About thirty years ago, Eton boys were seized with a craze for hoaxing the London Press, and some extraordinary letters appeared in various papers. The most extraordinary of all was one bearing the signature of an Eton master which described the writer’s remarkable experiences in the country, where he had witnessed a conflict between a cow and a partridge, in which the cow, after a prolonged chase, had eventually captured and devoured the bird. The master eventually wrote an indignant denial, but he was never able to discover who had taken his name in vain.

The greatest practical joke ever played at Eton was the colossal hoax perpetrated in the early eighties of the last century upon the somewhat ingenuous editor of a newly-started London magazine, who had been struck with the idea of increasing its attractions by publishing authentic news of public-school life. Not unnaturally he began with Eton, and, setting to work to secure contributors at that school, obtained some really astounding information, which afterwards went to the making of an extremely scarce little book called Eton as She is not. More recently an amusing account of the whole affair appeared in the Cornhill Magazine at the end of an excellent article on “College at Eton.” At first the editor’s correspondents merely furnished him with accounts of local events, all of them pure invention; but, emboldened by success, they soon went on to describe some interesting old customs. The first was chronicled thus:—

A curious custom takes place here on certain days in College Dining Hall, called “Passing the Green Stuff.” The second fellow at the big fellows’ table suddenly says, “Pass me that Green Stuff,” referring to a dish of mint placed on the table; then the fellow opposite him stands up, and says “Surgite” (arise), on which all the other fellows get up from their places and run the fellow who “broached” (i.e. asked for) the green stuff round the School Paddocks, shouting out such military commands as “Quick march! Right turn!” etc. They then return to dinner, when a “grace-cup” is partaken by all except him who “broached” the green stuff.

In the next number readers were informed that at Eton Prisoner’s Base is a great success, and the Paddock is almost always deserted for the Cloisters. The following then appeared:—

Another curious custom at Eton is “Slunching the Paddocks.” On a certain day all the Collegians and Oppidans are provided with a coarse sort of pudding, which is put to the following use. After dinner is over they all go to Weston’s and School Paddocks and throw their pudding all over them. This is “Slunching the Paddocks,” the pudding being called “Slunch.” It is supposed to be derived from the fact that when Queen Elizabeth visited Eton College “she lunched” (s’lunched) in College Hall, and the students sprinkled the paddocks with dry rice in her honour.

In the number published on March 5, 1884, a purely imaginary list of the officials of the various school departments was given. There were the Captains of the “Broach” and the “Slunch,” the two College boats; the Captain of Cricket Tassels, R. J. Lucas;[12] Captain of Fives Tassels, Havager Boroughdale; Captain of the Musical Department, R. A. S. Berry-Young; Captain of the Curling Club, T. T. Vator; Captain of the Spelican Team, Tute Goodhart; Captain of Ushers, J. Goodwin; Steward of the Paddocks, H. Beecham Wolley; Choragus, C. Wofflington. This was followed in the next number by the news that the Spelican team had played their first match of the season on March 11 against the Dorney Dubes. The Collegian Brigade, an admirable corps, which marched out as far as Brocas Hedges, was later on described as having met with a catastrophe, for “a bull loose in Weston’s Paddock, which they passed through on the way, attacked the line, and a boy named Swage was knocked over and slightly bruised.”

This went on for six months, when the Editor wrote and expressed a desire to come down to Eton and see the place for himself. He was duly shown a hockey match between B. Wolley’s “Field Mice” and Flenderbatch’s “Jolly Boys,” the match being played with tassels on the caps and all, which so impressed him that he returned to London and wrote an account of what he had seen, giving at the same time a new and original version of the School Song, addressed to “Pulcra Etona” and praying among other things that:

“Slunna” is slunch, “capti fundamentum” is sound Latin for prisoner’s base. In high good temper he added that “our Eton correspondence is supplied by a gentleman who is a universal favourite in College, and the Editor is pleased to state that he has received letters from Etonians all over the world, signifying their approval of his reports.” He was disillusioned soon after, and no more space was devoted to Eton and the strange doings of its students.

Though at that time something of the old-world spirit still lingered, there survived few of the quaint “characters” who had once been fairly numerous at Eton. The ever-gentle, suave, and urbane Giles of Williams’ (afterwards Ingalton Drake’s, and now Spottiswoode’s) will, however, be remembered by many. How this good-natured man managed to book the orders at the beginning of a school-time and keep his temper is a mystery which will never be solved. He had, I remember, a red-headed assistant, who, though a shade more inclined to frivolity than Giles (who was scholastic gravity itself), seemed to have been born to serve out broad rule and derivation paper without being ever in the least perturbed by the chatter of crowds of Lower boys.

Another grave-looking character of this period was Solomon, who all day long stood in a minute room at the back of Brown’s, the hosier, ironing hats. Solomon’s appearance and demeanour did not accord ill with his appellation. He was a white-headed old man who always wore a paper cap somewhat resembling the traditional head-dress of a French cook. Standing in his shirt-sleeves gently working his iron over the nap of ill-used “toppers,” his favourite topic was the Turf, of which surely no more ardent votary ever lived. All day long he would discuss with the various boys who streamed into his little workroom the chances of the horses entered for the next classic race. Solomon was essentially an old-fashioned turfite in his ideas, and knew nothing of starting-price jobs or other new-fangled manœuvres. He was, however, acquainted with the form of all the more prominent race-horses, and in his conversation laid gentle stress upon the value of a judgment which no one wished to dispute. In spite of the old man’s ardent affection for racing, I cannot help thinking that during his long life he had seldom seen any races run. On this subject, however, it was best to hold one’s peace. Though Solomon’s sanctum was the scene of such eternal confabulations as to the great question of first, second, and third, I cannot remember that much betting arose from it. As far as my memory serves me, the majority of Solomon’s visitors remained purely academic in their patronage of racing. Perhaps this was owing to the fact that the Lower boys, of whom his ever-changing audience was for the most part composed, had very little money, and preferred to spend what they had in substantial dainties rather than risk it in speculations of a visionary kind. I do not recollect Solomon doing any serious betting for boys, but have a vague idea he occasionally put shillings on. I was therefore surprised when told some years ago that the old man had been driven out of his place owing to the action of the College authorities, who objected to him as demoralising the boys by assisting them to bet. I can only hope that this report was untrue, for in my day, at least, his influence was quite harmless.

In the sixties, I believe, there used to be a school Derby lottery every year, the winner of which generally got about £25. The arrangements for this seem to have been placed in the hands of a well-known character about the “wall” named “Snip,” but he had died or disappeared long before my day, and the only lottery I remember was a tiny private affair, the tickets of which cost sixpence or a shilling. In connection with this subject it is said that of late years betting amongst the boys has become a serious evil. If this is the case, the school must have undergone a considerable change in its ideas within the last quarter of a century. In the late seventies and early eighties there was practically no betting at all amongst the boys, chiefly for the reason just given, but also because there existed a widespread idea that any attempt at speculation would eventually lead to loss of money. A good many boys, no doubt, who had a love for the Turf looked forward to gratifying a taste for speculation in time to come, whilst others told extravagant tales of Turf triumphs during the holidays, but few took racing seriously, their interest being limited to flocking to the post-office to hear the first news as to the winner of any great race. A salient proof that at that date no real betting existed was the sensation caused amongst us by the rumour, based on truth, that a new boy (the son of the Maharajah Duleep Singh, whose arrival at Eton created some sensation), on being spoken to by a member of the eight in the school-yard, had offered to bet him a fiver against a certain horse, which wager had been accepted. This was the largest wager we ever heard of as being made at Eton, and it was looked upon as extraordinary.

On the other side of the High Street, opposite to the establishment where Solomon ironed hats and gave forth his wisdom, a younger rival also doctored battered “toppers.” As far as I can remember, he was a far rougher individual than the racing sage, and possessed a tendency towards familiarity which was not universally popular. He and Solomon both resembled each other in one respect, which was their taste for plastering every available inch of their walls with cuts and paragraphs from cheap papers of a comic order.

A curious character amongst the sock shopkeepers of that period was an old Italian confectioner, who owned rather a spacious shop with very little in it up the High Street, on the right-hand side going from Eton towards Windsor Bridge. This worthy, who was always attired in a cook’s dress—white cap, apron, and all—made and sold most excellent ices, which procured him a fair amount of custom from the Eton boys in spite of the fact that his shop was considered rather “scuggish.” According to common report, the proprietor had once been employed at Windsor Castle, where his skill as an ice-maker had won the favour of Queen Victoria, with whom for a time he had become a particular favourite. One day, however, the Queen had caught him administering a thundering thrashing to his wife, in consequence of which she had very rightly at once turned him out of his post. This story, though resting upon no credible evidence, was generally believed by Lower boys, and some of them made a practice of infuriating the old man by hurling taunts at him as they were going out of his shop. “What a pity, ‘Cally,’ you got kicked out of the Queen’s kitchen!” they would call out, and the little Italian never failed to fly into a great rage at their chaff. Indeed, on more than one occasion he was said to have pursued boys into the street with a knife in his hand, but this in all probability was mere exaggeration. Nevertheless he had a violent temper, and for this reason was constantly being drawn by mischievous boys.

A more improving occupation than chaffing tradesmen was reading books and papers at Ingalton Drake’s, the bookseller, who afterwards took over Williams’, where all the school books were sold. This establishment, owing to the good nature of the proprietor, was constantly thronged with a crowd of boys, who, seldom making any purchase, spent a good deal of time turning over the leaves of new books just fresh from London. The Times could also be read there. As a matter of fact, the boys were very careful not to hurt or dirty the books they took up or touched, and I do not think the owner of the establishment had reason to regret his kindliness, which was the means of many Etonians acquiring an insight into branches of knowledge which the school curriculum made no attempt to include. Many a pleasant and not uninstructive half-hour was passed here by boys to whom cut-and-dried lessons made no appeal.

The Eton traditions of three decades ago were not very many in number, most of them being concerned with minor points of dress, things which were to be done and were not to be done, and the like. Except hoisting, few old usages survived, though, no doubt, the opinions of many long-past generations still influenced the boys in their unwritten code of what was “scuggish” and what was not. Hoisting, I believe, still survives, though a very few years ago undue exuberance on the part of the boys nearly caused its abolition. At that time (1904-1905) the whole school would assemble along the wall on the evening of the School Pulling, which always takes place after Lord’s, and await the arrival of the members of “Pop,” who from Tap would walk arm-in-arm across the whole street to opposite their Club Room in the building of the old Christopher. They would then seize the winners of the School Pulling, and, according to traditional custom, run up and down along the wall with them, the whole school shouting at the top of their voices. If the eleven had won at Lord’s, or the eight at Henley, its members were also hoisted one by one. In the case of the School Pulling, the winners, after being hoisted, were taken to some prominent upper window in one of the houses which all could see, and water solemnly poured over their heads, the jugs and crockery being eventually thrown out into the street. This latter generally occurred just before Lock-up, all the boys being still out in the street. The end was that “Pop” canes were produced, arms linked, and everybody systematically driven into his tutor’s house. The ceremony of hoisting was not very popular with the public, for, in consequence of the noise, passing carts and carriages generally went by a good deal quicker than the drivers wished, and horses became alarmed, whilst no bicyclist was allowed to remain on his bicycle, every one who passed being booed or cheered. Thirty years ago the ceremony proceeded much in the same way, though there was more consideration shown to the drivers of horses which looked likely to become alarmed by noise; also the crockery-smashing ceremonial did not exist, and would have been resented had any attempt been made to institute it.

Like another custom of modern origin, “Lock-up Parade,” this very undesirable addition to hoisting has now been forbidden. Lock-up Parade, which did not exist in the writer’s Eton days, took place in the Summer Half, just before the hour of Lock-up, when the boys walked backwards and forwards within very narrow limits to the strains of musicians stationed outside “Tap.”

Tap is, if possible, more flourishing than ever, being, as of old, crowded on summer evenings. At such a time whilst the wet bobs on their way home from the Brocas fill it to overflowing, a number of swagger dry bobs also put in an appearance. In addition to the traditional refreshments procurable at Tap, chops, steaks, bread and cheese, beer and cider, coffee, chocolate, cakes, fruit, and other good things of the same kind may now be got there, with the result that it is also much frequented after twelve, though, of course, not by Lower boys, who are still excluded as of old. A modern Eton fashion is the giving of a breakfast under a tent in the garden of Tap during the summer term. This is a very “swagger” affair, most of “Pop” putting in an appearance. A few years ago, when some of the members of the Eton Society were more than usually vivacious in disposition, the return from Tap in the evening just before Lock-up was occasionally very noisy, top-hats flying about in all directions, and passers-by finding it difficult to proceed on their way without being playfully held up. At present, however, the summer evenings are once again peaceful as of yore—a happy state of affairs which should delight every true lover of Eton, for it is beneath the rays of a setting sun that the tranquil charm of the old red-brick walls and weather-beaten buildings makes itself especially felt. |SWINBURNE’S LINES| At this time of year is it, more than any other, that the crowning glory of the place—the playing fields fringed by the silver winding Thames—present such a superb scene of placid beauty, whilst College close by whispers from its towers “the last enchantment of the Middle Age.” No wonder that, in spite of altered ways and habits, the spirit fostered by such stately surroundings still remains alive—

It is to be hoped that these lines, written by the last great Etonian poet to celebrate the 450th anniversary of the foundation, will be as applicable to the school five hundred years hence as they are to-day. May those yet to come continue to bear the torch of Eton, handed down from distant generations, bravely aloft, whilst never ceasing to keep before their eyes the duty of delivering it to their successors, its flame bright and brilliant as of old.