On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as his title: indeed, each sixth-form boy represents in his uniform, though not perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse Guards, an officer of the army. One is a marshal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, too; and the remainder are sergeants. Each of those who are intrusted with these ephemeral commissions has one or more attendants, the number of these varying according to his rank. These servitors are selected according to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, out of the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are below the fifth form; and all these attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to the Captain of the school, figure also in fancy costume, and are called ‘Saltbearers.’ It is their business, together with the twelve senior Collegers of the fifth form, who are called ‘Runners,’ and whose costume is also determined by the taste of the wearers, to levy the contributions. And all the Oppidans of the fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class as ‘Corporals;’ and are severally followed by one or more lower boys, who are denominated ‘Polemen,’ but who appear in their ordinary dress. It was a fine, bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang merrily; everybody was astir, and every moment some gay equipage drove into the town. Gaily clustering in the thronged precincts of the College, might be observed many a glistening form: airy Greek or sumptuous Ottoman, heroes of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, Highland Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in the tartan of Prince Charlie. The Long Walk was full of busy groups in scarlet coats or fanciful uniforms; some in earnest conversation, some criticising the arriving guests; others encircling some magnificent hero, who astounded them with his slashed doublet or flowing plume. A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall, with their feet swinging in the air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost. ‘I say, Townshend,’ said one, ‘there’s Grobbleton; he _was_ a bully. I wonder if that’s his wife? Who’s this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn’t an Eton fellow? Yes, he was. He was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! his name is in the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend, did you see Saville’s turban? What was it made of? He says his mother brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn’t he just look like the Saracen’s Head? Here are some Dons. That’s Hallam! We’ll give him a cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn’t think small beer of himself. I wonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington’s valet come to say his master is engaged. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won’t we give him a cheer!’ ‘By Jove! who is this?’ exclaimed Townshend, and he jumped from the wall, and, followed by his companions, rushed towards the road.