This battle—the most serious schoolboy fight which ever took place—probably had some effect in decreasing the popularity of fistic encounters. It certainly created a great sensation, being, according to some, commemorated by an inscription (now illegible) upon the white stone let into the wall at Sixpenny Corner. The late Mr. Brownlow North, Lord Kintore tells me, declared that he had been a second at the fight, and remembered the insertion of the stone as a memorial.
The Gasworks eventually superseded “Sixpenny” as a fistic arena, though the time-honoured phrase, “Will you fight me in ‘Sixpenny’?” still remained the recognised form of challenge.
In 1858 fighting was already beginning to go out of fashion. In 1865, while the Public Schools Commissioners were sitting, they examined a Lower boy touching fights, and asked him if he had any theory to explain why regular stand-up fights had become so rare? The boy answered, “Oh! I suppose it’s because the fellows funk each other.”
The real reason of the disappearance of fighting was that it came to be thought bad form, and consequently no longer received any patronage from boys who were the swells of the school. Once it began to be considered “scuggish,” the fate of Eton pugilism was sealed, and though informal encounters occasionally occur—there was a determined battle near the railway arches in 1893—within the last forty years fighting has become a thing of the past.
IV
“CADS,” AND THE “CHRISTOPHER”
Though a century or so ago fights and floggings were ordinary incidents of school life, a large number of boys contrived to make time pass very pleasantly indeed. At that time the sporting Etonian was quite a recognised type.
The following sketch, from the Sporting Magazine, of Etonian ways in 1799, whilst, of course, a somewhat exaggerated caricature, was evidently based upon a very solid substratum of truth:—
Sunday.—Not well—church a bore—headache increased by bell—sent an excuse—up at ten—dressed by eleven—sipped tea in a back room—read half a page of Sporting Magazine—d—d good—much pleased with the Oxonian’s diary—walked to Castle—prayers with Bluster—rowed the cut of Bluster’s coat—bad taylor—smoked a Cockney, and his blue silks—kicked his wig in the kennel—teach the dog good manners—came down to dinner—no appetite—Dame’s hash, like shoe-leather—drank wine at the Christopher—bad port—waiter, jawed—shoved him out—during evening church, finished Oxonian diary—tight cock—wish I knew him—drank tea at Coker’s—bad company—Spanker and self adjourned to Cloisters—good fun—returned to Dame’s—sat with Pink—bad supper—four beer—rowed the maids—picked teeth—went to bed.
Monday.—Waked at eight—keep up pretence of headache—up at ten—dressed by eleven—Smith’s burgamot, not so good as usual—breakfast—at one, walked to billiards—no one there—beat the marker.—Mem. Not go to Huddlestone’s again—came down—dinner better than usual—new cook—dull evening—went to bed early.
Tuesday.—Sham leave—hunted with King’s hounds—Steven’s blood lame—d—d bore—forced to ride the grey—new boots—bad leather—cut Webb for the future, and employ Atkins—Alderman S——y, wretched quiz—his chesnut horse broke down—let him fall into a ditch—hat and wig, both lost—looked like a bumble bee in a tar pot—good hunt—hard riding—go along—keep moving.—Mem. Always row the Alderman and not forget to cram Pink—came home tired—sandwiches and wine at the White Hart—merry evening—got drunk—Dame jawed.
Wednesday.—Whole school day—very dull—walked to Steven’s—Grey, knocked up—pain in my side—evening, cards, etc.—much better—betting in my favour—beat Dashall at cribbage—won nine shillings—lucky dog—went to bed in good spirits.