Though a century or so ago fights and floggings were ordinary incidents of school life, a large number of boys contrived to make time pass very pleasantly indeed. At that time the sporting Etonian was quite a recognised type.

The following sketch, from the Sporting Magazine, of Etonian ways in 1799, whilst, of course, a somewhat exaggerated caricature, was evidently based upon a very solid substratum of truth:—

Sunday.—Not well—church a bore—headache increased by bell—sent an excuse—up at ten—dressed by eleven—sipped tea in a back room—read half a page of Sporting Magazine—d—d good—much pleased with the Oxonian’s diary—walked to Castle—prayers with Bluster—rowed the cut of Bluster’s coat—bad taylor—smoked a Cockney, and his blue silks—kicked his wig in the kennel—teach the dog good manners—came down to dinner—no appetite—Dame’s hash, like shoe-leather—drank wine at the Christopher—bad port—waiter, jawed—shoved him out—during evening church, finished Oxonian diary—tight cock—wish I knew him—drank tea at Coker’s—bad company—Spanker and self adjourned to Cloisters—good fun—returned to Dame’s—sat with Pink—bad supper—four beer—rowed the maids—picked teeth—went to bed.

Monday.—Waked at eight—keep up pretence of headache—up at ten—dressed by eleven—Smith’s burgamot, not so good as usual—breakfast—at one, walked to billiards—no one there—beat the marker.—Mem. Not go to Huddlestone’s again—came down—dinner better than usual—new cook—dull evening—went to bed early.

Tuesday.—Sham leave—hunted with King’s hounds—Steven’s blood lame—d—d bore—forced to ride the grey—new boots—bad leather—cut Webb for the future, and employ Atkins—Alderman S——y, wretched quiz—his chesnut horse broke down—let him fall into a ditch—hat and wig, both lost—looked like a bumble bee in a tar pot—good hunt—hard riding—go along—keep moving.—Mem. Always row the Alderman and not forget to cram Pink—came home tired—sandwiches and wine at the White Hart—merry evening—got drunk—Dame jawed.

Wednesday.—Whole school day—very dull—walked to Steven’s—Grey, knocked up—pain in my side—evening, cards, etc.—much better—betting in my favour—beat Dashall at cribbage—won nine shillings—lucky dog—went to bed in good spirits.

Elaborate hoaxes were common at the commencement of the nineteenth century. A young Etonian acquired a good deal of notoriety by sending the town-crier, whom he had fee’d for the purpose, to announce a general illumination in honour of the battle of Vittoria. It created quite a sensation in both Windsor and Eton; and although no one knew from whence the orders came, G. R.’s and coloured lamps in abundance were displayed in the windows of many of the houses. A meeting of the magistrates was hastily summoned, and the hoax was discovered. The writing gave a clue to the culprit, who in due course underwent the punishment usual in such cases.

License which would be inconceivable at the present day prevailed—bull-baiting on Batchelor’s Acre and cock-fighting in Bedford’s Yard being quite ordinary amusements. Small wonder that at one time strong complaint was made as to the habits of the school. Ascot Races were regularly attended by many of the older boys. Hunting and tandem-driving were not uncommon. Henry Matthews, author of the Diary of an Invalid, a very clever and eccentric boy, drove a tandem right through Eton and Windsor; a later rival, however, of Keate’s day, when James Clegg of Windsor provided sporting boys with horses and traps, drove one through the school-yard. Billiards continued to be very popular, not only with the boys but with their Masters, who claimed “first turn” at the tables.

Copying the London bucks, Upper boys would sally out on dark nights and wrench bell-pulls and knockers from the dames’ houses, or make hay in the poultry-yard of old Pocock, the farmer at the corner of “Cut-throat” Lane, as Datchet Lane was then sometimes called.

Poaching expeditions in Windsor Park were quite common. On one occasion young Lord Baltimore and a companion, when out after game, were pursued by a Master. The young Peer, however, escaped, but eventually gave himself up in order to save his friend (who had refused to divulge his associate’s name) from expulsion.

Guns could then be hired for the purpose of shooting swallows and swifts on the Brocas bank, where a number of sporting “cads,” then known as “Private Tutors,” assisted in all sorts of sprees, providing dogs, fishing-tackle, badgers, ferrets, rats, fighting dogs, horses, and even, it is said, bulls for baiting.

Eighty or ninety years ago a dozen or more of such men were constantly to be seen loitering in front of the College every morning, making their arrangements with their pupils, the Oppidans, for a day’s sport, to commence the moment school was over. At one time they used actually to occupy a seat on the low wall in front of the College, but Dr. Keate interfered to expel the assemblage; nevertheless, they continued to carry on their intercourse with the boys, and walked about watching their opportunity for communication.

A number supplied cats for hunts upon the Brocas, while a number organised duck hunts, a duck being put into the river and hunted with considerable brutality. A few, however, escaped by diving and tiring the dogs out.

Some of these men were strange characters, who showed great recklessness when times were bad, and would be ready to let boys have a shot at them at a distance of seventy-five yards or so, three shillings a shot being the accepted price.

Others would jump from the middle of Windsor Bridge for a consideration. The stake-holder on such occasions was usually Jem Powell, known as “Picky” Powell, who about 1824 was celebrated in Eton for his “quart of sovereigns,” it being his invariable practice when elated—for Jem, needless to say, was no teetotaller—to march up and down in front of his house with a silver-gilt tankard filled with his savings, all in gold.

This Picky Powell would appear to be identical with the individual who, years later, enjoyed a considerable reputation as having been professional bowler to the school. During the annual matches with Harrow at Lord’s, Picky usually made a point of having an informal sparring match with a well-known Harrow “cad,” Billy Warner by name, who, like his bigger antagonist, was supposed to have been a notable cricketer in his youth. A favourite taunt of Picky’s which usually inaugurated hostilities was, “All the good I sees in ‘Arrow’ is that you can see Eton from it if ye go up into the churchyard.”

The last appearance of Powell at Lord’s appears to have been in 1858, when, as usual, he croaked defiance at his hereditary foe. On this occasion, however, no sparring was permitted, but Picky reaped a rich harvest of silver, bestowed upon him by old Etonians.

A well-known character of the past on the Brocas was Jack Hall, nicknamed “Foxy Hall,” by all accounts the most worthy of Eton “cads,” and celebrated as an expert angler. His portrait, taken from an old print, is here reproduced. Others were Joe Cannon, Fish, “Shampo Carter” (who taught swimming in 1824 with the Headmaster’s permission), Jack Garraway, and the Anti-Catholic Jim Miller, the patriarch of “cads,” who signed a petition against Catholic Emancipation “upon principle.” “For,” he said, “when the d——d rogues burnt Cranmer and Ridley, they never paid for the fagots—unprincipled varmints!” A great deal of license was accorded to these wall loungers, most of whom were ready to abet the boys in every kind of mischief.

One of the most noted sporting “cads” was old Jimmy Flowers, whose speciality was badger-baiting on the Brocas, his stock-in-trade consisting of a badger in a sack and an old tub with one end knocked out. Dogs used to be put into the tub to fetch the badger out, the charge being sixpence, unless the fight with the badger lasted very long, when Old Jimmy used to exact a further fee. When the fun, if it can be called fun, had lasted long enough, the badger, whose opinion of the proceedings it would have been interesting to have heard, was replaced in the sack, and with a cheery “Good day, gentlemen, your dogs have had good sport,” Jimmy would walk away.

Another well-known character in the beginning of the nineteenth century was Old Matty Groves, who was much teased by the boys on account of his rooted antipathy to clergymen, whom he used to denounce as the “black slugs” of the country. He it was who led the procession which every seven years went round to beat the Eton boundary, and nailed up a cross of old iron hoops on a venerable willow near the grounds of Black Potts, where in after years Dr. Hornby had a retreat. Old Matty was very unconventional in his ways, and had been known in flood-time, when the stream was running strong, to plunge into it in his clothes at Barnes Pool Bridge and swim across to his cottage.

Floods have always been liable to occur at Eton, though, for the most part, they have generally subsided before becoming serious. In 1809, however, there was a tremendous one, which carried away six of the central arches of the old “Fifteen Arch” Bridge on the Slough Road that spans the stream which feeds Fellows’ Pond. For five days the only communication with some of the boarding-houses was by boats and carts, and the school had practically a week’s holiday. The boys lay in bed till a late hour, and when they got up it was to play cards and get into other mischief. Driving down Eton Street in carts, with the risk of getting spilt into the water, was one of their favourite amusements.

Two subsequent floods have been almost, if not quite, as serious—one in 1852, the year that the Duke of Wellington died, and one in 1894, when all the boys had to be sent home. Many of the Masters, however, remained behind, and spent their time in rescuing people in the surrounding country and supplying them with food.

Though in 1829, owing to the adoption of stern measures, the “Private Tutors” under whose auspices many a boy had shot his first moor-hen and laid his first eel-pot were expelled from the College precincts, the “sock cads” continued to haunt the “wall” for many years later. The most celebrated of these, of course, was the famous Spankie, who flourished about half a century ago. Spankie never failed to appear in the playing fields during summer, whilst in winter he was more or less of a fixture at the wall. Of him was written, one summer’s day when the cricket was getting slow in Upper Club, the line, “Totaque tartiferis Spancheia fervet ahenis.” A ridiculous and unfounded school tradition declared that he was a son of a General le Marchant, and he was often playfully apostrophised by that name.

The principal characteristics of this worthy, besides a rubicund countenance, a long blue frock coat, and an old top hat (invariably worn on one side of his head), were extreme oiliness of manner, combined with an unlimited amount of cheek. His wares, chiefly tartlets of all sorts, were contained in a sort of huge tin can supported on legs. At the proper season he also sold pots of flowers.

Spankie was imbued with a tremendous veneration for the aristocracy, and prided himself upon his acquaintance with the history of every noble family in England. Rumour, indeed, declared that most of his time out of sock-selling hours was devoted to studying the Peerage and the Landed Gentry, both of which works he was supposed to know pretty well by heart. This, no doubt, was a schoolboy exaggeration, but certain it was that Spankie had a curious and not inaccurate knowledge of the noble houses whose youthful scions furnished him with a comfortable income. It was a way of his to address the sons of distinguished people by their fathers’ names, whilst, it should be added, often fleecing them in a merciless manner, for, sad to tell, his methods were not above suspicion. A favourite trick was carefully to array a few very fine strawberries or cherries at the top of a pottle after filling up the lower portion with very inferior fruit; as, however, he made a practice of giving liberal tick, little was ever said about this. He made quite a comfortable fortune out of the Eton boys, as was realised when it became known that he had contributed no less than £50 to the fund for building a new parish church in the High Street.

By the lower members of the school Spankie was looked up to as a perfect oracle, for he seemed to know everything, could predict who would be members of the Eleven or Eight, and tell the name and history of the latest comer, stringing on to it, if necessary, a list of all his relations, with their various achievements. One of this celebrated sock cad’s chief peculiarities was that he could scarcely utter three consecutive words without a “sir” coming at the end of them; and it was marvellous how he could change them as easily as he did into “my lord” when any of the young aristocracy came up to him.

In addition to entertaining an unlimited respect for the British aristocracy, Spankie nurtured a deep contempt for trade, as the small sons of rich manufacturers, especially when they had failed to meet their liabilities, frequently had reason to know. “Good morning, sar,” Spankie would say to a scion of some house not unconnected with “cotton,” who might be rather backward in settling his debts. “Glad to see you back, sar. Bought some pocket-handkerchiefs at your establishment in the vacation, sar; cheap enough, only six shillings a dozen; but I don’t find them wash well, sar.”

According to some, Spankie made quite a comfortable little sum by supplying the names of visitors to Eton to the London papers, whilst rumour also declared that on occasion the College authorities employed him to trace and recapture runaways.

One of Spankie’s best-known predecessors was a sock cad named Charley Pass, who was to be seen daily stationed at the wall near the gateway with a curious tin apparatus containing pies, kept hot by a charcoal brazier. He had a peculiar cry, somewhat resembling that of the long obsolete pieman. “Ham and Veal; Mutton Eel,” he would call out as the boys were emerging from school. Young Collegers who knew his ways would drive him to fury by shouting “and dog—that’s what I want.” Trotman with his barrow was also a familiar figure in the “forties.”

Another sock cad who had some pretensions to being a rival to Spankie was a hook-nosed little man known as Levi, the Jew. Spankie and he constantly indulged in verbal sparring, in which the Hebrew, who was a man of few words, as a rule got much the worst of it. On one occasion this so infuriated Levi that a battle royal ensued. Goaded to frenzy by some taunt of Spankie’s, Levi challenged him to come on, and an animated tussle ensued, speedily ended only by the appearance of one of the Masters, who, separating the combatants, thoroughly frightened both by declaring that he had a good mind to see that the two of them should be prevented from frequenting the neighbourhood of the wall. The idea of this thoroughly cowed even the irrepressible Spankie, and henceforth Levi and he lived at peace.

A less assertive character than either of the two worthies mentioned above was old Brion or Bryant, a white-headed sock cad whose invariable costume was a grey coat. According to current report he had no less than twenty-one children. His speciality lay in purveying small glasses of cherry jam dashed with cream at fourpence, which must have yielded him a good profit.

Bryant outdid the other sock cads in owning a huge barrow, which every day was wheeled to the wall. A portly, good-natured man, he was not as astute as Spankie, and consequently was frequently imposed upon by his young customers. Sometimes, however, he showed a keen aptitude for business. When, for instance, a little boy complained that he had given him but a small pennyworth of preserve in his jam-bun, he would evince the amiability of his intentions by saying, “I was afraid it might disagree with you, sir.”

Another well-known character in the sixties of the last century was an old lady known as “Missis,” who sat by the entrance to the school-yard selling apples, nuts, bullfinches, and dormice.

During more recent years there have been no sock cads of such marked individuality as those mentioned above, nor do they enjoy the privileges which were accorded to their predecessors of a more easy-going age, their appearance at the wall being discouraged. Some, however, still ply their trade in the playing fields and at the bathing-places. The most original of the modern school was “Hoppie.” Every portion of this worthy’s costume, according to his own account, had belonged to some prominent old Etonian. During the summer half he was a constant frequenter of “Upper Hope,” where perhaps he still parades “the Duke of Wellington’s coat” and “Lord Roberts’ trousers” as of yore.

Thirty years ago there were several individuals known as “Jobey”—a name taken from almost the last of the old Eton characters, “Jobey Joel,” who died not very long ago. He remembered the school when far more latitude was allowed the boys, and had many a queer tale to tell of that vanished institution, the Christopher, now but a fading memory in the minds of a few.

The ancient hostelry in question would seem to have flourished as long ago as the sixteenth century. The mention of a certain Nicholas Williams lodging “ad signum Christoferi” occurs in the Eton Audit Book for 1523. The old inn served as a refuge to the “ever memorable” Eton Fellow, John Hales, who for his unwavering allegiance to the King was deprived of his fellowship.

In later days the Christopher became a great social centre of local life. All the coaches stopped at its door, and before Dr. Hawtrey abolished the Eton Market there was a weekly ordinary for farmers, and occasionally a hunt dinner, with noise enough to have driven the Muses back to Greece. Its rooms were in great request with parents come down to see their promising or unpromising offspring, whilst old Etonians revisiting Eton made the old place their headquarters as a matter of course.

“Lord! how great I used to think anybody just landed at the Christopher!” wrote Horace Walpole when he returned to his old school in 1746. The place recalled many memories of boyhood to his mind, and he declared that he felt “just like Noah, with all sorts of queer feels about him.”

Horace Walpole had passed some happy days at Eton, where one of his greatest friends was the studious and quiet Gray, who read Virgil for amusement out of school. The writer of the famous letters had a great affection for Eton, and Cambridge, as he said, seemed a wilderness to him as compared with the “dear scene” he had left. In after life the recollection of his school-days was ever keen. When, for instance, he first saw a balloon he declared that he was at once reminded of an Eton football. Though fond of reading, like many other Eton boys, the writer of the famous letters showed little enthusiasm for the school work.

“I remember,” says he, “when I was at Eton, and Mr. Bland had set me on an extraordinary task, I used sometimes to pique myself upon not getting it, because it was not immediately my school business. What! learn more than I was absolutely forced to learn! I felt the weight of learning that, for I was a blockhead, and pushed above my parts.”

Spending much of his time in the playing fields musing, he retained the recollection all his life.

“No old maid’s gown,” said he, “though it had been tormented into all the fashions from King James to King George, ever underwent so many transformations as these poor plains have in my idea. At first I was contented with tending a visionary flock and sighing some pastoral name to the echo of the cascade under the bridge. As I got further into Virgil and Clelia, I found myself transported from Arcadia to the garden of Italy; and saw Windsor Castle in no other view than the Capitoli immobile saxum.”

In Horace Walpole’s day Kendall, himself an old Etonian, presided over the Christopher. Later came Garraway and Jack Knight.

The rattling of coach wheels over the cobblestones outside the old inn was a never-failing source of excitement and interest to the boys. Most of them knew the drivers, whom they delighted to hail with volleys of chaff.

A famous Eton stage coachman was Jack Bowes of the “Original,” which started from the Bolt in Tun, Fleet Street, and called at Hatchett’s in Piccadilly. Often on his arrival at the Christopher, Bowes would be welcomed with a brisk fusillade fired by boys from pea-shooters. He had been a soldier and seen a good deal of service, and was a most popular character with all sorts of people, and especially with the relatives and fathers of Eton boys; for, like Moody, another Eton coachman, Bowes knew all that there was to be known about the College and its ways. He was a kindly man, and reassured many a small boy fresh from home and nervous as to the ordeal awaiting him when he reached the great public school. One idea which not a few new boys had firmly implanted upon their minds was that by way of initiation into the privilege of becoming an Etonian they would be pitched off Windsor Bridge and made to struggle for their life. There was, of course, not the slightest foundation for such an idea, which no doubt arose because in former days it was no very uncommon thing for Etonians, anxious to show their powers as swimmers, to take a header from the Bridge into the Thames beneath. Many indeed were experts at such feats.

Less kindly than Bowes were some of the hangers-on who gained a livelihood by lounging about the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, which was always a great rendezvous for all sorts of queer characters, itinerant orange-vendors and others, who flocked round the coaches hoping to make a more or less honest penny. Amongst these was one well-known individual who gained a livelihood by doing odd jobs in the way of carrying parcels and helping with luggage. He was especially active on days when the Eton boys were returning to school, and as he took some little fellow’s trunk to hoist it on to the coach would cheerfully impart the information that “he had never seen such a fine load of birch as had gone down the day before.”

“Bishop”—a particular kind of punch—and Bulstrode ale were the two beverages for which the Christopher was famous. Garraway brought the latter into fashion, and a huge amount of it was drunk, and though Garraway had only purchased a small stock of this famous old ale at the sale at Bulstrode, by some miraculous process it continued to be served out in plentiful quantities ever after. This became a standing joke against mine host of the Christopher, who afterwards made a speciality of an excellent tap, which he called the Queen’s, from some he had purchased at Windsor. This was sold in small quarts, at a shilling per jug.

The old place was often quite full of undergraduates, young officers, and bucks come down to take a look at the school they had so recently left, and some of these young men, especially those from Oxford (where formerly so many Etonians went on account of its being the headquarters of classical learning) formed what was known as the “Oppidans’ Club.” The main object of this convivial association, which met in one of the cellars, next to consuming large quantities of port, was to sally out after nightfall and abduct the shops’ signs—barbers’ poles and other insignia of trade—from the houses in the High Street, afterwards bearing them back to the Christopher in triumph. The tradesmen bore these eccentricities with considerable fortitude, for in the end they were pretty sure not to suffer.

Representations to the masters and authorities were scarcely necessary to redress such whimsical grievances, the injured parties being well aware that they would receive due compensation. The next day the spoils and trophies were arranged in due form in the cellar at the old inn, which became well known by the name of “Oppidan’s Museum.” Here the merry wags were to be found in council, holding a court of claims, to which all the shopkeepers who had suffered any loss were successively summoned; and after pointing out from among the motley collection the article they claimed, and the price it originally cost, they were handsomely remunerated or the sign replaced. The good people of Eton generally chose the former, as it not only enabled them to sport a new sign, but to put a little profit upon the cost price of the old one. The trophies thus acquired were then packed up in hampers and despatched to Oxford, where they were on similar occasions not infrequently displayed or hung up in lieu of some well-known sign, such as the Mitre, etc., which had been removed during the night.

Some Collegers once played a joke of this sort on Dr. Keate. A Windsor hatter, Jones by name, had outside his shop an immense tin three-cornered cocked hat as a sign, the exact counterpart, except much larger, of the one Keate wore. This was stolen one winter’s evening by a detachment of Collegers; they managed to send it to London, and thence, carefully packed, it was forwarded to Keate. Meanwhile, a letter was sent to Jones saying that the writer could give him some inkling of who was the thief, for that Dr. Keate had long been observed to eye this magnificent cocked hat with longing envy, and there was no doubt if a search warrant was procured, it would be found in the house of the Headmaster.

The cellar in which met the so-called “Oppidans’ Club” was known as “the Estaminet.” The usual fare here was bread and cheese, beer and porter, and in its general features it seems to have been the precursor of the present Tap. Lower boys had no share in its amenities. On occasion, however, stronger potations were indulged in, and of course this was more especially the case when old Etonians from the Universities were paying a visit to their old school.

No doubt, these visitors had rather a demoralising effect upon the boys who stood by in admiration, envying the bucks who lounged over the rails of the gallery and indulged in chaff with those below, whilst they ogled any pretty girl who might chance to meet their roving glance, or chaffed any mischievous Etonians who hung about the old yard, occasionally pulling the bungs out of the casks which were ranged there.

In the old Christopher the assistant masters at one time had a room reserved for them in which they were wont to meet, whilst regular convivial assemblies were sometimes organised there by Eton boys, one of the chief being on St. Andrew’s Day, when Colleger had met Oppidan at the wall.

In its last years, when the famous hostelry began to be regarded as a great moral danger by the authorities, they began to make determined efforts to prevent boys from being within its doors, and one St. Andrew’s Day a raid was suddenly made. Just as the revelry had reached its height, Smut, otherwise known as Beelzebub, the head waiter, announced the appearance of a party of masters. Great confusion ensued, and as an ominous creaking of boots was heard on the staircase, the landlord’s daughter turned off the gas, and all was left in darkness. A stentorian voice was heard crying, “I require the landlord of this house to provide me with a light.” Meanwhile, one of the masters groped his way to the door of the banqueting-room and held it so that no one could pass. One of the raiding party, a master named Goodford, who afterwards became “Head,” greatly distinguished himself by embracing Smut, whom in the darkness he mistook for a boy trying to make his escape. However, he was rudely undeceived by a gruff voice grunting out, “Come, none of this nonsense!” At length a light was procured, and as the boys filed out, one by one, their names were entered in a “black list.”

The curious thing is that little organised effort seems ever to have been made to prevent boys from being allowed to enter the old inn; raiding them when within its walls naturally did little good; in fact, it merely stimulated the spirit of adventure and made them go there more. A cousin of the writer—well-known as master of the West Kent foxhounds—describing Eton life under Hawtrey, could not help speaking with glee of how he and a companion were the only boys out of twenty who managed to escape during one of these raids, the perilous method adopted having been to climb down a waterpipe and then drop into the yard at the back.

The Christopher finally ended its career as a hostelry in 1842, owing to the Crown giving up the lease to the College. Its abolition had been constantly urged ever since Dr. Hawtrey had become Headmaster. A violent foe to the old inn and its enemy, he branded it as the greatest evil in Eton life, and after it had been numbered with things of the past he was so pleased that, as a sort of thank-offering, he wanted it to be pulled down and a chapel of ease erected on the site. This scheme, however, was not carried out, St. John’s Church being built in the High Street instead and the Christopher turned into a boarding-house, the tap-room becoming a court of justice, where petty sessions were held.

Another part of the building was appropriated to the use of the Eton Debating Society, commonly called “Pop” (it is said, from “popina,” an eating-house), which celebrated its centenary in the present year. Its original domicile was over the small shop of Mrs. Hatton, the confectioner, quarters very useful for gratifying a love of “sock.” It is said that at the Saturday four-o’clock meetings the proceedings were often delayed by the consumption of ices and cakes and the drinking of cherry brandy.

The vestibule, where so many wild young bucks had kicked their heels, was turned into a pupil room, in which for a time presided one of the most gifted, if eccentric, Eton masters who ever existed, William Johnson (who afterwards changed his name to Cory), the author of Ionica and of the Eton boating song. Highly unconventional in his ways, he could never remain unmoved when he heard the sound of drums outside in the street, indicating that some regiment was passing through the College. Eton has given many a gallant officer to England, and, as the large number of memorials in the Chapel shows, the roll of Etonian soldiers is associated with numberless glorious memories. These stirred the imaginative mind of the clever master, and, keenly desirous that the rising generation should imbibe a due portion of that martial ardour which was the heritage of their school, he would lead his pupils out to the archway, and, pointing to the passing regiment, proudly exclaim, “Boys, the British army!”

Mr. Johnson was an Eton master from 1845 to 1872, during which period he showed all the qualifications of a gifted teacher, though at times betraying considerable eccentricity. He was much given to introspection, and amused boys would often regale themselves with the sight of Billy Johnson, as they irreverently called him, standing wrapt in profound meditation all alone in the school-yard, totally oblivious of everything about him. He was very short-sighted, which gave rise to the story that he had been seen furiously rushing down Windsor Hill, making futile grabs at a fleeing hen, which he believed to be his hat, blown off by the wind. In school, owing to this infirmity, he was unable to perceive what boys were doing, and the carving of names and cutting into desks and forms was carried on in perfect safety beneath his very nose. Against positive disorder, however, he could well defend himself, and his paradoxical utterances and epigrammatic sayings kept even the most turbulent spirits in check.

His powers of satire were generally recognised as being highly formidable, and masters as well as boys sometimes felt the keen thrust of his rapier. In a school book, Nuces, written by him for the use of the lower forms, was to be found a sentence which Etonians universally agreed was a hit at a somewhat unpopular master, conspicuous for the length of his flowing beard. This ran: “Formerly wise men used to grow beards. Now other persons do so.”

Though the poetical masterpiece of Mr. Johnson is the small volume entitled Ionica, which contains some beautiful verse, a more generally known composition of his is the Eton boating song, which has been carried by old Etonians practically all over the world. An interesting account of how this song came to be written is given by the Reverend A. C. Ainger in his admirable work on Eton in Prose and Verse. It would seem to have been composed in the winter of 1863 for the 4th of June of that year. Some little time later the words were printed in the third number of a periodical called the Eton Scrap-book, of which Everard Primrose was one of the joint-editors. A copy of the words were sent in 1865 to a subaltern in the Rifle Brigade, Algernon Drummond by name, who was then with his battalion at Nowshera, in India. This young officer, who, four or five years before, had been one of Johnson’s pupils, was haunted by the words till the tune came to them, and eventually, owing to him, a number of officers who had been at Eton made a practice of singing it nightly after mess. Gradually guests learnt it, with the result that old Etonians in other regiments took to singing the song which recalled to them their old school in distant England.

The composition of this boating song, it should be added, cost William Johnson much trouble and some sleepless nights; nevertheless, its final form contains some lines which are scarcely worthy of an author who, in Ionica, has shown himself a true poet. It must, however, be remembered that the song, as we have it, was never intended for the wide publicity which it so speedily attained. No doubt its popularity has been in a great measure caused by the charming tune to which it was set, whilst the whole-hearted and somewhat touching devotion to Eton expressed in the words makes an irresistible appeal to all true sons of the school, particularly to those who remember the days when, free from care, they passed many a happy hour

The fact that “the rushes” are now no more, having been entirely swept away by the great flood of 1894, will not cause Etonians of a later date to sing the words less heartily, and many a generation yet to come will probably continue to accord this boating song the appreciation which it first obtained nearly half a century ago.

No man, perhaps, ever expressed better the true Eton spirit than Mr. Johnson in some words he uttered a few months before his death. He was a sufferer from heart disease, and realised that his end might at any time occur. Declining a friend’s invitation, he said, “I think it unmannerly to drop down dead in another man’s grounds.”

The pupil room in which he sat has now ceased to serve that purpose; the old structure of the Christopher, having undergone further changes, is now used merely to accommodate masters, and has ceased to be an Eton house. The only external trace of the inn yard as it was, are some of the old balustrades of the ancient gallery facing the site of the livery stables which were swept away in 1901. Many will remember Charley Wise, the proprietor, who used to be such a familiar figure standing under the archway thirty years ago.

The original sign of the Christopher, it should be added, hangs at the modern Christopher in the High Street. Shelley, when an Eton boy, one night stole the great gilded bunch of grapes from this, and hung it in front of the Headmaster’s door, so that the astounded pedagogue ran into it as he was hurrying into school in the morning. The whole character of Shelley was a mass of contradictions, and he seems to have been far from happy at school, where he seldom joined in any sports; according to some he never went on the river, but this is doubtful. The young poet’s favourite ramble was Stoke Park and the picturesque churchyard close by, rendered famous for all time by Gray’s Elegy, of which Shelley is said to have been very fond.

As was shown by the incident of the Christopher’s grapes, Shelley, though as a rule of a meditative disposition, was on occasion given to playing pranks. He once bought a large brass cannon at an auction in Windsor, and harnessed many Lower boys to draw it down into College. It was captured by one of the tutors and kept till the holidays at Hexter’s. He was fond of experimenting in science, and set fire to a tree in south meadow by laying a train of gunpowder to it; another time, by means of an electrical machine, he flung his tutor against the wall.

This tutor’s name was Bethell, and, according to all accounts, he was a somewhat unattractive character. Amongst the boys he was known as “Vox et praeterea nihil” and “Botch” Bethell, because he was supposed always to be making errors or botches in altering their verses. His favourite phrase, which he used to alter as it might be for a long or a short verse, was for the former “sibi vindicat ipse,” for the latter “vindicat ipse sibi,” in consequence of which an impudent boy in his house, being one day asked at meal-time what he would take, said, “Sir, I vindicate to myself a slice of mutton.” Towards the boys under his charge Bethell was harsh, and sometimes even brutal. Meeting a Lower boy one day coming in with a bowl full of sausages covered by his hat to keep them warm, Bethell sternly inquired, “What have you got there?” The boy, fearing trouble, whimpered, “Nothing, sir,” upon which Bethell jerked up the bowl with his hand and sent hat and sausages flying into the road.

In Shelley’s day, life at Eton had changed a good deal, compared with that led some twenty years before, when Arthur Wellesley was a shy, retiring Lower boy, in whom neither masters nor schoolfellows saw any germs of future greatness.

He was about twelve years old when he went to Miss Naylor’s, and in spite of his shyness he is supposed to have taken part with his companions in several escapades. Traditions used to be current at Eton about his shooting expeditions up the river at unpermitted seasons and hours; and during the middle of the last century a tree standing near the site of his dame’s was known as “the Duke’s Tree,” because it was said that as a boy the old duke had been fond of climbing it. Arthur Wellesley was not very long at Eton, but nevertheless in after life he cherished a great love for the school to which in due course he sent his sons. One of his first acts on going down to visit them there was to take them to see the door at his old house where, when a boy, he had cut his own name. Though no great athlete himself, he fully appreciated the manly character induced by games and sport, and Creasy declares that not many years before his death he was passing by the playing fields, where numerous groups were happily busied at their games of cricket. Pointing to them, the old Field-Marshal said, “There grows the stuff that won Waterloo.”

The great Duke’s elder brother, Lord Mornington, afterwards Marquis of Wellesley, had, as is well known, a fanatical love for Eton, where, by his express wish, he was buried, his own beautiful Latin lines[3] recording the satisfaction with which he looked forward to resting there. According to a request which he left behind him, six weeping willows were planted in different parts of the playing fields, and a bench fixed at a particular spot which commanded his favourite view.

As an Eton boy he was a particularly fine elocutionist, as was shown by two recitations of his at Speeches on Election Monday 1778, before a large number of royal visitors; in Strafford’s dying speech he drew tears from the audience. David Garrick, hearing of it, complimented the youthful speaker on having done what he had never achieved, namely, made the King weep. To which the clever Etonian returned the graceful answer, “That is because you never spoke to him in the character of a fallen favourite.”

In many ways this brother of the Iron Duke may be considered the type of the perfect Etonian, and, as far as classical learning went, scarcely any boy educated at the school ever equalled him. When Dr. Goodall, a contemporary at Eton of Lord Wellesley, was examined in 1818 before the Education Committee of the House of Commons respecting the alleged passing over of Porson in giving promotions to King’s College, he at once declared that the celebrated Greek scholar was not by any means at the head of the Etonians of his day; and on being asked by Lord Brougham, the Chairman, to name his superior, he at once said, “Lord Wellesley.”

Curiously enough, there appears to be no record of where the young nobleman boarded. Presumably it was at Miss Naylor’s, where later came his illustrious brother. A commemorative tablet should surely be set up near the spot where those two great Etonians lived when Eton boys. The houses where a number of other prominent men spent their school days are for the most part known, and several others might be honoured in a similar manner, arousing a spirit of noble emulation and pride in a splendid record of those who have deserved well of their country.

A somewhat remarkable coincidence is that George Canning, Gladstone, and the late Lord Salisbury in turn boarded at the same house. In Canning’s time the dame was Mrs. Harrington, in Gladstone’s Mrs. Shurey, whilst in Lord Robert Cecil’s day the Rev. G. Cookesley was in control. Amongst modern politicians Lord Rosebery boarded at Vidal’s, Mr. Balfour at Miss Evans’s, Lord Curzon at Mr. Oscar Browning’s, and Mr. Lewis Harcourt at the Rev. A. C. Ainger’s. The room of the present Colonial Secretary was celebrated as being the best decorated in Eton. The writer has a vivid recollection of being impressed by the number of well-arranged pictures which he saw when, as a small boy, he enjoyed the honour of being asked to breakfast there. The whole place was full of evidences of the artistic taste which admittedly distinguished Mr. Harcourt as First Commissioner of Public Works.