CHAPTER SEVEN
Eton College
STANDING on the north terrace, or on the hundred steps which ascend from Thames Street, with behind us the fabric which William Wykeham did so much to fashion, we gaze out to yet another place which Wykeham made possible—the famous College of Eton.
True, he had nothing whatever to do with the building of Eton itself, but he founded Winchester School, which is commonly spoken of as England’s oldest public school; and this served the boy-king, Henry VI., as a model for his new foundation, so that Eton is in many respects, both as regards buildings and management, a copy of the older place.
The first charter is dated 1441. Henry was then only nineteen years old, yet he says that “from the very foundation of his riper age” he dreamed of “a solemn school at Eton where a great number of children should be freely taught the rules of grammar.” The school was to be called “The Kynges College of oure Ladye of Eton, beside Wyndesore.”
Henry, in order that he might be certain he and his assistants were following the excellent Winchester model, paid a number of visits to that school, and made a close study of its ways. There he was brought much into contact with William Waynflete, who had become master of Winchester in 1429 and done much to keep the school at its high level; and the result was that in 1442 Henry persuaded him to become the first master of Eton, whither he came, bringing with him from the older foundation half-a-dozen favourite scholars to be a model for all newcomers. Eton began with “twenty-five poor scholars” to be educated at the King’s cost, but this number was soon increased to seventy.
Henry did not live to see his splendid scheme in being. In fact, the beautiful chapel which he had designed was never completed at all; moreover, the fabric itself, which he had desired to be made of “the hard stone of Kent,” was very largely built of brick. Nor did the College as a whole rise into being in one great effort. Like most historic buildings, it grew little by little into its present self, with just a bit added here and a bit renovated there, so that the whole thing is a medley of styles.
In these days Eton, like most of the big public schools, is far from being what its founder intended it to be—a school for the instruction of deserving poor boys. Instead it has become a very exclusive college for the education of the sons of the rich.
There are usually just over eleven hundred boys in residence, seventy of whom are known as “collegers,” while the other thousand odd are called “oppidans.” For the old statute which decided on the number of “collegers” as seventy is still obeyed, and Henry’s wish is kept in the letter, if not in the spirit. The “collegers” live in the actual College buildings, have their meals in the College Hall; and they wear cloth gowns to distinguish them from the rest of the scholars. These other thousand odd boys, the sons of gentlemen and other folk who can afford to pay the great sum of money necessary, live in the various masters’ houses, which are built close at hand.
The “collegers,” who win their positions as the result of a stiff examination, are practically the holders of very valuable scholarships, for they pay only small sums towards their expenses. And, generally speaking, they have a better time of it, even though they may be looked down on and called “tugs” by some of the more snobbish “oppidans”; for the College buildings are better than most of the houses. Moreover, the “collegers” have two large playing fields of their own, so that they can avoid the crush in the school fields.
Just when the “oppidans” began to take their place is by no means certain; but it could not have been very long after the foundation, for there is actually in existence the letter of an “oppidan” written in the year 1467, forty years after the opening. It is a very interesting letter, written to the boy’s elder brother, and enclosing for his inspection a specimen of the writer’s Latin verses (the making of Latin verse has always been a speciality at Eton). The letter also suggests the forwarding of “12 lbs. of figgs and 8 lbs. of raisins,” so, you see, boys were boys even in those far-off days.
Many of Eton’s most picturesque customs have either died out or been suppressed by the authorities. One of the more famous of these was “Montem,” given up in 1847. On a certain day, once every three years, the scholars marched in procession to Salt Hill—that is, to “the mountain” (ad montem means “to the mountain”); and there certain of their number made a collection of money from all and sundry, giving little pieces of salt in exchange. Usually royalty from Windsor met them there, and contributed generously to the fund. “Montem” was a gay festival, for fancy-dress was the order of the day, and there was plenty of noise and colour as the merry procession made its way up the hill to the music of several bands, followed by a crowd of visitors. In 1846 the authorities decided to put an end to the celebration, because with the coming of the railway to Windsor an unwelcome crowd of excursionists presented itself each year, and the picturesque gathering degenerated into a vulgar rabble. One old custom which still survives is “Threepenny Day.” On the 27th day of February each year, the anniversary of the death of a Provost named Lupton, builder of the picturesque gateway, each of the “collegers” receives a bright new threepenny-bit, provision for which is made in a sum of money left by Lupton and another Provost.
Eton, like that other and older seat of learning to which many Etonians make the journey up the valley, gains much from its nearness to the River, for swimming and rowing are two favourite pastimes with the boys of this school. The latter pastime reaches its zenith on the “fourth of June”—the great day which Eton keeps in honour of George III.’s birthday. Then the College is besieged by hundreds of relatives and friends, and there is a fine water-carnival on the River.
