On the right in the Hall is a small table called the “Servitor’s Desk.” The duty attached to the old office of Servitor consists in noting down in a book the commons allowed for each day’s dinner according to the number actually dining in Hall. He counts by “messes” and “half-messes,” a mess consisting of four boys. It is the practice of most Servitors to carve their name on the desk, and among the names carved are those of A. C. Benson, author and poet, and J. K. Stephen.
A few of the old customs are retained, the authorities still sitting at the high table at the west end. The Sixth Form sit at the first table on the left side, carving their own joint; one of them says Grace, shouting “Surgite! Benedicat Deus” at the beginning of the meal, and “Surgite! Benedicatur Deo” at the end, when the others reply, “Deo Gratias.” On Sundays a Latin Grace is chanted. The fare of Collegers formerly consisted almost[4] exclusively of mutton, from which arose the term “Tug-mutton,” and “Tug” applied to a King’s scholar.
“HARPY-PIES”
Within the last three decades three ancient usages have been abandoned. The first of these was “Bever,” which was abolished in 1890. “Bever” consisted in a modest collation of bread and salt and beer in “after fours” in the summer; Collegers might partake of this if they wished, and were allowed to invite guests. A second old usage which disappeared about the same time was that of certain boys receiving a double allowance of bread. Though most of the old oak panelling of Hall was replaced by new in 1858, amongst the old panels was one which for more than three hundred years had proclaimed the privilege of the mess of four boys which dined nearest to the door on the north side of the Hall, “Queen Elizabethe ad nos gave October x 2 loves in a mes 1596,” being roughly inscribed upon it. Commemorating the munificence of the virgin Queen for more than three hundred years, two loaves, instead of the customary one loaf, were set before the four boys sitting near the panel. This practice has now been ended. The third old custom was of a far less pleasant character, and its disappearance is not to be deplored. Formerly, after the Collegers had dined, a number of old almswomen were allowed to collect the remains, and in consequence the Hall was at certain times thronged with a mass of old women thrusting chunks of bread and scraps of broken meat into bags. The whole thing was a somewhat unseemly scramble. The boys were often not very well disposed to the harpies, as they called the old ladies, and would wickedly make them what were known as “hag-traps” and “harpy-pies.” The composition of these was a masterpiece of diabolical ingenuity. A large square piece of bread or quarter loaf having had its centre hollowed out by means of a hole in the side, the interior was cunningly filled with an unsavoury mixture of mustard, pepper, cayenne, and whatever else came to hand, after which the opening was cleverly closed so that the bread might present a totally unsuspicious appearance and then left lying about amongst genuine loaves. Though the old ladies had considerable experience of various disagreeable forms of College humour, this wicked device always secured a certain amount of success. At the present time the female pensioners are given a small monetary allowance in place of being allowed to enter the Hall.
AN UNAPPRECIATED POET
The Upper School occupies the whole of the west side of the school-yard, with the exception of the space covered by the headmaster’s room at the north end. It was originally built by Provost Allestree, but so faultily that it had to be rebuilt under his successor, Provost Cradock, in 1694. Though by some attributed to him, the architect was probably not Sir Christopher Wren; yet the style adopted, very different from that of the other buildings in the school-yard, is that associated with his name. Though now only rarely used, Upper School was formerly the principal class-room of Eton, and at the beginning of the nineteenth century no less than 400 boys were taught there at the same time. The ground floor beneath is now occupied by rooms which in the last century were considered quite good enough to accommodate large “divisions,” but have now been turned into a “school office,” a porter’s lodge, and store-rooms of various kinds. On the floor above is the “Upper School” itself, approached at the south end by a fine staircase—a well-proportioned room, lined with oak panelling which has served for the recording of many Eton names, and adorned with the busts of Etonians who have served their country. The first of these busts was put up in 1840, when the Marquess Wellesley presented his to the school—his brother, the Duke of Wellington, shortly afterwards following his example. Most of the great Etonians are here, including Shelley. It is said that when the idea of erecting the poet’s bust was first mooted, Dr. Hornby objected, saying that Shelley was a bad man, and he only wished he had been educated at Harrow. The memory of this poet—in former days, at least—was not held in any particular respect by the vast majority of Etonians, most of whom held much the same views about him as have been attributed to Dr. Hornby.
Some thirty years ago, when the subject of the amenities of Eton was being discussed by a House Debating Society, an Upper boy—now a well-known Peer—brought the debate to a close with a breezy speech. Eton, he said, was in his opinion a very good place; all boys were happy there, or ought to be. As far as he could make out, all boys always had been happy there, and he had only heard of one who wasn’t, and that was “a boy called Shelley, who was a mad fool.” He then sat down amidst applause.
An immense quantity of names are cut on the woodwork of Upper School. Most of these are those of boys who became famous in after life. The name of Charles James Fox, for instance, is to be seen beneath his bust. Gladstone’s may easily be recognised among a number of other names of the same family by the fact that there was not sufficient room left for the whole name, and consequently the last three letters are cut much smaller than the rest. Lord Roberts’s name is on the large south door, and Shelley’s under Lord Wellesley’s bust, to the right, and again high up, to the left, beneath his own bust. Gladstone’s name, it should be added, is on the upper right-hand panel of the door which stands to the left as you face the Headmaster’s desk in the Upper School. His sons have their names cut on the same door close by. This carving was not done by Gladstone himself, but by Dr. Keate’s servant in requital for a fee. Originally boys, before leaving, cut their names where they liked in Upper School. Later on, as in the writer’s time, it was the custom on leaving to present the Headmaster’s servant with a guinea to have this done. The present practice seems to be that for half a guinea a specially appointed official cuts a boy’s name. Close to Upper School, on the top of the staircase leading to the Headmaster’s room, may be seen the name Lord Dalmeny cut twice on the left, opposite the door; the older is that of Lord Rosebery, the newer that of his son.
LOWER SCHOOL
The original Eton schoolroom was the present Lower School, which happily remains practically in its original state. The exact date of its erection is uncertain, but it would appear to have been built somewhere about the end of the fourteenth century. According to an old tradition Lower School was once the College stables, and it was Sir Henry Wotton who, when Provost, fitted it up with pillars, on which he is supposed to have painted pictures of Greek and Roman authors for the instruction of the boys. This quaint old room was formerly open for its full length, and looked very picturesque with its double row of oaken pillars supporting the floor of the chamber above, and deeply recessed windows, the oaken shutters, as well as the pillars, graven with the names of former Etonians. For two centuries it was the only schoolroom. In recent times, for convenience of teaching, it has been turned into three rooms by means of deal partitions. These, however, being merely temporary erections, have not injured the ancient fabric of the room. Many generations of boys have amused themselves by poking pens and knives into the deep chinks of the pillars and spearing out bits of paper that had been thrust in there by boys of bygone times. Mr. Brinsley Richards has described how, as a boy at Eton, he extracted the fragment of a play-bill, issued by a strolling troupe who performed at Windsor Fair in 1769. In the writer’s day many a boy, unconsciously imbued with that love of sending messages to posterity which is such a characteristic of youth, would write his name upon a scrap of paper and poke it deep into a hole or cranny.