KETCHY 
 
 OF 
 
 /VI 
 
 EMORIES 
 
 TON. 
 
 
 
 
 THACKER, SPINK AND CO., 
 
 CALCUTTA. 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SKETCHY MEMORIES OF ETON. 
 
Sketchy Memories 
 of Eton. 
 
 THACKE 
 
 1866 - 1872 . 
 
 BY 
 
 "MAC.” 
 
 CALCUTTA*. 
 
 R, SPINK AND CO. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 SOME of my pleasantest hours in Bengal have 
 been passed with old Eton boys, in the recol¬ 
 lection of old Eton stories, and if these slender 
 sketches of Eton, from September 1866 to 
 Election, 1872, interest or amuse any of my 
 old contemporaries, I shall feel that a few of my 
 idle Indian minutes have not been ill-spent. 
 
 “MAC.” 
 
\ 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2020 with funding from 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 https://archive.org/details/sketchymemoriesoOOmacn 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 TO MY TRIED AND TRUE FRIEND 
 
 “CHARLIE” H. MOORE, 
 
 A VERY FINISHED TYPE OF WHAT AN OLD ETON BOY 
 
 SHOULD BE. 
 
SKETCHY MEMORIES OF ETON. 
 
 «* 
 
 DON’T know whether all old Etonians think 
 ^ of their school as often and as lovingly as I 
 do; but it is an undeniable fact that a boy, 
 on going to Eton, becomes, intuitively and ins¬ 
 tinctively, imbued with the spirit of the place ; 
 that the hours he spends at the old school are 
 not only the happiest in his life, but that he is 
 conscious of this fact at the time ; that, throughout 
 life, he is proud of having been at Eton, and that, 
 whenever and wherever he hears our grand old 
 boating ballad sung, he chimes in with “And 
 nothing on earth shall sever the chain that is round 
 with a truthful intensity that comes 
 
 us now 
 
 straight from his heart. 
 
 Far be it from me to decry other public schools. 
 I know what good men and true they, each and 
 all, turn out; but this I maintain, that other public 
 schoolboys do not have the same continuous love 
 for their respective “ alines matres; ” they may, 
 
 a 
 
2 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 and often do, tolerate their seats of learning in 
 the present, and get up a sort of quasi-enthusiasm 
 in the past, but our steadfast feeling of love and 
 devotion is not for them. To know Eton is to love 
 her, and that love lasts as long as life itself. I 
 remember, at an Eton Dinner in Calcutta, being 
 told by a middle aged and unsentimental—though 
 most dashing and hard-riding—cavalry officer, that 
 he believed our love for the school was, in great 
 measure, owing to the extreme natural beauty of 
 the place. I think there is something more than 
 this ; I think that there are good honest feelings 
 of many centuries which the Genius Loci hands 
 down from generation to generation, and that, on 
 a boy’s leaving, the said Genius Loci may be 
 represented as coming to him as he lays himself 
 down for the last time on his funny little turn-up 
 bed, and saying to him something of the following 
 sort as writ by Thackeray— 
 
 “ Qo forth, essay the World’s great prize ; 
 
 Go strive and conquer if you can, 
 
 But if you fall, or if you rise, 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman.” 
 
 And if we have tried to learn this “ saying 
 lesson,” and if we hope to be able to repeat it by 
 heart, on our death beds, to the Great Master, 
 then I think we have good reason to throw up our A 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 3 
 
 hats on every succeeding 4th of June and cry 
 aloud : 
 
 “ floreat Etona. Esto perpetua.” 
 
 SCENE.— The South-Western Railway Station , 
 Windsor. Time , 4.-30 p.m. O11 a cold afternoon in 
 late September. Discovered one big boy colleger, 
 and one little boy oppidan, taking leave of their 
 parents. Myself, the little oppidan, very proud 
 of my new hat and Eton jacket, and looking 
 (may I be forgiven !) somewhat askance at my 
 dear old father’s by-no-means-smart chimney pot; 
 the dear old father taking me aside for two minutes, 
 and giving me much the same advice as was given 
 to Tom Brown on his entering Rugby,— a to try 
 and avoid doing anything of which I should be 
 ashamed to let my mother and sisteis know, than 
 which, I venture to think, no better advice could 
 be given to a boy on his enteiing a laige public 
 school. Kisses to both parents, a little shyly to 
 the father, and most lovingly to the mother, and 
 then the train moves out of the Station, and \\ c 
 hurry down town. My brother leaves me in mv 
 room at my tutor’s, and I watch him going back 
 to college under a particular lamp, beneath which 
 I knew he must pass, and then turn aside to con¬ 
 template the magnificence of my own apartment, 
 
4 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 feeling a little homesick and anxious, albeit proud 
 of my position as an Eton boy. 
 
 “ My tutor ” sends round a kind of circular order 
 that the new boys are to have tea with him, and 
 down we go. Dear, kind old tutor ! how I learnt 
 to love you afterwards ; but, bless me ! how 
 awestruck I was that first evening by your loud, 
 though somewhat indistinct and burbling, utterance, 
 and by the extraordinary manner in which you 
 parted your hair, the parting being constructed 
 so as just to semicircle the right ear, and the 
 “ coesaries ” so arranged that if each particular hair 
 lay on the skull, and not one on the top of another, 
 no special baldness was visible. I remember some 
 one spilling a cup of tea, and being called a 
 “ vile child,” the which I subsequently learnt 
 was a very frequent term of mild reproach, and 
 had no particular reference to the age of the indi¬ 
 vidual to whom it was addressed. As a proof of 
 this I may add that, being at Eton for the Win¬ 
 chester Match in 1883, 1 {inoi-qui-vons-parle, height 
 6 feet 2 inches, and weight iqst. 7lbs.) was 
 called a “ vile child ” for being on a committee to 
 oppose a certain obnoxious Indian Bill ! I wasn’t 
 sorry when tea was over, although many most 
 pleasant evenings did I afterwards spend in that 
 room. The tea parties were always on Sundays, 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 5 
 
 and the feast invariably consisted of cold chicken 
 and tongue, and boiled eggs. I was reminded of 
 this fact, two years ago, by Harry Tufnell, then 
 travelling in India. He and I had been bid to the 
 banquet one evening, and finding no one in the 
 room, I addressed him, standing with my back to 
 the open door, and mimicking my tutor’s tones as 
 nearly as possible, “ Harry, will you have cold fowl 
 and tongue, or boiled eggs ? ” Either I was a 
 shocking bad mime, or my tutor was the most for¬ 
 giving of mortals, for echo answered pleasantly 
 behind me, “curiously enough, Mac, I believe those 
 are the very viands prepared for this evening’s 
 entertainment.” 
 
 1 The curiosity would have been in the provision 
 of any other fare ! 
 
 • •••••••• 
 
 I was always passionately fond of cricket, and 
 never hesitated in my choice between dry-bobbing 
 and wet-bobbing. My love for the game received 
 a stimulus in my first summer half from the fact 
 that we won the Lower Boy Cup. The match was a 
 curious one,and we were victors by only one run,our 
 last adversary being run out amidst a scene of ex¬ 
 citement, such as, I thought at the time, the world 
 had never before produced. Our opponents in the 
 final were Mr. Brownings, captained by George 
 
6 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 Longman, who got in the Eleven the year after¬ 
 wards, played four years for Eton, and subse¬ 
 quently four years for Cambridge. He was ably 
 backed up by G. H. Cammed, who also played in 
 the Eton Elevens of 1870—1871. 
 
 Our captain was ‘Joe’ Luncheonby, but our 
 great gun was poor old Pickersgill Cunlifife, who 
 was a most dangerous, though somewhat erratic 
 left-hand, bowler. He died on his estate in York¬ 
 shire, of typhoid fever, some years ago; and, 
 while the memory of ‘Joe’ Luncheonby is with 
 me, I must narrate a little slip which he made in 
 trials for Middle Division. ‘Joe’ was ever better 
 in the playing-fields than in the pupil-room, and 
 divinity was never his strong point. How well 
 I remember the morning when, coming down the 
 steps from Upper School, he said to me, “Easy 
 paper, that divinity, wasn’t it?” I replied, with 
 habitual caution, that I hoped I had done pretty 
 well, but that I hadn’t been able to write much 
 of a “ short life of Pontius Pilate ” (one of the 
 questions set). “Well,” said Joe, “ I didn’t know 
 much of him either, but I thought I’d shew the 
 examiners that I knew whom they meant, so I put 
 down ‘ Pontius Pilate ,’ kept the bag l ” 
 
 That summer half of 1867 was favorable to Eton 
 cricket; we stemmed the tide of Harrovian vie- 
 
7 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 tories, which, in a one innings’ wave, had swept 
 over us for the past three years. And this, too, 
 when I think Harrow was never stronger. Money, 
 Hadow, Walsh, Penn, Gore, Chetwynd, and Gra¬ 
 ham were all good men, but that was the second 
 and most brilliant year of C. J. Thornton, the 
 most wonderful boy-hitter that any cricket field 
 ever saw. I remember the first innings well. Eton 
 won the toss, and sent to the wickets Higgins and 
 Hay. Graham bowled a maiden to Higgins, and 
 then it was Hay’s turn to receive one of Money’s 
 dreaded slows, The first ball—to the conster¬ 
 nation of theLight-bluebackers—bowled him clean, 
 although he made up for it in his second innings 
 by a first class 42. However, 0-1-0 on the tele¬ 
 graph looked very bad, when C. R. Alexander, our 
 captain (and we never had a better), with infinite 
 judgment, sent in C. J. Thornton. 
 
 I can see his loose figure now coming down 
 the pavilion steps, cool as an iceberg, firm as a 
 rock. The very first ball received he cut straight 
 into point’s hands, who dropped it like a hot 
 potato, and that let off probably lost Harrow the 
 match. At any rate Thornton scored 33 in the 
 first innings and 47 in the second, and was ably 
 backed up by Ottaway (his first year in the Eleven), 
 Hay, Tritton, Alexander, and Walrond. We had 
 
8 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 the advantage in the first innings of some 5 o runs, 
 and eventually put Harrow in for, I think, 265, of 
 which they scored 70 for the loss of one wicket. 
 We were beaten the next year by seven wickets, but 
 then came a long line of victories, which remained 
 unbroken till 1873. 
 
 • • • • • • • • • 
 
 It has become the fashion, now-a-days, to speak 
 in slighting terms of Latin verse composition. I 
 do not know what else could have taken its place 
 which would have been so generally useful. I 
 certainly remember some funny versifications 
 during my time at Eton, but these were the excep¬ 
 tion rather than the rule. Quite half a division 
 did good honest work with their verses; the remain¬ 
 der, certainly, did not do much, but begged for 
 whole ‘ made ’ verses, or heads or tails of such. I 
 remember dear old Alex. Broughtup, who was not 
 a born poet, and who could never manufacture 
 a single verse, being in great tribulation about a 
 speech he had to put into Proserpine’s mouth soon 
 after she had been spirited away to the nether 
 world. He loafed hopelessly round the house 
 saying “ what in the world am I to make her say 
 to Pluto?” P. Budd goodnaturedly said, “oh 
 heres an ending— 
 
 ‘ mi dire magister ’ 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. g 
 
 and take as a beginning ‘ O Pluto.’ ” This was 
 done, but, in another half hour, Alex, came back 
 and vowed he could make no middle, rather 
 reproaching his friend than otherwise for leaving 
 him, so to speak, in mid air ! “Well,” says Budd, 
 “ put in three Plutos in a sort of entreating way.’’ 
 The which was accordingly done, and the verse 
 stood as follows :— 
 
 “ 0 ! Pluto ! Pluto !! Pluto !!! mi dire magister.” 
 
 Another fellow, Home Purves, I remember, at 
 my tutor’s, who had never done a verse for himself 
 in his life, was, one evening, triumphantly hauled 
 down by my tutor to his study, and asked whether 
 verse No. 9 in the copy was really his own work. 
 Purves, with the utmost possible sang froid , read 
 the particular verse, scanned it, hummed it to him¬ 
 self, and then said, “ I do believe, Sir, I was told 
 that verse.” This so emboldened my tutor that 
 he said, “And, if I am not mistaken, this eleventh 
 verse is not your handy work.” The same panto¬ 
 mime over again, and the same uncertain confession 
 at the end of it. This was repeated through five 
 or six lines ; at last, as if a discovery—immense as 
 that of a new Continent—had been made, my tutor 
 asks, “ Is any one verse here your own ? ” No 
 hesitation now, but Purves’ answer comes cool, 
 
10 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 calm, and distinct, “ I’m afraid not, Sir.” “ Then, 
 
 I shall complain of you.” But no one liked com¬ 
 plaining of his own pupils less than tutor; yet this 
 was an extreme case, and he felt the law must take 
 its course. Still, after prayers, he came up to 
 Purves’ room, and, says he, “ Purves, I shall not 
 relent.” Yet a little while, and he returns and says 
 the same words ; again, as Purves was getting into 
 bed, he was reminded in stentorian tones that all 
 hope must be abandoned, and that there would be 
 no relenting. Having made up his mind to the 
 block, he (Purves) acquiesced in such decision, but 
 was rudely awakened half an hour later to be told 
 that “ I have considered the case, and, in fact—in 
 fact—I have relented ! ” 
 
 I remember, how frequently in our poems “ the 
 serene moon shone in the sky ” and how often people 
 kept running through “ green woods and recesses of 
 the groves,” and also “ over the broad fields.” One 
 fellow, I remember, made Charles II perform this 
 latter feat after he had got down from his oak :— 
 
 “ Descendens quercu lata per arva ruit.” 
 
 House theatricals were much in vogue at Eton 
 in 1866-67 1 thereafter, they were dropped in favour 
 of school plays, which took place in the old mathe¬ 
 matical school in the football halves of 1868-69. 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton . 
 
 11 
 
 I believe no histrionic attempts were, or have 
 been, made since that date. A certain, and small, 
 section among the masters took a distaste for the 
 drama, and it was decreed that there should be no 
 more play-acting or subsequent cakes and ale at 
 the Head-master’s house, where, I remember, the 
 actors were most hospitably regaled after a very 
 successful performance of “A Midsummer Night’s 
 Dream” in 1868. 
 
 I think it a great pity that theatricals have been 
 abolished ; they did no harm, and some good, and 
 it seems a churlish act on the part of so classical 
 an abode of the Muses as Eton to renounce the 
 Thespian art, and to kick off from its feet the time- 
 honoured sock and buskin. 
 
 The second half I was at Eton we had some 
 much-appreciated house theatricals, consisting of 
 “Cool as a Cucumber” and “Whitebait at Green¬ 
 wich,” in which farces I played “Mary Wiggins ” 
 and “ Lucretia Buzzard.” I remember an amusing 
 incident in connection with these theatricals. My 
 tutor had written a prologue, of which he was justly 
 proud, but the difficulty was to get a speaker who 
 should do ample justice to the same. Our crack 
 actor, Ronald Ferguson, was reading for the Indian 
 Civil Service, and could not undertake to study 
 more than his own parts, “ Plumper ” and “John 
 
12 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 Small ; ” and it so happened that our second star 
 had committed some indiscretion in the matter of 
 football playing in the passage, or something of 
 the sort, and had been given a Georgic “ poena.” 
 Overtures were made to him by my tutor, and 
 the honours of the prologue-speaking proffered, 
 but “Hossy” Campbell averred that the writing 
 of a Georgic was incompatible with the studying or 
 recital of the prologue. Eventually he won his 
 case; the Georgic was excused, and “Hossy” recited 
 the prologue with much success. It was in April 
 when a late and severe flood had put an end to a 
 little attempted early dry-bobbing; many of the 
 lines remain in my memory ; I quote the following 
 two :— 
 
 <c In Upper Club the fish were on the spot 
 
 More than the bowlers— they , I fear, were not.” 
 
 When in England,in 1883, in visiting Dr. Welldon, 
 then head-master of Dulwich, now head-master of 
 Harrow, he recalled these theatricals to my recollec¬ 
 tion, and produced an old Thucydides, in which I 
 had written him, in school hours, a promissory 
 note for an admission-ticket to same, in return, I 
 believe, for assistance in certain themes or verses. 
 I shall have more to say of J. E. C. Welldon later 
 on ; we were together in division nearly the whole 
 of my six years at Eton. I knew at the time that 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton . 13 
 
 he would make his mark in the world, and his 
 career has certainly opened with sufficient brilli¬ 
 ancy. Head-master of Harrow at the age of 30, 
 he is not likely to depart thence without leaving 
 his footprints on the sands of the place; and these 
 cannot fail to be an heritage of sagacity and ability 
 for those who come after him. Our house theatri¬ 
 cals in the winter half were in nowise very 
 remarkable. We played “ Only a Half-penny 55 and 
 “ Ici on parle Francais.” Harry Tufnell made his 
 first appearance on the boards as the bride in “Only 
 a Half-penny,” and I may safely say that a prettier 
 girl has seldom stood before an altar. He played 
 “ Titania,” a year later, with great success. Ehen 
 fug aces! and, when we met two years ago, it would, 
 have been hard to reconcile (save for the same 
 bright smile and blue eyes) the burly and bearded 
 “ Tuffy ” with the fairy who, seventeen years before, 
 had begged permission to coy Bottom’s amiable 
 cheeks. Ronald Ferguson came down from Lon¬ 
 don and played Victor Dubois ; and I cannot part 
 in print from R. F. without recording a story of 
 his regarding tutor. He always vowed, and, I 
 believe, dear old tutor never contradicted, that, on 
 one occasion, when the tutorial wish was to inflict 
 a “poena” of the “epistle to Augustus” on some 
 boy, a curious slip was made. Tutor was at the 
 
14 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 time engaged to be married ; amor omnia vincit , 
 and Hymen will even enter the pupil-room. In¬ 
 stead, therefore, of the peccant youth being con¬ 
 demned to do an epistle to Augustus, he was 
 ordered to write out “ an epistle to Miss Hamilton !” 
 
 I believe it was in “ Ici on parle Francais” that 
 George Murray made his first appearance on any 
 stage. How often he has since played, the annals 
 of the A. D. C. and of Manchester private theatri¬ 
 cals alone can tell. He was ever original and 
 always funny, and made a great hit in Thisbe the 
 next year. Looking back upon that first school- 
 play of “ A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I think 
 it was creditably performed all round. Our best 
 thanks were due to Mr. Frank Tarver, who was 
 good as a coach and stage manager, and most 
 painstaking in anything that had to do with 
 theatricals. 
 
 Giff Tindal played “ Bottom,” and played remark¬ 
 ably well,too,for aboy. Frank Parker was “Quince 
 George Murray, “Flute; ” and Churchill, “Parson” 
 Compton and myself the other three clowns. Poor 
 Ottaway was “ Theseus,” and the prologue to the 
 clown’s play was admirably spoken by Conway 
 Thornton, who played “ Puff” fairly well in the 
 “ Critic ” a year after. I do not think, however, that 
 the performance of Sheridan’s “ best farce ” 
 
 was a 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 15 
 
 great success ; although Algy Whitmore was good 
 as Tilburina, and George Murray very funny as a 
 fat confidante. 
 
 • ••••••a • 
 
 Speeches in Upper School were an ordeal for any 
 boy. An actor is born and not made, and most 
 people feel “ lumpy ” and out of place in private 
 theatricals, albeit disguised with decorative war¬ 
 paint. But for the nervous youth, whom brains 
 or superior age forced up into the sixth form, the 
 case was far worse. I presume that our limbs are 
 shaped, more or less, after the fashion of our fore¬ 
 fathers; but still I fancy, that, now-a-days, all men— 
 let alone boys—would feel a little awkward in 
 donning at 10 A.M., knee breeches and black silk 
 stockings, and buckled shoes, and when to these 
 were superadded an evening coat and waistcoat, 
 the tout ensemble , though gentlemanly, was not one 
 which was calculated to give confidence to a 
 nervous orator. 
 
 Then again, instead of speaking from a stage, 
 one had a squarelevelspace of aboutsix feet allotted, 
 in which to fret and fume, with an audience rising, 
 not only to the right, left, and in front of one, but 
 also behind one. A lanky schoolboy, of many 
 cubits and no calves, could not but feel embarrassed 
 in such a position, and I do not wonder that many 
 
16 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 fellows selected Greek prose as a dainty dish to be 
 set before our fair visitors on 4th June. It was the 
 easiest way of getting over a difficulty, because 
 (except in very extreme cases, say, e. g., the 
 denouncement of Catiline) little or no action was 
 necessary, and you were, moreover, perfectly certain, 
 that the more you skipped, and the sooner you 
 came to an end of your unintelligible oration, the 
 more pleased your audience would be. 
 
 Among good and allowed speeches I would 
 recommend for recitation to any youthful aspirant 
 “ The Execution of Montrose ” (an expurgated ver¬ 
 sion, as the “Painted Harlot” and “Master Fiend 
 Argyll” verses were always eliminated by the 
 Head-master) and “ The Burning of Drury Lane 
 Theatre” from the rejected addresses. 
 
 Speeches, save on the 4th June, were never very 
 carefully worked up, but popular orators were 
 always sure of a warm welcome from their 4th form 
 audience. George Murray and myself generally 
 played together such dialogues as Falstaff and 
 PrinceHal, Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute, etc., 
 etc. I remember, on one occasion, we had been 
 very remiss in the matter of committing to memory 
 our respective parts, and, at the rehearsal the day 
 before, we were severely censured by the Head¬ 
 master in consequence. We, therefore, determined 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 17 
 
 to “ stay out ” the next morning, and to spend 
 such leisure hour in working up our duet. In 
 those days, it wasn’t difficult to stay out. “ In at 
 chapel ” or “ not well ” from a too tender-hearted 
 matron was sufficient to allay all suspicion and 
 burke further enquiry. On this particular occasion 
 George had a pseudo - headache, and myself a 
 quasi-toothache. The ruse answered well, and the 
 speech was got through more or less creditably. 
 At dinner, my tutor, addressing George with an 
 air of sympathy, said : “ And how’s the toothache?” 
 I shall never forget G. R. Murray’s face as he 
 ruefully answered, “ Mine’s not the toothache. 
 Mac had the toothache. Mine was the headache.” 
 There seemed to have been almost a sense of pride 
 in the possession of that once sore head ! 
 
 • • ••••••• 
 
 Many things at Eton were called by misnomers, 
 in the construction of which the Incus a non lucendo 
 principle came out very strong. Thus, when we stay¬ 
 ed in, we said we were “ staying out; ” when 1 ab¬ 
 sence’ was called, we had to be present; a third of 
 a year was called a half etc., etc. For every fifty 
 boys who “ stayed out,” I don’t believe that five had 
 anything the matter with them. The particular 
 morning’s lesson had not been prepared, or the day 
 was cold, or dark, or dreary, ora thousand and one 
 
 b 
 
18 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 other equally good reasons presented themselves to 
 the puerile mind. When we stayed out, we always 
 fagged lower boys to purchase “ luncheon cakes ” 
 for us, wherewith we regaled the in-coming friend. 
 
 In face of what is so often asserted to the con¬ 
 trary, I maintain that very little drinking ever went 
 on at Eton, and as for boozing in outside public 
 houses, that was a game absolutely unplayed. A 
 few flash individuals used to patronise the Chris¬ 
 topher and the White Hart, but the body of boys 
 stuck to “ Tap, ” and I never knew any harm to 
 result from a visit to that grandly-conducted estab¬ 
 lishment. The best Welsh rabbit I have ever eaten, 
 the best beer I have ever drunk, were both con¬ 
 sumed in that little front room. And such a mine 
 hostess as “ Emily” was ! Though almost a dwarf, 
 and quite a bossue , we all liked her, and I never 
 heard of a boy daring to say a rude thing to her ; 
 had he done so, his action would have been resented 
 by all his companions, and some condign punish¬ 
 ment would have been inflicted. We paid our bills, 
 too, to Emily, with a regularity which, I’m afraid, 
 was not accorded to other creditors. She died 
 many years ago, and worthy Sergeant Hobbsreigned 
 in her stead ; he, too, has now joined the majority, 
 and his widow, I understand, keeps on the business. 
 I hope the “ tenpenny ” is as good as it was wont 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 19 
 
 to be ; I shall make trial of the same at no distant 
 date. About the most useful act of which I can 
 boast is, that I was passively instrumental in 
 bringing about the legalisation of Tap for fifth 
 and sixth forms. Everybody went to Tap ; all the 
 masters knew we went there, and (as dear old 
 Buckstone used to say in one of his funniest farces 
 about squeezing girls’ hands in omnibuses) had 
 “done it themselves.” It was the last remnant 
 of the old shirking system, and why it was not 
 knocked on the head along with up town shirking 
 ten years before, I do not know. Still to be nailed 
 coming out of Tap was a grievous sin, and nailed 
 I was, during the first week of my last football half, 
 by one of the most unpopular of all the masters, 
 a gentleman whom all old boys will identify if we 
 call him “ Pandemonium ” Lesslight. He told me 
 he should complain of me ; I expostulated on the 
 ground that it was most probable that I should be 
 made sixth form at that evening school, and that 
 a complaint would retard my promotion. I pointed 
 out respectfully that he needn’t have seen me 
 had he looked the other way, and generally urged 
 that the least said would be soonest mended. 
 Pandemonium, however, was not to be pacified, 
 I was made sixth form at that evening school, 
 and heard nothing of the matter for five or six 
 
20 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 days ; then, after twelve o’clock school one day, 
 I was called back by the Head, and told that a 
 complaint had been lodged against me by Mr. 
 Lesslight. Penitently I pointed out that I could 
 see but little harm in the drinking of a glass of 
 beer, and the Head - master then most kindly 
 demonstrated that it was not so much in a sin of 
 commission as in one of omission, that I had erred 
 in that I had not taken proper steps to see that 
 the coast in front of tap-door was clear. And so 
 the matter ended, and, in another week, Tap was 
 formally legalised for sixth and fifth forms, and I 
 have never heard that any harm resulted from this 
 very wise order. One of my last acts at Eton 
 was in connection with Tap ; for G. R. Murray and 
 I were asked, just before I left at Election 1872, to 
 assist E. O. H. Wilkinson, captain of the Eleven, 
 and R. B. Bloxam, captain of the boats, in the 
 framing of some new rules for that house of enter¬ 
 tainment. I never remember to have seen those 
 rules published. Poor dear old “ Peter Wilks ! ” 
 (for so we used to call Wilkinson), we had six very 
 happy years together, and a more unselfish spirit 
 than his never came into this world. He was one 
 of the best wicket-keepers we ever had, a fair 
 bat, and a very good captain. He lost his life in 
 the Transvaal, swimming across a river to help a 
 
21 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 wounded soldier. I never saw a boy or man with 
 a stronger sense of duty, and his death was a 
 fitting sequel to his life. As of Jemmy Bludso, 
 the Yankee skipper, so it might be said of Peter 
 Wilks :— 
 
 “ He seen his duty, a dead sure thing, 
 
 And he went for it, thar and then, 
 
 And Christ, I think, won’t be too hard, 
 
 On a man that has died for men.” 
 
 Etonians were always vehement and vigorous, 
 though perhaps not equally intelligible with regard 
 to their political views. I should say that quite 
 ninety-five per cent, of us were, in those days, blue 
 Tories, and the five per cent, balance was looked 
 upon as something very “ cheap ” and mean. Elec¬ 
 tions were always times of great excitement with 
 us, but, for fear of a repetition of some fights which 
 had taken place in the Election of 1864, our enthu¬ 
 siasm was, by magisterial edict, pretty well con¬ 
 fined to College. My tutor was a very advanced 
 radical; being a man of means (like Lord St. Alde- 
 gonde in “Lothair”) he could “afford to be.” It 
 was a favourite saying of his, that “ every boy was a 
 conservative until he was twenty-five—after which 
 age every wise man became a liberal ; ” a somewhat 
 arbitrary drawing of the line ’twixt boyhood and 
 
22 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 man’s estate, and between wisdom and folly. The 
 calm assumption, indeed, that he alone was right, 
 and that all, or nearly all, his old pupils and most of 
 his master contemporaries were wrong, was almost 
 suggestive of “ Brother Tadger, this meeting is 
 drunk , ” the sentiment of the intoxicated Stiggins 
 (no reference whatever is here intended to the Revd. 
 Charles Caldecott James). 
 
 At the Election of 1868, one Richardson Gard¬ 
 ner represented the Conservative, and one Roger 
 Eykin, the Liberal, interests. On the great day 
 of the Election, while crowds were surging along 
 Slough Road, a gigantic placard was seen to be 
 hung out from the topmost pinnacle of the highest 
 chimney on my tutor’s house, exhorting the popu¬ 
 lace in general to “vote straight and plump for 
 Richardson Gardner.” Many of the multitude, 
 knowing tutor’s advanced opinions, were astounded 
 at seeing such a political weathercock, so to speak, 
 displayed from the housetop, and stood still to 
 marvel, pointing out this new method of canvass 
 to their friends. Presently quite a crowd had 
 collected in front of the house ; some cheered and 
 some hooted, and it was soon evident that there 
 was every ingredient ready at hand for a first class 
 fight. 
 
 Tutor, who was correcting verses in his study 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 23 
 
 overlooking the street, surprised at the noise, came 
 hurriedly out. One look was sufficient, “ vidit et 
 obstupuitS Then he pulled himself together, dashed 
 into the house and upstairs, where he found Palmer 
 Budd, a fellow of infinite jest and some daring, 
 “staying out,” stutteringly demanded if he were 
 the culprit, received an affirmative, inflicted a 
 Georgic, and then sought for his footman (or 
 “little man ” as was the generic term fof this class 
 of domestic at my tutor’s), and bade him reach 
 down the obnoxious placard. To hear in this case 
 was, unfortunately, not to obey. “ Little man ” 
 visited the roof, reconnoitred the position, felt his 
 own weakness, and, coming down, confessed to 
 tutor that he “ dursna do it! ” Here was a dilemma : 
 the crowd was thickening ; the clamour increasing. 
 My tutor accepted the position, and saw that there 
 was but one course clear. Negotiations were opened 
 with Palmer Budd : “ Georgic forgiven if placard 
 removed ” were the terms accepted. Budd fulfilled 
 his part of the contract, removed the board, and 
 with it the surging crowd in front of tutor’s door. 
 
 And, while on the subject of my tutor’s footmen, 
 it behoves me to say that almost all our “ little 
 men ” had special characteristics and idiosyncrasies 
 which would have delighted a Charles Dickens. 
 I remember one very devout, but particularly 
 
24 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 bucolic, party, who seemed, literally, to have put 
 his hand to the plough and turned back. He was 
 ever slow in his responses at prayers, and, in one 
 particular psalm, has left his mark, not only upon 
 myself, but also on all my contemporaries. The 
 verse to be repeated by the congregation was 
 “ Before the morning watch, I say, before the morn¬ 
 ing watch.” I’m afraid, we all hurried over this 
 rather in order that we might hear (as we always 
 did hear) one solitary, loud voice proclaim : “Hi 
 say ! bef-fore the morning watch ! ” 
 
 • •!•«•••• 
 
 A taste for the drama will generally bring a boy 
 or man to grief at some period of his life, and so 
 it was with myself and some sixty others in the 
 summer half of 1869. The grief was in the having 
 to write out as a ‘ poena ’ the Chooephorce, a Greek 
 play (herein lay the satire of the Head-master) by 
 Euripides, consisting of 1,100 lines ; and the “ fons 
 et origo mali ” was an English play, entitled “The 
 Orange Girl, or the Sea of Ice,” performed one 
 half-holiday at the Windsor Theatre Royal. The 
 way the trouble came about was this: A travelling 
 company had played on two or three occasions to 
 an audience, mainly, if not entirely, consisting of 
 Eton boys. The dramas began after absence at 
 3 o’clock, and ended before 6 o’clock absence, so 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton . 25 
 
 that there was no shirking, nor any breaking, of the 
 rules on the part of those who witnessed these plays. 
 Prices of admission were moderate, and the audi¬ 
 ence, I fear, on fine days, more than meagre ; it is 
 true that the histrionic performances were none of 
 the best ; but I presume that the actors in them 
 wanted but little here below. In any case, after a 
 fortnight’s residence in Windsor, they were em¬ 
 boldened to hold out special attractions in the 
 shape of “ The Orange Girl, or the Sea of Ice.” The 
 whole (oranges and ice) to be produced on a 
 scale of unrivalled splendour. The day for the 
 play-acting dawned wet, and a good steady down¬ 
 pour continued. The moisture was of course in 
 favour of Thespis , but the masters were not. At 
 eleven o’clock school (so-called because it began at 
 about twenty-six minutes to twelve), a circular 
 came round that no boy was to go to the Windsor 
 Theatre in future. 
 
 As koys, we could not see the justice of this 
 edict; the play had been allowed before, it might 
 just as well have been allowed again for the last 
 time on a wet day. So we argued, very improper¬ 
 ly and very incorrectly, and very insubordinately, 
 
 I admit, but boys will be boys, and after 3 o’clock 
 absence I should think at least two hundred of us 
 trooped up to the theatre. But black care, in the 
 
2 6 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 shape of one Pearman, an inspector of police, had 
 preceded us, and from a coign of vantage on the 
 “ hundred steps ” had peeped through the umbra¬ 
 geous chestnuts, and seen us all enter the portals of 
 the playhouse. When we were safely seated,Pearman 
 returned to college, reported the birds as caged, 
 and that the second drama might commence just 
 as soon as the first drama was completed. Mean¬ 
 while, “ regardless of our doom, we little victims 
 played,” or rather watched the play; we little knew 
 what cruel fate awaited us, or that the present 
 Head-master of Eton and the Revd. F. W. Cornish 
 lay in ambush for our outcoming behind that very 
 sharp turn in the High Street, which, on account 
 of its acute angle and the consequent danger of 
 being there nailed in shirking in old days, was 
 somewhat flippantly termed “ Damnation Corner.” 
 
 The play is over, the green curtain has been 
 dropped, and we leave the darkening theatre. 
 Seniores Priores, and the three greatest • swells 
 present, Frank Broughtup, Johnny Rodger, and 
 Byas, sally forth in the van ; the fatal corner with 
 the bad name is reached, and all is over. Then 
 came such a “ sauve quipent” as I never saw before 
 or since ; I raced up to the Queen’s Stables, and 
 after lying perdu for sometime determined to try a 
 descent by St. George’s Chapel and the “ hundred 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 2 7 
 
 steps,” hoping, with some presence of mind, to 
 induce those in authority whom I might meet to 
 believe that I had been devoutly listening to a well 
 sung anthem. 
 
 In the cloisters of the said chapel, but on the 
 further side from which I was walking, I saw 
 Mr. Cornish, who, knowing me at home, and also 
 having cognisance of my theatrical tastes, addressed 
 me by name, and asked if I had been to the theatre 
 that afte'rnoon. Far be it from me to say that 
 honesty is not the best policy ; but still I do main¬ 
 tain that if I had made an evasive answer on this 
 occasion, no possible proof as to my presence at 
 the play could have been adduced, and my hand¬ 
 writing would not have been so puzzling to printer’s 
 devils throughout my life. However, I am thank¬ 
 ful to say, I admitted at once that I had been to 
 the theatre. Some sixty of us (out of which 
 number I suppose ten were fairly nailed) were 
 complained of. A full council sat on our case. 
 
 I am told that certain masters advocated wholesale 
 expulsion, but should be sorry to believe that this 
 was actually the case. Anyhow a very serious 
 view of the matter was taken, and we each had to 
 write out the aforementioned Greek play, and to 
 show it up by instalments of 100 lines at i P.M. 
 and 5 P.M. on half-holidays, thus effectually debar- 
 
28 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 ring our playing in any game or match for ten days. 
 That we were disobedient I allow, but I humbly 
 submit that the punishment exceeded the offence. 
 My old Eton and Indian friend, Harry Gladstone, 
 who was condemned with me on this occasion and 
 on many others, still writes a crabbed Greek hand, 
 which I entirely attribute to the enforced labour 
 
 of the copying of the Chocephorce. 
 
 • • ••••••• 
 
 Unlike the gentleman who married Miss Kilman- 
 
 segg, we were not much given to “ pugilistical 
 knocks ” during the six years I was at Eton. The 
 only real mill I can call to mind was one between 
 Sir ITerewald Wake and a boy who rejoiced in the 
 nickname of the “ World,” while his two great pals 
 were known as the “ Flesh ” and the “ Devil.” I 
 remember the names of all three, but have lost 
 sight of them all for many years. I have little 
 doubt, however, but that they all turned out well, 
 and have done good work in the world, but, as 
 a triumvirate, they were certainly not popular at 
 school. The World was a smart dresser, tall, strong, 
 good-looking, and, I fear, somewhat of a bully. 
 Herewald Wake was shortish, thickset, and clumsy 
 to look at, albeit like the redoubtable Benicia Boy 
 as immortalised by the pen of Puck on Pegasus— 
 
 “In his chest it might be guessed 
 He had unpleasant strength.” 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton, 
 
 2 9 
 
 He was a good boxer, cool as a cucumber, and of 
 course had the traditional pluck of all the Wakes ; 
 what they fought each other for, I never could 
 make out. 
 
 I believe the World threw a cherry stone at 
 Wake, who resented such action, and flung a straw¬ 
 berry pottle—the equivalent to the bottle of claret 
 his ancestor might have flung, into the mundane face. 
 The World, incensed, demanded if Wake would 
 take a licking, and a fight was arranged to come 
 off at Philippi the next day on a short “ after 4.” 
 A large number of spectators, myself included, 
 had assembled; and the pugilists had just putin 
 an appearance, when Mr. Wolley-Dod and another 
 master were descried in the distance. There was 
 a general stampede, and no fight came off that day. 
 On the following afternoon, however, there was a 
 tremendous mill between these two in a strawyard 
 on the Slough Road, just beyond Upper Club. I 
 am thankful to say that I did not attend the show. 
 But I happened to see the World conducted back 
 to his Dames, and the spectacle was gruesome. 
 The punishment inflicted had been very consider¬ 
 able, and I do not think the World appeared in 
 public for quite a fortnight. The bruising baronet 
 was almost untouched. This was the only fight 
 of any consequence that I remember, and I think 
 
30 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 it was a good thing that the fashion was dying out. 
 Fighting in general, and the Prize Ring in parti¬ 
 cular, have (like duelling) had their day ; in that 
 day they may, or may not, have done some good, 
 but the dog is dead and had better be quietly 
 buried, nothing in the shape of an attempted 
 resurrection would be beneficial. By all means let 
 every Briton acquire the art of self-defence, and 
 be able to use his fists, on occasion ; but I have the 
 greatest possible dislike to seeing men go through 
 the world with their fists doubled, ready at any 
 moment to rain down blows on the wrangling cab¬ 
 man or the blasphemous bargee. 
 
 I wonder why so many of us—at some period of 
 our schoolboy life—used to try and smoke. I pre¬ 
 sume the act was committed in pure “ cussedness;” 
 and, of a truth, in nine cases out of ten, it bore its 
 own pallid punishment along with it. I was just 
 fifteen when I first made the attempt. I had been 
 up on short leave to say goodbye to a sister who 
 was starting for India. She drove me to Padding¬ 
 ton, and after a sorrowful parting, I was left to my 
 own sad thoughts. I suppose (like Salvation Yeo) 
 I was of opinion that tobacco was a panacea for 
 all evils, and so purchased two big black cigars for 
 the sum of eight pence a piece. Then I got into 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 31 
 
 a smoking carriage, and lit up. Five minutes after, 
 as the train was leaving the station, that awful 
 feeling of green faintness came over me. I chucked 
 away the loathsome weed, and sank back in a 
 comatose state. The carriage was full, and the 
 windows were shut, so that, by the time the train 
 had reached Windsor, a nicotian atmosphere per¬ 
 vaded the apartment, which could have been com¬ 
 fortably cut with a blunt pair of scissors. I had 
 the mortification of feeling that, while I was 
 impregnated with other people’s tobacco, I could 
 not say I had not smoked: so I strolled down to my 
 tutor’s, sick in soul as in body. I knew how my 
 jacket smelt, and how even each particular hair 
 was pervaded with the smell of smoke. As I was 
 taking off my clothes, I heard my tutor coming 
 along the passage, and feeling too seedy to contest 
 the point of my absolute or comparative guilt that 
 night, I jumped into bed, hastily blowing out the 
 candle. There never were such wicks as were in 
 those Eton candles for the retention of a spark, 
 and my particular dip on this occasion was no 
 exception to the rule. There the abominably tell¬ 
 tale spark shone out in the surrounding blackness, 
 “ clear as a star when only one is shining in the 
 sky.” I don’t know whether dear old tutor saw 
 it or not: I discerned it very distinctly through 
 
32 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 my three-quarter closed eyes. “ Mac,” sa.ys my 
 tutor, after a pause, during which, I presume, his 
 lungs were pretty well asphyxiated with tobacco 
 smoke, “are you asleep ?” No answer. “Are you 
 asleep ? ” Heavy breathing now sufficiently audible. 
 “ Mac, are you asleep ? ” Then stertorous snoring, 
 betokening slumber as heavy as that of the seven 
 sleepers all rolled into one, boomed through the 
 room ; and I shall never forget tutor’s Parthian 
 shaft-like remark as he left me. “Well, Mac, as I 
 see you are asleep, in fact, goodnight.” The next 
 evening tutor came and found me sitting on my 
 bed, clothed, and in my right mind. He would 
 never punish a boy if he could help it, and was 
 always most specially kind to my unworthy self. 
 Thus he addressed me : “ Last night, when I came 
 into your room, there was a vile smell of smoke ; 
 now I cannot bring myself to believe that you had 
 been smoking ; in fact, in fact” (and during this 
 part of the speech he was, in effect, edging towards 
 the door) “ I’ll not believe it, I’ll not believe 
 it,” and, having conquered his own unworthy (?) 
 suspicions, the good man dashed out of the room. 
 It was a lesson to me though, and I do not think 
 I smoked much afterwards. 
 
 Mathematics were never generally popular with 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 33 
 
 Eton boys, and the professors of that science never 
 gained from us the same respect that was paid to 
 classical masters. Some of the mathematical 
 masters (and indeed one classical, who shall be 
 nameless) led dogs’ lives at the boys’ hands. 
 
 “ Marshy ” Brewer, in particular, was always 
 set upon in a most unjustifiably brutal man¬ 
 ner, for he was a man of mild and trusting cha¬ 
 racter, and would, I’m sure, in private life, have 
 been found to be of a cheerful, if not hilarious, 
 nature. Why boys, who would have scorned to 
 tell a lie to a classical master, should have des¬ 
 cended to utter falsehoods to him, I could never 
 understand, yet so it was. “ Smith, where is your 
 extra work ? ” “ The maid tore it up this morning, 
 
 Sir, by mistake.” Poor Mr. Brewer’s sad reply 
 was ever the same, “ 77 / take your zvord for it , blit 
 I zvorit believe you ,” and there is much more in 
 this sentence than one takes in at the first glance. 
 Mr. Brewer knew that Smith was a liar, and, being 
 himself truthful, could not even pretend to believe 
 his (Smith’s) word, which he nevertheless accepted, 
 hoping that whatever was still good in Smith’s 
 character might thereby be called into a livelier 
 state of being. I remember one day Marshy 
 Brewer and Mr. Grouse, another mathematical 
 master of very different disposition, were coming 
 
34 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 down the street together. As they passed a knot 
 of boys, a fellow in the Eleven (who has before 
 been mentioned in these sketches) muttered audibly 
 and insultingly, “Marshy Brewer.” Mr. Grouse 
 flew at him, asked him to repeat the words, as he 
 (Mr. Grouse) meant to complain of him for imper¬ 
 tinence. The mutterer merely said, “ What words, 
 Sir? When you came up, I was saying that 
 Mr. Warre was a c mighty thrower!” There was an 
 idem sonans ring about the two phrases, which 
 could not be gainsaid, and the matter had to be 
 passed over ; but I don’t think the escape from 
 punishment was one on which the mutterer could 
 be very warmly congratulated. 
 
 The classical masters at Eton were, and are, as 
 fine a body of men as is to be found in England. 
 They had all been Eton boys themselves, and 
 therefore had intelligent sympathy and patience 
 with their pupils ; and without such patience and 
 sympathy no possible good could be effected at 
 Eton. The masters to whom I felt I owed most 
 at the time, and who I know have most influenced 
 my after-life, were Messrs. Dupuis, Day, Wolley- 
 Dod, Joynes, and Johnson. As I have nothing but 
 good to say of each and every one of them I have 
 iio hesitation about giving their real names. 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 35 
 
 I was only up to Dupuis in school for a very 
 short time ; I took Upper Fourth, and was under 
 him for a month when he sent me up to Lower 
 Remove. I recollect, therefore, very little of his 
 classical teaching, but his whole character, that of 
 modest strength, has always seemed to be most 
 admirable. He was a magnificent specimen of a 
 muscular Christian, and in his day could have had 
 few superiors at cricket or football. He knew 
 more of the science of cricket (Mr. R. A. H. Mit¬ 
 chell not excepted) than any man I ever met, and 
 as a “coach” in the game was second to none. 
 His untiring and unselfish labours in Upper Club 
 met with a meet recompense of reward in 1869 
 and subsequent years. He was an absolutely 
 straight man, body and soul, and I wish there were 
 more like him. I was reminded of one of his 
 favourite remarks in the cricket field a few years 
 ago. When playing at Eastbourn, Archie Bovill 
 (an old contemporary who played in the Eton 
 Eleven in 1871) bowled me with a ripper, and the 
 only sympathy he accorded me as I walked crest¬ 
 fallen back to the pavilion, was—“ Dupuis would 
 have said, Mac, you didn’t play at the ball, but 
 where you thought the ball would be.” If the ball 
 was watched, aye, and the bowler’s hand too, a bit 
 more carefully, wickets would be still harder to get 
 
3 6 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 on a good ground than they are at the present 
 moment. 
 
 The Revd. Russell Day was the most agreeable 
 and entertaining Gamaliel at whose feet I ever sat. 
 He was wondrously witty, and had the keenest 
 sense of humour; as a raconteur of good things 
 he was unrivalled, and if his bodily strength had 
 been greater, might have been most successful in 
 any profession. He was full of epigrams. I may 
 perhaps be excused for reproducing here a witty 
 verse of his, which appeared, I think, some years 
 ago, in a book called “ Seven Years at Eton ; ” it 
 was on the occasion of the marriage of a cousin of 
 his to a Miss Weeke, and ran as follows :— 
 
 “ A day the more, a week the less. 
 
 Yet time must not complain ; 
 
 There’ll soon be little days enough 
 To make a week again.” 
 
 Though always in wretched health, Mr. Day’s 
 pluck was undefeated, and his patient endurance 
 of pain and powerful handling of a division can¬ 
 not fail to have left their mark on many boys who 
 had the good fortune to learn under him. 
 
 The Revd. Charles Wolley-Dod was a towering 
 man, who, throughout my time at Eton, lived in a 
 towering mansion. I never knew any one who 
 courted popularity less, and yet he was undoubtedly 
 popular both with boys in his house and division. 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 37 
 
 He was an admirable fisherman and “punter,” and 
 a great lover of natural history—to these was super- 
 added much classical lore, and much power of 
 imparting the same to boys. I never knew Mr. 
 Wolley-Dod unjust or unduly severe on any boy. 
 He used to try and make school palatable to us, 
 and on very hot summer afternoons we used to 
 adjourn to his garden, and construe away “sub 
 tegmine fagi ” lying prone with our faces dipped in 
 heliotrope and mignonette. There used to be in 
 that garden, I remember, a tortoise, and many a 
 time have my old friend, Harry Gladstone, and my¬ 
 self, hunted him. We have often spoke of that 
 tortoise in after-life. 
 
 Mr. Wolley-Dod had strange ideas of the proper 
 pronunciation of classical names. Gdpio with 
 him became GTapio, and Cicero, Kikero. He may 
 have been right, or he may have been wrong. At 
 any rate his ideas were better than the wishy-washy 
 Italian style of pronunciation, which I am told is 
 coming, or has come, into vogue, and which converts 
 those grand old words, “ veni, vidi , vici” into 
 ‘ weany, weedy, weaky '! 
 
 Au reste , Mr. Wolley-Dod was a man of much 
 discernment. He was the first master who ever 
 “ sent me up for good,” and I shall always think 
 of him with kindly feelings. 
 
38 Sketchy Memories of Eton . 
 
 The Revd. J. L. Joynes is still at Eton, and long 
 may he there continue. He is a prop and stay of 
 the school. I don’t believe any boy who ever came 
 into contact with him but liked and respected him. 
 I know that if we had tried to be more like him, we 
 would have been better boys and men. Mr. Joynes 
 was all smiles and all good - nature to those who 
 were honest in their work and play ; but he had 
 a biting tongue for the sluggard and sneak, and 
 woe betide the boy who came in for his sarcasm. 
 One of his favourite quotations ( and a better one 
 could not be found in this age when superficiality 
 is encouraged, and a general cram considered a 
 consummation devoutly to be wished) used to be, 
 “ A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, drink 
 deeply, but sip not the Pierian spring.” 
 
 Mr. W. Johnson, I considered (when I was up 
 to him, and have since seen no reason to change 
 my opinion) the cleverest, best informed, and most 
 original man in the world. He was very short¬ 
 sighted, and had bushels of peculiarities, but could 
 hold his own with the most unruly set of boys 
 ever sent up to him. He was won’t to keep up a 
 kind of rambling and running commentary on the 
 subject in hand, and was decidedly unsophisticated 
 and colloquial in dealing with pious personages of 
 the past. He would break in suddenly as some 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 39 
 
 hoy was translating an epistle of St. Paul’s, “ Ha ! 
 St. Paul. Hum ! What do you think of him ? 
 Most respectable party, no doubt, but rather fana¬ 
 tical, rather crazy in my opinion.” Or again, “ dtratna, 
 that means excess! not the getting jolly well 
 drunk once a month, which does the British work¬ 
 man good, but a perpetual fuddling—such as you 
 fellows indulge in when you go up to Oxford. 
 That’s excess, and very beastly it is.” Mr. Johnson 
 was full of hospitality and lavish kindness to his 
 own particular friends ( I had almost written 
 favourites !). He was a great giver of picnics and 
 water-parties. 
 
 To one’s tutor one owes everything at Eton, if 
 one leaves in any way a debtor to the school. The 
 tutorial system is the very salt and breath of Eto¬ 
 nian life, and the moral and social good effected 
 by tutorial contact and influence can, I believe, be 
 hardly over-rated. I think, indeed I know, that 
 all my tutor’s fellows will agree with me now, as 
 we did agree then, that tutor was one of the best 
 and worthiest of men. Pie worked on through 
 the world sticking to “the trivial round, the com¬ 
 mon task ” (which I have often thought since to a 
 man of his talents and tastes must have been an 
 awful grind !), and was ever ready to give advice 
 and help to a peccant pupil. He was a living 
 
40 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 monument of Charles Kingsley’s grand senti¬ 
 ment : 
 
 “Do the thing that’s nearest, 
 
 Tho’ its dull at whiles, 
 
 Helping, when you meet them, 
 
 Lame dogs over stiles.” 
 
 It was a great pity that my tutor left Eton so 
 early. The radical spirit of change, however (of 
 which he himself was so great an advocate in 
 theory ), swept over the place, and the practical 
 effect of same was to drive out as competent a 
 classic, as true a tutor, and as kindly a gentleman 
 
 as Eton ever reckoned amongst her sons. 
 
 • •••••«•• 
 
 “ Pop” was a great institution, and oh! the delight 
 of hearing that one had been elected a member of 
 that celebrated Debating Society. Pop was some¬ 
 thing like a club, and something like a very select 
 House of Commons ! I can’t say that I ever heard 
 many speeches there worth listening to, save 
 from the lips of Welldon. I remember him, on 
 one occasion, opening a debate in condemnation 
 of Warren Hastings, and speaking with much 
 ability and perfect fluency for a whole hour on 
 his subject. I had the honour of leading the 
 opposition, and had to reply when Welldon sat 
 down ; but argument in debate was never a strong 
 point of mine, and, having in nowise worked up 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 4i 
 
 the subject, I felt quite unequal to the occasion. 
 However, as an Anglo-Indian, I felt I must say 
 something in favour of him who did so much to 
 create our Empire in the East; so blandly told my 
 audience that it would take too much time to tear 
 to shreds every fallacious argument of Mr. Well- 
 don’s, but that I, personally, had not been in the 
 least convinced by the “ dogmatic tautology ” of 
 the last speaker ! On a division, we had a strong 
 majority in favour of Warren Hastings ! 
 
 I hope debates are carried on with more debating 
 power now-a-days, but I confess, in my time, the 
 speeches made were hardly such as would have 
 compelled the spirit of Demosthenes to curl and 
 writhe with envy. I sometimes think that we 
 might have spent our time more profitably than in 
 sitting in a stuffy low room, arguing very gravely 
 “whether Queen Elizabeth was justified in putting 
 to death Mary, Queen of Scots,” or “what in the 
 world this country would have done had we had 
 all Charles the Firsts and no Oliver Cromwells.” In 
 this latter debate, the general sense of the House 
 used to be that we would have got on very well 
 indeed ! The writing out of our speeches, too, in 
 a book afterwards was generally of a skimped and 
 garbled nature, and we used to pass on the book 
 to the orator who had succeeded us (and whose 
 
42 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 name, let us say for the sake of euphony, was Mr. 
 Brown near in his sight) with an opening line as 
 follows :—• 
 
 tov b'cnrctfiEL ftofievoQ irpalcpr] 
 
 Mr. Brown with his eyeglass, 
 which passed for wit, and certainly scanned well 
 as a hexameter. 
 
 Herbert Gladstone (the “ twopence ” of early 
 days) was in Pop with me, and out of a tender 
 deference to his filial feelings, no grand old debates 
 on nineteenth century politics were allowed. Me- 
 thinks he must have found in after-life that the 
 outside world was by no means so particular as to 
 stamping upon his corned toes ! 
 
 *••»•••» • 
 
 Eton shopkeepers must have had a good time of 
 it, but I fear, as a class, they were improvident, for 
 I never heard of any one of them retiring with a 
 fortune. I am not here going to weary my readers 
 with oft-told anecdotes and old-world stories of 
 Spankey, and of Levi, and of Bryan—the great 
 wall “sock” men ; nor am I about to argue on the 
 respective excellencies of Webbers and Barnes. I 
 think, however, that old Brown has never been 
 made enough of, and his tarts with cream, and hot- 
 buttered buns, must ever be remembered with a 
 smacking lip. Brown was a great character, but 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 43 
 
 his temper was acrid. Brown-baiting was, at one 
 time, as favourite a pursuit with us, as was bear- 
 baiting with a former generation. I have seen old 
 Brown pursue one of his tiny tormentors with his 
 sandwich knife, and a very fearsome weapon that 
 was : the blade must have been nearly eighteen 
 inches long, worn to a point like a cobbler’s knife, 
 and keen as a razor. “ Brown-baitings ” were, at 
 length, forbade by a magisterial edict. Brown’s 
 sandwiches used to be of two sorts. Those made 
 with white and those with brown bread, and a very 
 favourite and unfailing draw used to be to ask 
 simply for “ a sandwich,” without specifying the 
 colour of the article required. The snappish answer 
 elicited was always the same, “If you don’t say 
 one or t’other, I don’t give you neither.” Poor 
 rum old cross-grained Brown ! I wonder if you 
 still stand behind the counter in that dingiest of 
 shops ; wherever you be, I doubt not that you 
 pursue the old avocation ; you could not exist, I 
 believe, even in a future world, without that long 
 thin knife in your hand. May be you are now 
 cutting sandwiches, brown or white, for Elysian 
 customers, or filling sliced hot buns with butter, for 
 Charon’s passengers, on Stygian banks. 
 
 What marvellous memories Eton shopkeepers 
 
44 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 have ! No doubt, the recollection of old faces, and 
 of the names appertaining to same, is a most valu¬ 
 able item in their stock-in-trade. I don’t think I 
 have been into “ Kitty ” Fraser’s (the tobacconists) 
 a dozen times in my life. “ Kitty’s ” dark-eyed 
 and dark-haired niece, Mary, was ever present in 
 the shop, and her memory is marvellous as the 
 following story will go far to prove. Strolling up 
 town with Alex. Broughtup, during the sum¬ 
 mer half of 1883, he wanted to get some cigarettes, 
 so we went into Kitty Fraser’s together. Mary, 
 on whose cheek time had breathed very lightly, said 
 at once “ How do you do, Mr. Mac ? ” Alex., 
 who has a long red beard (which, in ages past, 
 would have done credit to a Druid), said, “You 
 don’t remember my name, Fm sure, Mary.” “ Oh 
 yes, I do, Mr. Broughtup,” cries the imperturbable 
 Mary, “and we’ve got your name down in our 
 books for nine and ninepence on account some 
 cigarettes you bought in 1876.” Alex, thought 
 the matter over, admitted the claim as just, and 
 paid up half a sovereign ! Little Mary’s memory 
 should be her fortune. 
 
 Old William Martingell, too, has a wonderful 
 power of recollecting old friends who once were 
 younger. We used, in the days when I played in 
 Middle Club, to call him “ Rosy, ” on account of 
 
Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 45 
 
 a horse called Rosicrucian, on which Martingell 
 was very sweet, and on which he pinned his faith, 
 if not his shirt ! for the Derby of 1868. Blue 
 Gown, however, carried off the blue ribbon of the 
 turf that year, and we lost our faith in “ Rosy ” 
 as a sporting prophet, even as he had lost his 
 money. Seeing the dear old man in Upper Club 
 two years ago, I went up to him, and said, “ Mar. 
 tingell, why didn’t Rosicrucian win the Derby 
 in 1868 ? “ Rosy,” who was rosier than ever about 
 
 the gills, but otherwise not much changed, looked 
 at me for a moment, then spanked one hand into 
 the other, and cried “ Lor’ bless me if t’aint Mr. 
 Mac!” We were always very good friends, and 
 many valuable lessons in cricket did I receive at 
 William Martingell’s hands. He used to say, “ Try 
 and play every ball, Sir, as if you were playing it 
 to the off side ; ” I would impress this golden hint 
 on all young players ; if they try and carry it out, 
 they will find that they are playing with very 
 straight bats, and that that indispensable left 
 shoulder is very well forward. Bennett and Frank 
 Silcock were the other two professionals in my 
 time, and three better or more respectable cricket 
 coaches it would have been hard to find. 
 
 In 1869 we won our first victory for seven years 
 over Harrow, beating them in one innings and by 
 
46 
 
 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 19 runs. Poor Ottaway made 108, and Sam 
 Butler and Maude bowled admirably. The next 
 year was one of the most exciting matches I can 
 remember, and was won simply by the magnificent 
 fielding of our Eleven in the second innings. 
 George R. C. Harris (now Lord Harris and Under¬ 
 secretary for India) was our captain. Harrow had 
 made over 200 runs in the first innings, and we 
 put them in to make only some 135 runs, I think 
 at their second attempt. They were a very strong 
 batting lot, and our bowling was weak, so that it 
 seemed likely to go hard with the Light-blues. 
 Fielding, however, won us the match by 21 runs. 
 I have seen Oxford and Cambridge Elevens field 
 magnificently, and the Australians are hard to beat 
 in this respect, but never have I seen anything 
 better than our Eleven on that memorable day. 
 Poor Frank Pickering at cover point, Rhodes at 
 longstop, Cammed at point, Tabor and Arthur 
 Lyttelton as long legs, and Harris himself at, I 
 think, mid on, left nothing to be desired. I have 
 always looked back on that afternoon as one of 
 the pleasantest and most exciting in my life. 
 
 Valete ! 
 
 And now I have come to the last page in my 
 little sketchy memories. Friends asked me to write 
 
Sketchy • Memories of Eton. 
 
 47 
 
 and it has been a real pleasure and refreshment to 
 do so. I can only trust that the reading may not 
 be boresome to old Etonians. “ Virginibuspueris- 
 que cantoP which being interpreted signifies that I 
 have only written for Eton boys and their sisters. 
 These sketches might have been prolonged, and 
 probably would have been “ ad nauseam ,” had I 
 not received a somewhat unexpected message to 
 start for England—once again to see Eton and 
 those who are even dearer to me than the dear old 
 school. I am painfully conscious of the egotism 
 already displayed in these pages, and yet it is 
 difficult in personal memories to keep self altogether 
 in the back ground. In any case, I should like to 
 adduce one more proof of my love for the old 
 school and my absolute adherence to, and belief 
 in, her education and doctrines. My boy was born 
 in India in 1879 (November), and within a month 
 his name was down to enter my dear old friend 
 R. C. Radcliffe’s house in January 1893 ! 
 
 Critics may carp, and radicals may rail, and I am 
 - free to confess that an Eton oppidan’s teaching 
 may not be a paying one, so far as pounds, shillings 
 and pence are concerned, in the matter of a scholar, 
 ship or an exhibition, but are such the be-all and 
 end-all of a father’s hopes and wishes ? I trow 
 not. Hear the words of Charles Kingsley recorded 
 
48 Sketchy Memories of Eton. 
 
 in a letter to Mr. Alex. Scott.—“ In my eyes the 
 question is not what to teach, but how to educate , 
 how to train, not scholars, but men : bold, energetic, 
 methodic, liberal-minded, magnanimous.” 
 
 I am furthermore prepared to argue that the 
 average oppidan possesses more knowledge of 
 classical and English literature than nine out of 
 ten other public school men one meets. 
 
 I will only say in conclusion that I trust the 
 present and the future generation of Eton boys may 
 think as highly of their school, and as gratefully 
 acknowledge the pleasures and benefits derived 
 throughout life therefrom as all past Eton boys 
 have done. And so, my dear old pals, as the Blue 
 Peter is flying at the foremast, let us westward 
 ho ! and away, but one cup at parting ; once more 
 let us drink the toast beloved of all others— 
 
 FLOREAT ETONA 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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