Till the carrying out of the reforms initiated by Provost Hodgson in 1844 the treatment of the King’s scholars constituted little short of a public scandal, rendered the more iniquitous because College was the original Eton, and the lack of consideration and comfort shown to boys on the Foundation was directly contrary to the wishes of the Founder. No wonder was it that the number of those in College often fell far short of the appointed seventy, sometimes sinking as low as thirty-eight. In one year there were but six candidates for forty vacancies. The prospective advantages which a Colleger might reasonably expect at King’s College, Cambridge, were not enough to counterbalance the discomfort and degradation of existence in the great dormitory known as “Long Chamber,” besides which the expenses of a King’s scholar were little less than those of the well-fed and comfortably housed Oppidan, the cost of education on the Eton Foundation often falling not very far short of a hundred a year—a most extravagant outlay considering that a Colleger was cared for no better than a charity boy.

Glancing over the records of the treatment meted out to those whom Provost Hodgson rightly termed “these poor boys,” one wonders that the masters, who were perfectly acquainted with the state of affairs in College, made practically no protest. It must be remembered, however, that at that time all of them without exception had been Collegers themselves, and having come through the ordeal with comparative immunity from harm, probably had some sort of idea that the hardships and discomforts of life in College produced hardy and successful men. What these hardships and discomforts were may be realised from the view taken by an Insurance Company as to chances of life of any one who had undergone them. In 1826 Dr. Okes, when applying for an insurance policy, in reply to one of the questions put to him stated that “he had slept in Long Chamber for eight years,” on hearing which the chairman of the Board said, “We needn’t ask Mr. Okes any more questions.” Existence in the ill-kept and insanitary dormitory in question was calculated to promote only the survival of the fittest, and those who grew up to be healthy men might well be accounted “good lives.”

Whilst, as has been said, little protest was ever raised at Eton itself against the deliberate misinterpretation of the statutes with respect to the scholars, public opinion gradually became aroused, and many old Etonians, notwithstanding the intense esprit de corps which has always been a characteristic of the school, joined in the chorus of unanimous reprobation which demanded reform. About 1834 the Eton authorities were violating not only the spirit but the letter of the ancient statutes.

The statutes required that the fines and land-tax should be applied to the common use (“ad communem utilitatem”), instead of which they were appropriated by the Provost and Fellows to their own use.

The statutes entitled the Fellows to £10 a year stipend, and 2s. a week, or £5, 4s. a year, for commons, whereas they had increased their stipend to £50 a year, and received in lieu of commons on an average £550 a year each, or £10, 11s. 6d. per week instead of 2s.

The statutes entitled the Provost and seven Fellows to allowances amounting in all to £200 per annum, but in practice they received nearly £7000.

The statutes required that the scholars should be supplied with dress and bedding; with all, in fact, “quae ad vestitum et lectisternia eorundem aliaque iis necessaria pertinent.” Nevertheless, with the exception of a coarse gown, the scholars received nothing appertaining to dress from the funds of the College.

The statutes provided ample allowances for breakfast, dinner, and supper, with the use of certain fisheries. In practice breakfast was omitted altogether, and for dinner the only kind of meat provided for the scholars throughout the year was mutton, which even if good in quality was not sufficient in quantity.

According to the statutes thirteen servitors were to wait upon the Provost, Fellows, and scholars in Hall, which arrangement had further developed into the Lower boys waiting upon the Upper, who in their turn performed the same menial offices for the Provost and his company on the occasions of their dining in the College Hall.

The statutes required that each scholar should be instructed free under the most strict oath to be taken by the Head and Lower Masters. In direct defiance of this each scholar was charged £6, 6s., the amount having been gradually increased to that sum.

The statutes allowed each Fellow a separate apartment, but such accommodation had long ceased to be sufficient for them, and instead they resided in spacious houses, free from taxes and the expense of repair, with stables and coach-houses attached.

The statutes enjoined that one room should be provided for every three boys, free from any expense. In 1834 upwards of forty boys slept in Long Chamber, whilst those who were lodged in the two adjoining rooms paid a sum of money annually to the second master.

The statute that any scholar during a short illness should be maintained at the College expense (if longer than a month, to receive a sum of money) was entirely ignored.

Finally, the statutes were required to be read to the scholars assembled in a body three times a year. This was never done; the scholars, moreover, were not allowed access to them.

It should also be added that the statute which forbade Fellows of the College to hold benefices had long been treated with utter contempt, they holding them to any amount.

If, however, the Eton authorities had contented themselves with merely breaking the statutes in the way of malversation of funds and the like, no particular outcry would in all probability have arisen. It was Long Chamber, and the state of affairs within its walls, which excited such indignation amongst those who, denouncing it as a sort of Bastille, clamoured for reform. Originally all the seventy scholars seem to have slept in the long dormitory above Lower School, but after 1716 the number became limited to about fifty-two. In that year the Lower Master, Thomas Carter, having given up his two rooms at the east end, eighteen Collegers were located in the rooms in question, being henceforth known as Carter’s Chamber and Lower Chamber.

Long Chamber, about 172 feet long and 15 feet high, was in winter warmed, or rather not warmed, by two fire-places which were put in in 1784; before that there were no fires at all. Along each wall was a range of old oaken bedsteads which had been there for centuries, and between every bedstead a high desk, with a cupboard beneath, for each boy. The desk and cupboard, painted lead colour, contained all their belongings. There was no system of lighting except candles, to hold which no provision was made. The leaf of a book torn off, doubled, and a hole cut in the centre, formed the only candlestick which the Colleger had. If he wished to read in bed, the candle was removed from the pasteboard candlestick and stuck against the back of the old bedstead. Even if sleep overcame a boy reading in bed, and his candle burnt down to the wood, no harm came of it, the bedstead being well striped with charcoal, an evidence of the incombustible nature of the old oak. [After Long Chamber had been done away with, some little models of these ancient bedsteads were made out of wood black with age. The Rt. Hon. Lewis Harcourt’s Eton collection contains one.] All that happened was that it would not be long before he would be awakened by the unpleasant smell of the wood, or by a good tweak of the nose from his next-door neighbour, who would be angry at the annoyance. In winter the boys shivered with cold, most of the glass in the windows being usually broken.

There were but a very few chairs for the Sixth Form, and the barrack or prison (boys were locked into it at 6.30 in the evening), with the exception of a table with a basin for the highest boys, was totally devoid of washstands, Collegers having to perform such ablutions as they might deem necessary at the old pump in the cloisters. The walls and ceiling were full of the grime of ages, whilst the whole place as a general rule was in a state of intolerable filth. Once a year, however, some attempt was made to give Long Chamber a habitable appearance, and the time-honoured processes to which it was then subjected were generally sufficiently successful in making visitors who saw it believe that all was well enough. For a week before Election Saturday, which took place at the end of July, “rug-riding” was in full force. A number of Lower boys were tied up in big rugs and dragged with a rope by other fags up and down Long Chamber till the floor shone like a mirror; the spaces between the beds were also scrubbed to a corresponding glossiness. On the Thursday, waggon-loads of beech boughs, cut in the College woods at Hedgerley and Burnham, were brought in and the whole of Long Chamber decorated; the green rugs, edged with gold and embroidered with the College arms, given by the Duke of Cumberland in 1735, were then spread on the beds. A huge flag was hung from the Captain’s bed and the whole aspect of the room transformed. Nevertheless the dirt remained beneath.

Except at Election time Long Chamber was not accessible to visitors, and the King of Prussia himself was refused admission in 1842, on the plea that that portion of the College was never shown.

Things in the two other rooms appropriated to the use of the King’s scholars were not much better, and an extraordinary state of affairs prevailed in Carter’s Chamber. Whenever the chimney there became at all foul, the boys used to set fire to it, and, being very large, the roar it made when blazing was tremendous, generally much to the annoyance of the Provost, part of whose lodge was close by. The fires in question were made with large beechen logs, placed upon iron dogs, and the Collegers used to roast potatoes among the ashes. One of these logs every Lower boy was compelled to saw up before he went to bed, with a saw that had no edge. This was one of the most unpleasant features of a Lower Colleger’s existence, for the thinnest logs were always chosen by the biggest boys, leaving the heaviest for poor little fellows hardly strong enough to lift them. Not infrequently would the latter dock themselves of part of their rolls for breakfast in order to be able to bribe another stronger boy to saw up their portion for them.

As regards food, the old-time Colleger was disgracefully treated, no breakfast at all being provided for him in College. Dinner in Hall consisted entirely of mutton until about 1840, when Provost Hodgson added roast and boiled beef, each one day in the week. Though the mutton is said to have been of excellent quality, the manner in which it was served made it often impossible for a young boy who had not a robust appetite to get any dinner at all that he could eat. The joints were served in messes, a leg or a shoulder serving for eight boys, a loin or neck for six, the best joints going to the elder boys. They were put upon the table, and the boys carved for themselves. The captain of the joint cut his own portion liberally from the best part, and passed it on to the next in seniority, who slashed away at it after his own taste. A junior fared badly if the joint happened to be a loin or a shoulder and he had not appetite enough for the fat and bones. The knives and forks often ran short, and boys were occasionally obliged to be content with the reversion of such adjuncts. On Sundays plum-pudding of a peculiar construction, by some considered very palatable, made of unchopped suet and unstoned raisins, made its appearance. Indifferent beer was drunk by the Collegers out of painted tin mugs. On Founder’s Day and Election Saturday half a chicken and pressed greens was served to every boy. Beyond this the fare provided, as has been said, consisted entirely and solely of mutton. In connection with this, however, it is but fair to remember that not a few boys objected to the beef which, at a yet earlier period, figured on the College menu. One of these, according to Sir Dudley Carleton, was the “dainty-mouthed” young Phil Lytton, son of Sir Rowland Lytton of Knebworth. Collegers whose purses permitted were allowed to purchase more or less savoury messes from the cook, one of whose most famed dishes was, for some unknown reason, known as “blue-pill.”

Three of the Lower boys waited upon Sixth Form in Hall, handing them their plates and pouring out their beer, one being specially detailed to hold back the long sleeves of the gown on the Upper boy who carved the joint. This custom of “servitors,” as they were called, perhaps of a too menial kind, was not unwisely abolished some thirty years ago, the staff of College servants having been increased.

Many of the old College servants were characters like the original Webber, who seems to have inaugurated the sock shop, which is now Rowland’s, near Barnes Pool Bridge. Webber was College cook in the early portion of the last century, in addition to which he manufactured the birches then in much request. Owing probably to this, he incurred a sort of curious unpopularity, a legend being started that he had run away from the battle of Waterloo, therefore the usual taunt of the Collegers, for whom he carved in the Hall, was, “Pass up to old Webber that we want to see his Waterloo medal.” The story appears to have been purely mythical.

A great College functionary was the chief butler. The last man to hold this office was Mr. James Culliford, who died in 1901, aged eighty-nine. The illustration facing page 202 shows him in the traditional uniform of Eton blue which is now no longer worn, its use having been discontinued for no particular reason seemingly. The veteran in question also appears in the group of College servants, of whom the sole survivor is the little boy, Mr. Culliford’s son, who for so many years has been known to Etonians as the manager of the famous Eton tailor, Tom Brown. In this group (reproduced by the courtesy of Mr. Culliford from a scarce old photograph in his possession) can also be seen the last College constable, honest old Bott, who was such a well-known figure in the days when, with a colleague (one of the same group), he was responsible for the due maintenance of law and order. In his long coat of Eton blue, with the College arms embroidered upon his sleeve, and glazed top-hat, Bott was a sight which inspired tramps and petty evil-doers of every sort with genuine awe, and the vast majority of such folk took care to give him a wide berth. Bott had done good service as a soldier, having, it was said, fought at Albuera and Waterloo, though according to some his military service had been confined to serving during the American War. In any case, the fine old fellow was a typical Englishman of a robust age.

On certain days, owing to the observance of ancient custom, the Colleger’s lot sustained some amelioration. On February 27th, for instance, the Provost or his Deputy presented every Colleger, beginning with the lowest, with a threepenny piece. The origin of this custom was that Provost Bost (1477-1504) left a sum which gave each Colleger twopence, and Provost Lupton (1504-1535) left them the extra penny. A doubtful tradition declared that a Colleger was entitled to half a sheep, and that the College was merely giving him what was its equivalent in money during the Middle Ages. An impudent young Colleger who had heard of this tradition, being offered his threepence by the Bursar, Mr. Bethell, a man of very uncertain temper, once calmly said, “No, thank you, sir; I want my half sheep.” Bethell flew into a passion, and exclaimed, “I’ll mention this matter to Dr. Hawtrey, and have you flogged,” and in due course Branwell—so the “Tug” was named—expiated his temerity at the block. Threepenny Day, I believe, is one of the very few old Eton customs which is still maintained.

Occasionally protests would be made in order to secure some slight improvement in the dinner. The execrable quality of the beer in particular was several times brought to the notice of the Fellows, but beyond one of their number coming into Hall and looking at the cans nothing was done.

In comparatively remote times a discussion took place amongst the authorities on the question whether it was necessary for the Collegers to have their potatoes peeled or sent up in their skins. Two of the Fellows, as it happened, though not related, bore the same name. One was an advocate for the peeling system, declaring that the boys had been treated “like hogs”; the other opposed it as an unnecessary piece of refinement. In consequence they were afterwards distinguished by the Collegers as “Hog R——” and “Peeli-po R——,” and the descendants of both families, who were at Eton for many generations, always bore the hereditary nicknames of “Hogs” and “Peelipos.”

Besides the squalor and discomfort amidst which the Collegers lived there was much horse-play and bullying, and for the most part small boys led a wretched life. Besides having to undergo various unpleasant initiatory ceremonies, one of which consisted in swallowing an unsavoury mixture of salt and water, their life was rendered wretched by rough jokes. A bolster shaken down hard at one end could do a lot of damage, knocking over candles and ink-pots, or bringing the unsuspicious to the ground with a well-directed blow on the ankles from behind. A “Jew,” as a new boy was called, was also apt to wake up in the night to find a rope tied to his big toe, by which he was dragged from his bed. The only chance to escape such nocturnal visitations was to keep awake for some time, and, if he heard whispering, to creep out of bed and under that of a neighbour till he was safe from danger. Sometimes he would be “put into play” till he was sore all over. This most disagreeable ordeal was as follows. Around one of the large fire-places in Long Chamber two bedsteads were placed close together on each side, and two at the end, forming an enclosure. The boy “put into play” was placed in one corner, next to the captain, a certain number of the Upper boys being seated on the bedsteads. At a given signal the captain started him with a hearty kick, which generally was sufficiently hard to propel him to the opposite side; from thence he would be flung back quite as expeditiously. Bandied about like a human shuttlecock, bruises would soon begin to make him sore all over, but only when it was evident that he was in severe pain would the boy be released and some shivering little spectator seized and made to take his place.

Another cruel and brutal College practice which prevailed throughout the fortnight before Election was tossing boys in a blanket. Sometimes an unpopular boy would be put in the blanket with a quantity of books, when he was certain to be most severely bruised. The custom was, after forcing the boy on to one of the small blankets, which was held all round by the bigger boys, to repeat this line:

Ibis ab excusso missus ad astra Sa-go.

At the end of the syllable so a little shake was given, but at the last go he was sent quivering to the ceiling. A boy named Rowland Williams was severely injured in one of these tossings. Hurled up to the ceiling, in his descent he fell sideways on to a bedpost and was completely scalped. Only by a most fortunate chance did he escape death, sustaining concussion of the brain. His scalp, which hung down his neck, was sewn on again, and by great good fortune he completely recovered.

A less dangerous though highly unpleasant ordeal to which new Collegers were subjected was the ceremony known as “Pricking for Sheriff.” The boy was laid across the lap of the chief executioner, face downwards, and into a very tightened and thin surface of small-clothes the assistant executioners ran pins, warning the victim that if he screamed louder than his predecessor he would be elected Sheriff and fined a bag of walnuts.

At this time the relations between Collegers and Oppidans were not very cordial, the Lower boys amongst the latter in particular often rendering themselves peculiarly objectionable to the King’s scholars, at whom they were wont to jeer. Sometimes some especially aggressive little Oppidan would be caught and taken into Long Chamber, and either soundly thrashed or caned, or else subjected to the blanket-tossing process which has just been mentioned. When this was the case the victim for some time after had good reason to remember his half an hour passed amidst the “Tugs”—which term in those days was far more opprobrious than is at present the case.

The exact origin of the word “Tug” has never been cleared up. The most popular explanation has always been that it is derived from the Latin word toga, a gown, and referred to the black gowns they wore, and still wear, in school. It should here be added that up to 1864 this indispensable appurtenance of a King’s scholar was made of cloth and very heavy. In that year, however, the light material at present in use was introduced, while the length of the gown was somewhat reduced. The old-fashioned gowns contained pockets, which were often receptacles for viands and dainties to be smuggled into Long Chamber. A parody of Gray’s Ode on Eton College, written by a King’s scholar in 1798, alludes to this:—

As far as the writer has been able to ascertain, the top-hat, or in earlier times its predecessor, the cocked or three-cornered one, has always been the head-dress worn by Collegers, though in an illustration[9] representing the Iron Duke being cheered in the quadrangle in the middle of the forties of the last century, the King’s scholars are shown wearing or waving mortar-boards. These, it would appear, existed only in the imagination of the artist.

The allusion to worn-out elbows in the ditty given above is significant as to the poverty-stricken appearance of the Collegers, most of whom were then very sorrily dressed. Almost without exception they were boys whose parents had but small means. As a matter of fact College was never intended to be an educational refuge for rich or high-born boys, and, as a highly competent critic has remarked, “A young aristocrat in a serge gown is an anomaly not contemplated by the statutes of the royal founder.”

Before the reforms made in College in 1845 most of the King’s scholars, it must be confessed, were more of the class intended by Henry VI. than has since been the case. In latter years many Collegers have belonged to well-to-do or even rich families, whereas the Foundation was specially intended for poor boys. In the early part of the nineteenth century a certain proportion of those in College were the sons of Eton or Windsor doctors or solicitors, royal servants, or successful tradesmen. Besides these there were sons of Eton masters and boys of impoverished country squires. The former class of boys, however, were in some way made to feel that they were not the equals of the sons of gentlemen, and subjected to petty humiliations which did their schoolfellows small honour.

Besides being exposed to physical violence, small boys, especially if they were clever, were sometimes made to do work for stupid big ones. A certain lazy lout, however, was once well served out by his victim. In difficulties as to the composition of a set of verses, the bully one day got hold of a smaller schoolmate, and under the threat of a severe licking got him to do the verses for him. When, however, the bully came to showing up the lines which he had not done, and which he had not even troubled to read, they were found to be so grossly indecent and outrageous in tone that the master who looked at them at once declared the writer should be flogged. At first the bully did not dare admit that they were not of his own making, but eventually at the block he admitted the fraud, with the result that the boy who had played him the trick was also punished. It is to be hoped, however, that the bully received the more severe thrashing of the two.

When the celebrated Porson was a Colleger, one of his contemporaries was Charles Simeon, known as “Snowball” Simeon, the ugliest boy in College, who afterwards became an earnest Evangelical preacher. In after life he looked back upon the doings in Long Chamber and its lawless rowdyism with horror, and once told a friend that he would be tempted even to murder his own son sooner than let him see in College the sights he had seen.

Under such circumstances it is not surprising that small Collegers, if they were sensitive boys, occasionally made determined attempts to run away. One did so more than thirteen times, and became so well known on the road that he was almost sure to be stopped before he got far. Nevertheless he once got up to town in a very curious manner. He slunk early, before morning school, into the yard of the Christopher; the London coach was standing outside, and no one by, so he was able unobserved to creep into the boot, trusting to luck, which befriended him, for there chanced to be that morning no passengers, and consequently no luggage to be stowed away. The runaway was therefore driven without disturbance in his uneasy berth, which he only vacated on the arrival of the coach at the White Horse cellars in Piccadilly.

The general tone in College was somewhat rough and irreverent, as may be judged from the following. Every Sunday morning at nine o’clock the Collegers assembled in Lower School for prayers, the headmaster sitting in the desk, and a praepostor standing up repeating the Confession and a prayer or two out of the Winchester Prayer-Book. All joined in the 100th Psalm, which sometimes, more especially towards the end of the Half, was made the occasion of a not very seemly demonstration. During the last Sunday the order went round that every one was to sing his loudest, and on one occasion the noise was so terrific that it could almost be heard in the playing fields. Keate, who was at that time in the desk, did not, however, take any notice of this irreverent outburst. He had been a youthful Colleger himself, and probably considered that the whole thing was merely a too enthusiastic performance of an old Eton tradition, which in his eyes excused a good deal.

In school work the Collegers then, as now, easily maintained an almost unchallenged supremacy. Almost without exception the sons of poor parents, accurately grounded and imbued with the idea that education was a real preparation for life, they knew that they would have to make their way in the world by their own exertions, for which reason to be “a sap” in College was quite an ordinary thing. Besides this, sixty or seventy years ago the very traditional customs which excluded a King’s scholar from comparatively expensive amusements, such as the boats, and made him a member of a separate football and cricket club, served to protect a boy from drifting into various forms of fashionable idleness.

At one time few boys went into College who had not previously been Oppidans, and, till Provost Hodgson’s reforms made it possible for every boy to have a separate cubicle room, Collegers used to have rooms down town or in their tutor’s houses, where they could escape from fag masters and the disorder of Long Chamber. In such rooms they could work, wash, and eat in peace.

Up to 1864 King’s scholars had to wear their gowns out of school, though they abandoned them before passing over Barnes Pool Bridge. A sock shop in the High Street called Trone’s was almost exclusively frequented by King’s scholars because they were allowed to leave their gowns there when going into Windsor. Oppidans never frequented it, and, curiously enough, as showing the persistence of traditional usage, years later, when the shop had changed owners, though no one could give any particular reason, it was supposed to be “scuggish” to pass its doors.

Whilst Long Chamber could never have been called an abode of bliss, it had its pleasures, one of the chief of which was the rat-hunting, in which Porson is said to have taken so much delight. If the Colleges lacked food they never lacked game in the shape of rats, which fairly swarmed about the ancient dormitory. Some of these animals which defied capture became well known to the boys, who in a sort of way felt a respect for one veteran—an immense, perfectly gray old rat, which was supposed to be the ghost of King Henry VI., or at any rate to have been in being from the very first foundation of the College.

All sorts of food was constantly being smuggled in. According to tradition, a sow was once captured and stowed away on the leads till she had farrowed and provided roast sucking-pig in abundance. Hares and other game surreptitiously caught in Windsor Park furnished many a hearty feast. The Collegers were anything but particular, and on one occasion, it is said, actually roasted and ate an unfortunate swan which they had lured to its doom.

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:—

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.