rifle shooting, were regarded with a certain degree of reverential awe.

Of late years, however, a more satisfactory state of affairs has prevailed, not a few prominent athletes and oarsmen having shown considerable mental capacity.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] This list is the one given in _Nugae Etonenses_.

IX ROWING AND GAMES

The early history of Eton rowing is somewhat obscure, but it is perfectly clear that the Oppidans have always had control of all rowing arrangements. In former times, indeed, Collegers only boated below Bridge, and were rarely seen above; indeed if they did go up stream they were more than likely to be molested by Oppidans, who claimed that part of the river as their own watery domain.

[SN: THE BOATS]

Though boating must have gone on at Eton ever since the foundation of the College, there would appear to have been no attempt at a regular organisation till the middle of the eighteenth century. In 1762 there were three long boats, the “Snake,” the “Piper’s Green,” and “My Guineas Lion.” Then, as now, a captain of the boats presided over the crews. In the early days of Keate’s reign (1811-1814), however, there seem to have been six boats--one 10-oar (the “Monarch,” as now), three 8-oars, and two 6-oars, later on changed to four 8-oars and one 6-oar. At that time, as has been the case in later years, the “Monarch,” though it stood first on the list, and took precedence of all the other boats, was by no means the best manned, being, as has been the case in later years, something of a refuge for swagger boys who might not be exceptionally fine oars. For this reason, though it was scarcely regarded with contempt, yet it could never either be looked up to as affording a pattern for the other crews. A place in it, however, was a good thing to be secured.