H.M.I.: Some Passages in the Life of One of H.M. Inspectors of Schools

by E. M. Sneyd-Kynnersley

FOOTNOTES:

[38] In all cases except those marked with an asterisk, the answers are copied verbatim et literatim from the originals: in most cases I have the name of the writer, or of the school, or centre of examination. The starred answers are supplied by colleagues, and may be considered authentic.

And in all cases the Spelling, the Grammar, and the Punctuation are original. “For Heaven’s sake, reader, take them not for mine.”

CHAPTER XXIII
REPORTS

“All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.”—King Lear.

The annual inspection of a school ended in a Report. When the papers had been marked, and the Examination Schedules had been made up, it was time to search one’s note-book, and to rack the memory for facts, and therefrom to construct a report to Their Lordships, to be communicated to the managers, and by them to the teachers.

In the earlier days of inspection this was a comparatively simple affair: the really important matter was the number of children who had passed or failed in the examination. Upon this, unless there was conspicuous weakness, the greater part of the grant depended, and it was easy to fill up the forms with commonplace criticisms and suggestions. From 1876 to the middle of the ’nineties the pressure increased, until at last reporting became a serious strain on memory, judgment, and conscience; for there was a variable grant for half a dozen subjects, culminating in a variable grant for the general “merit” of the whole school: and each item required some thought. New code after new code relaxed the strain, until inspection arrived at the present effete condition, when the grant is fixed, and the criticisms of H.M.I. are like the bite of a midge; annoying for the moment, but transitory in effect.

Or, as my old headmaster would have said, “like the coruscations of the summer lightning, lambent, but yet innocuous.”

From one corner of my old domain comes a mimic blue-book, containing all the school reports for the past year. Here they are collected; and I look at them with some dismay. Of course I did not write all of them, but I edited all, and I am answerable for all. Some are strongly worded, for, if one does not shout pretty loud to a deaf man, one is not heard. Yet one does not want one’s shouts phonographed. How do the managers and teachers like the reports in print, scattered broadcast?

I search my memory for any parallel publication. The nearest that I can discover is a Cricket Directory, which I saw perhaps forty years ago: I quote from memory fertilised by imagination:

A. B. is a promising run-getter, but he too often forgets that a straight bat is a rudimentary necessity: his fielding is improving: as a bowler he has not been successful this year: his average is x.

C. D. bowled x overs for y runs last season, and took z wickets: this is his best record so far, and makes him a valuable acquisition to a county team. As a batsman he has still much to learn: his average last year was z.

These are complimentary compared with some of the school reports that lie on my table. But when I read them, or rather their prototypes, in that remote period, I was sorry for A. B. and C. D. Yet the writers were subject to the law of libel, and H.M.I., if not malicious, is privileged.

“Others abide our question: thou art free,”

the Law Courts may say. Stern critics sit in Whitehall and weed out all that seems perilous: when the sieve has done its duty there is little left for the lawyers.

I meditate on the extension of the expression of free opinion. How would it work on Sundays? The preacher has a pulpit, and in that inviolable recess has a free tongue for half an hour, with a merciful leaning towards twenty minutes. The organist is a greater libertine. The architect and builder ill-use us, and for the most part we suffer silently. Would the bench of bishops send me about the country to report on church services, and to recommend deductions from the incomes of the incompetent? Of course one would begin with cathedrals and proceed with more lenient rule to parish churches. Probably at least one inspector would be required in each diocese, and as these officials, like school inspectors, would be men of diverse minds, it would be the most racy Bluebook of the year that reproduced their varied views. Let us make some samples:

Norchester Cathedral. Visited on April 1 by Mr. Mendelssohn Brown.

The condition of this cathedral is far from satisfactory. The singing, which is the main object of interest to the greater part of the congregation, is even worse than at last year’s inspection. Of the eight men several should be contemplating acceptance of a retiring pension. The boys are ill-behaved, and their musical capacity is on a level with their behaviour: in the Psalms there was no verse in which they did not make one or more mistakes. The Services were ill-chosen and incorrectly rendered: the Anthem was a pretentious failure. The merely literary part of the service was satisfactory, but it is not desirable to attach too much importance to these rudiments.

Remarks: My Lords will require a more favourable report on the singing as a condition of an unreduced grant.

Westchester Cathedral. Visited on March 7 by Mr. Simeon Jones.

It is gratifying to be able to report well of the musical part of the service: the organ playing was distinctly good, and the singing often reached a high level of excellence. It should, however, be borne in mind that congregational worship is the primary consideration, and special attention should be paid to this feature in the coming year. The Canon in Residence would do well to attend an elocution class at a Continuation school in the winter season: it was with the utmost difficulty that the Lessons were heard, and even in the 16th chapter of Romans four mistakes in the Salutations is 33·3 per cent. above the average for all England. The Dean’s sermon was for the most part inaudible: this is probably not to be regretted from a doctrinal point of view, but the waste of time is a serious consideration.

Remarks: Special attention should be paid to the Inspector’s warning.

Sudchester Cathedral: Visited on Nov. 10 by Mr. Hodge.

The service was very creditably conducted and well attended. It is unfortunate that the collections continue so small. The premises need attention: the choir is dark, and the walls need cleaning. It might be advisable to remove the 15th century stained glass from the East window and to substitute clear glass. If the walls were whitewashed (two coats) there would be less danger from germs. The health and comfort of the congregation should not be sacrificed to merely æsthetic considerations.

Remarks: I am to request that the Dean and Chapter will submit plans and estimates of the work recommended by their Lordships’ Inspector as soon as possible.

Eastchester Cathedral: Visited on Dec. 15 by Mr. Crankie Robinson.

The Dean and Chapter are to be congratulated on the completion of the restoration of this ancient fabric, and which has been carried out in a thoroughly catholic and conservative spirit, with the result of revealing to the present generation the work of Sigismund, first Abbot of Ostia. At the same time the later accretions, notably the lancet windows of the polygonal apse, and the late Perpendicular machicolations, have been reverently handled. The time at my disposal was insufficient to enable me to report fully on the preaching, reading, and singing, but the work seemed satisfactory on the whole. The crypt was very cold.

Remarks: The Dean and Chapter should seriously consider the advisability of warming all parts of the sacred edifice.

Such reports would be what my clerical friends call “distinctly helpful.” If there is any hesitation shown by the episcopal bench in taking it up, Baedeker might be appealed to. By degrees all important places of worship might be gathered in.

This, however, is visionary: I am concerned with the actual.

In framing the school reports “to be communicated to the managers,” we had several rough principles. The first was that a good school would do with a very few words: a bad school required many stripes. The second was that one should begin with the good points (if any), and thus proceed more gracefully to the bad points. But if the place were thoroughly bad, it was thought wise to begin and end with denunciation, sandwiching a few words of faint praise about the middle.

It was noticeable that a master liked to be prepared beforehand for a bad report. One man, of whom I knew something, complained bitterly that the Inspector “before leaving the room was as pleasant as you’d wish, and I thought everything was going well; but when I got the Report I couldn’t sit down for a week after it.” How graphic!

It happened from time to time that a school manager would be goaded into fury. At one time I expected this to occur twice, or it might be thrice, a year. It might almost certainly be predicted that the fight would rage round one adjective or one verb: though the word might be immaterial to the general argument.

From many such contests we were saved by the skill of the examiners in Whitehall. From long experience and not, I am sure, from any congenial dullness of mind, they got to know exactly how a thoroughly stupid manager might misinterpret a harmless phrase; and if they kindly forewarned me, I gratefully substituted something suitable to the meanest capacity. The knavish speech may sleep in the foolish ear, but simple speech may kindle amazing suspicion that will blaze into wrath.

In more remote days our reports were twofold. The full report was sent to the Department, and, if approved, was forwarded to the managers. But, in addition, every certificated teacher who had passed through a period of probation had a parchment certificate of merit; and on this it was our duty to inscribe an epigrammatic abstract of the report on the school, or, if he were a class teacher, on his class. The advantage of this “endorsement” was great. It gave managers of schools a complete history of an applicant’s career. It gave an inspector still more valuable information; for in reading previous endorsements he was often able to supply a good deal that was not apparent on the surface. The opinions of some inspectors had a special value. Others were less esteemed. I was told that one very important School Board had a sort of table, equating the official opinions of all the inspectors in England. But I never heard what Mrs. Harris (teste Mrs. Gamp) would have called “my individgle number.”

The ordinary inspector soon acquired the habit of framing his endorsement on the general principles of his craft. It was not thought fair to speak ill of a teacher on his certificate, unless there were special grounds. Therefore one proceeded by judicious omission. If one read that Mr. A. “taught the elementary subjects with fair success” one drew two inferences; (1) that he could not teach anything else; (2) that his discipline was weak, because it was not mentioned. But if it was stated that Mrs. B. “maintained good order, and was particularly successful in teaching handwriting,” it became obvious that her arithmetic was a deplorable failure. So that to the trained eye the suppressio veri was not a suggestio falsi.

But useful as the system was, it was open to two strong objections. Firstly, it was often hard on a teacher, for the inspector might err, and the endorsement was permanent. Secondly, and this was the last straw, it became an intolerable nuisance to the inspector. In a school of 100 children it was easy to be terse, innocuous, and fairly truthful. But I open a recent notebook, and find a school of 600 boys with 21 teachers. Supposing that ten of these teachers want certificate reports; conceive the strain on the imagination, or the commonplace book! Therefore a cynical and eccentric colleague adopted the startling method of applying the same treatment to all. If this school of 600 boys passed a good examination on the whole, but had two weak classes out of the twenty, then the correct summary would be—“The school has on the whole passed a good examination. Standards II.(b) and III.(c) are not equal to the rest.” And he wrote this on the certificates of all the ten men. Eight at least would say, “What have I to do with the two black sheep? Mine are white.” But the inspector replied, like Mrs. Prig, “Who do you think’s to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear out one’s eyes with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day?” Or words to that effect.

It was recorded of another inspector, whose massive intellect had partly given way under the strain of compiling reports, that in a certain school he wrote:

“The master’s wife has lately died: the school has been painted pea-green.

“J. Tearem, H.M.I.”

These records, I said, were indelible: but there was nothing to prevent a teacher from (so to speak) suiciding his parchment certificate and lamenting its loss for the rest of his life. If the parchment was lost, the Department declined to replace it, unless it had been lost by an inspector. Probably the inspectors lost more than the teachers destroyed, but it was rumoured that the latter method was not unknown. An alternative remedy was to erase undesirable words, and, if necessary, to introduce amendments. This certainly was done occasionally, for there were cases of detection, and that suggests the existence of undetected cases. A more remarkable course was to hire, or buy the parchment of a retired teacher, if possible a homonym, and to trade under that new name with such alterations as were necessary. A colleague told me of a case, which he declared was well known in the village in which the vendor lived. It was in Wales, and it was no one’s business to interfere.

A touching story of a lost parchment is told by one inspector. These documents were not issued till after a period of probation, and if results during that period were not satisfactory, the term might be prolonged indefinitely. A London teacher, when her first chance came, was unsuccessful; and when the next chance came she was more than usually anxious. The inspection went smoothly: she began to hope: and day after day she sat like Mariana, lamenting the delay. Then came the joyful announcement that “the certificate of merit would shortly be issued,” and she became more clamorous. It happened one day, that illness kept her at home on the south side of the Thames, and she sent strictest orders that, if the big envelope with official heading arrived, it was to be locked up in the desk with special care. That very day it came, and the assistant mistress in her friendly zeal determined to disregard orders, and with her own hands to carry it to her care-worn chief. It would do her more good than medicine.

She went by steamer up the Thames, Battersea way; and as it was a cold day, she put the precious burden on her lap, and buried her hands in her muff. There came a sudden gust, which lifted the big square envelope, whirled it round, and tossed it into the river. And she was left lamenting.

First the news had to be broken to the bereaved one. Like Tennyson’s dame

“(She) wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.”

She was frantic with grief, and her friends trembled for her intellect, such as it was. But the assistant was a girl of much resourcefulness. Her father was a prominent official in the body that looks after the Thames: she went to him, and told the piteous tale. My colleague—but he was an imaginative man—alleged that they dragged the river from Teddington Lock to the Nore, but caught nothing. Finally it was decided that a sea-gull had detected a meaty flavour beneath the paper cover and had carried it off.

I am glad to say that after prolonged correspondence the Department issued a duplicate.

Of all endorsements the most difficult to frame was the initial entry. At the end of the term of probation the teacher had to give a formal lesson on any topic or object that he chose: it was supposed to last for twenty minutes, and H.M.I. was expected to sum up his opinion of the lesson and of the teacher’s general capacity in one compact sentence. Very often one disregarded the formal lesson, for the teacher might be all but speechless with fright, and the verdict had to be based on the general results of the year’s work.

In one such case I was in great doubt. The mistress was very young and very pretty. She had light hair and blue eyes, and it follows that she was very nervous. I cannot say that her school did very well. I think it was deficient in Arithmetic: but she was very charming. Should the parchment be issued? My Assistant was susceptible, and soft-hearted: he pleaded for her: she was all alone in this country school: her Certificate examination at Whitelands—one of the leading Colleges—showed that she had plenty of brains: she had done her best, and she would improve. Finally I gave way, and suggested as the endorsement: “Miss X. is a pretty fair teacher.” He agreed rapturously, and so it was written. But the next year my chief visited the school, and according to custom called for the parchment. And (so the assistant told me) when he read the entry, and caught sight of the “pretty, fair” one in front of her class, it smote him suddenly, and he retreated hastily to the Infants’ class-room.

All endorsements are now abolished; I am not sure whether there is even a parchment certificate. It is many years since I saw one.

Oh, Miss O’Flaherty! do you remember your bon mot at St. Petronius’ school? I asked, you know, whether you had any poetry to say as part of the examination for your certificate, and you replied with a twinkle of your Irish eyes: “I’ve got all the certificates I want—(and you added softly)—except one.”

CHAPTER XXIV
SINGING

“I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.”
Much Ado.

The ordinary work of school inspection is not exciting to an outside spectator. There is nothing in the Three R’s to quicken the pulse, or to raise the temperature. Grammar, geography, history only seem to produce profound thankfulness in the onlooker’s mind, that he is not on the rack; there may be absurd answers, but if he laughs, the effect on the children may be disastrous. For varied interest of a mild kind, I should recommend composition and natural history. Ladies like needlework. Some can stand with a sweet smile on their faces while the children sing. Here, then, are four subjects upon which something may be said.

The list of accomplishments that I do not possess would be lengthy. But on the credit side I may put music—up to Standard III. That is not an exalted boast, but it places me far ahead of many of my old colleagues. I could look over a music paper, if it was not Tonic Sol-fa, and when the children sang school songs with the view of getting the Government Grant of 6d. or 1s., I was able to make quite valuable remarks.

For an inspector, a knowledge of music is an useful, but not altogether an enviable possession. He ought to be able to decide whether singing is correct and tuneful, but the man who does not know suffers less. (This sounds like a quotation from the Ethics, but I believe Aristotle is free from blame.) At one conference of inspectors we discussed rules for awarding the grant for singing. The code laid down the principle that, if the children sang “by note,” the possible grant was 1s. per head; if “by ear,” it was only 6d.; to get the higher grant they had to do certain exercises—that was simple enough. There were ten of us present, and it happened that I was the only man who personally conducted the examinations; the others sent their assistants. I was appealed to, as an expert, to say when we should be justified in refusing even the lower grant, that for singing by ear. One valued colleague, who admitted that he detected no difference between one tune and another, remarked that his plan was to watch the face of the head teacher. If it showed disgust and loathing, disappointment and fear, he concluded that the necessary standard had not been reached, and he refused the grant. But this obviously led to hypocrisy. And the head teacher might be no judge, or too exacting. Finally I suggested, and it was carried unanimously, THAT if the singing was so far tolerable that you could stop in the room to the very end, the grant might be paid; BUT THAT if you had to rush into the playground, a stern refusal should follow.

It was a very incomplete test. I have known men who could smile at the Salvation Army band.

In the early days there was very little note-singing. There was no extra grant for voice cultivation or any other form of scientific training; merely 1s. for twelve songs. Then, I think in 1876, came the graduated scale of 6d. or 1s., and then, or later, the number of songs was reduced to eight. As most schools could not receive more than 15s. or 17s. 6d. a head, however much they might earn, there was not much inducement to pile up the losses. But the clergy encouraged note-singing for the sake of their choirs, and the teachers found it an agreeable change from the monotony of the ordinary routine. So the work grew, till it became rare to find a school that did not attempt Tonic Sol-fa at the least. Then the special grant was merged in the large principal grant.

Hymns were forbidden between 10 and 4.30 (or the equivalent times). A school manager once protested to me against this restriction. I suggested that if managers chose hymns containing “doctrine distinctive of any denomination” there would be ructions. He said triumphantly that his selection would satisfy all parties: it was Moody and Sankey. The pachyderm has many advantages.

But it was not always easy to draw the line, if one wanted to draw it; and it was rumoured that a pedantic inspector objected to the National Anthem, as having a religious tendency. It was probably the same man who corrected a similar error in history. The question was, Who was the wisest man that ever lived? A child, who knew more than I do, answered “Solomon,” and the teacher said “Yes”; but H.M.I. said, “No: not after 10: say ‘Solon.’”

Some schools sang beautifully in two- or three-part harmony. They were not always the most successful in other branches of study, and I am inclined to doubt Shakespeare’s theory of the evil disposition of the unmusical man. We did our best to encourage harmony, beginning with simple rounds of two or three parts. And the story is told by an Inspector of established credibility, that in a certain school he had advised this rudimentary method, and was asked by an uncultured master, “What is a round?” H.M.I. explained, taking “Three blind mice” as an example: “The first class will sing the first line; then the second class will take it up, while the first class go on to the second line; and then the third class chime in.” The master listened deferentially, and promised to do his best. Next year, as the Inspector approached the school for his annual visit after formal notice, he heard from afar sounds so agonizing that he hurried on to see what had gone wrong. He found the whole school shrieking as though they were possessed by the fiends in Berlioz’ Faust. Naturally he asked for an explanation.

“This,” said the master, “is the round you recommended. They are singing ‘The Last Rose of Summer’; the first class sing the first line, the second class the second line, and so on, as you suggested. We found it hard at first, but I think we have mastered it now.”

Of course, in many schools, the head teacher is not a musician. But most of them could “hum a bit,” and they generally were awarded the grant for singing by ear. Their choice of songs was marvellous. Never shall I forget the fury of an eminent Celtic scholar, who at one time adorned the office of Inspector, when he found that a master had taught the children to sing the “pence-table” to the hallowed strains of “Llwyn On” (The Ash Grove):

“Twenty pence are one and eightpence;
Twenty-four pence two shillings;
Thirty-pence are two and sixpence;
Thirty-six pence three shillings.”

I suggested “Three Bob” as more suitable to the metre, which requires a monosyllable at the end of the fourth line; but the amendment was lost; like the well-meant suggestion of Fitz James, it “added but fuel to his hate”; I was told (in effect) that “Llwyn On” should be sung dolce, cantabile, con molta tenerezza; and the children sang it staccato, alla marcia, giocoso. I fear that school got a poor report.

This unhallowed wedding of trivial verse to immortal melody often disturbed even my placid temper. I remember in one school, after listening for some time to some moral sentiments sung to a tune that haunted me with memories of my youth, I recovered the “Lost Chord,” and enquired of the Lady of the Manor, who (suspendens omnia naso) was keeping an eye on my movements, whether she recognized the air. She failed to do so, and I had the pleasure of informing her that it was “Villikins and Dinah,” a tune which, about the time of the Crimean War, divided popularity with “Partant pour la Syrie,” and preceded “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter.” How did it go fifty years since?

“As Villikins was a vallikin in his garden around,
He saw his fair Dinah lay dead on the ground;
A cup of cold poison lay close by her side,
And a billet-dow wot said as how ’twas of poison she died.”

Little did I think to meet Dinah again in a Public Elementary School. The Lady of the Manor sniffed scornfully: probably the mistress heard of it next day. I am sorry I did not ask for a copy of the amended words.

In another school I was cheered by the sound of “Nelly Bly,” a nigger song (shall we say negro melody?) of the Early Carolina period, say 1858-9. There I did ask for a copy of the words, and here they are:

“In Asia and in Africa
The elephant is found:
He larger is than any beast
That walks upon the ground:
When tame he is gentle and mild,
And does what he’s desired,
But if he’s mocked or treated ill,
With anger he is fired.”

I forget the rest, but this is genuine. There should have been a chorus of Hi Jumbo, Ho Jumbo; but it was before the days of the popular beast.

In an old Blue Book, more than thirty years ago, I read a lamentation of an Inspector in this district that he had heard “A Southerly Wind” to an extent that would have sickened a Cheshire fox-hunter, and “The Neat Little Clock” till he could wish that time were no more. The latter was a drivelling piece of morality sung to the beautiful old tune of “The Woodpecker”: it lasted well into my epoch, but it seems to be extinct now.

At times one attempted to guide the popular taste. In a fishing village, where there was a lighthouse, I persuaded the master to teach Kingsley’s “Three Fishers”: and in an Irish school I urged Moore’s Melodies. But in neither case was the result encouraging, and the attempt was not repeated. Then it occurred to me one day, as it did with a more satisfactory result to Juvenal, “am I always to be only a hearer?” or as to Fletcher of Saltoun’s “very wise man,” if a man were permitted to make all the school songs, he need not care who should make the Code. And I wrote for a friendly infant school a parody of Gilbert’s Minstrel’s Song, in the “Yeomen of the Guard”: it was arranged antiphonally for boys and girls, and the second verse ran thus:

Boys: I have a song to sing, oh.
Girls: Sing me that song, oh.
Boys: It’s the song of the pie, and the greedy boy
Who sat in his lonely corner;
It’s the song of a boy with a greedy thumb,
Which he put in the pie to pull out a plum;
The little dog laughed when he saw such sport,
For he always laughed when he didn’t ought,
He never was at school, and never was taught,
A naughty boy, Jack Horner.
All: Heigh dey, heigh dey,
Heigh diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The little dog laughed when he saw the sport
Of the naughty boy, Jack Horner.

I think the teachers were a little doubtful about the grammar of “didn’t ought,” and candour compels me to admit that the song was not a success. Two schools sang it “to oblige the Inspector,” but on him, at least, it had the effect of a penitential psalm. I wrote no more.

Strange that there should be any difficulty in finding words of songs: “the world was all before them where to choose.” England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales contribute folk-songs of sufficient merit and variety, though, at times, of dialectic English. Germany is always at hand. But I admit that if you deduct in each case songs in praise of Bacchus, Diana, and Venus, there is a large gap.

CHAPTER XXV
NATURAL HISTORY

“His acquaintance with Natural History is surprising. Quite a Buffoon.”—Old Curiosity Shop.

In Public Elementary Schools the study of Natural History is still in its infancy. But there are signs of its assuming practical importance. In one school in the county in which I write, it has developed energy in a truly surprising manner. Our county paper recently informed us that the boys attending that place of learning had caught and killed an astonishing number of “worbles” in the past year; I think over 63,000.

This is a mere plagiarism from the methods of Dotheboys Hall. I turn to the chronicles thereof, and I read:

“Please, sir, he’s weeding the garden.”

“To be sure,” said Squeers, “so he is. B-O-T bot, T-I-N tin, bottin, N-E-Y ney, bottiney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learnt that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows ’em.”

What is a worble? That I know not: the worble-hunters were not in my district. Nor is the creature traceable in Miss Ormerod’s “Manual of Injurious Insects.”[39] I think it molests cattle, and therefore the farmers’ sons are keen to “take away that worble.” And as the school is in the middle of a great hunting district, the desire for the chase is instinctive.

There is, however, no need to limit children to worbles. In London, for instance, the supply of this prey would be insufficient; but in so large a town there would be little difficulty in establishing a special entomological “line.” There would be room for research of the most varied kind. The names of several species will instantly occur to the reader. If Marylebone and Westminster could be induced to make competitive collections of the best known, the sympathy of all London would be enlisted, and education would enjoy a popularity which it has hitherto failed to attain.

To tell the truth, we did not profess to teach natural history as a part of the regular course. But we gave object-lessons; that is, lessons on an object placed before a class; and as the object was usually a picture, and as the pictures usually represented either Scripture scenes, or animals, it followed that—after 10 a.m.—most of the lessons were on animals. Our ménagerie was a small one, and, the remarkable habits and properties of the creatures being traditional, there was little chance of its extension. A new beast would require study. Moreover, the managers did not like buying too many pictures.

Will you accompany me through a large infant school? The head mistress greets me: “The first class was going to have a lesson on the elephant: will that do?” Oh yes; let us have the elephant.

“Loungin’ around and sufferin’,” said Uncle Remus. The elephant is painfully familiar. When the visitor to Continental picture galleries catches sight of S. Sebastian—“arrowed, but unharrowed”—he hastily turns away in search of novelty: and so would we gladly do here. Bitter constraint and sad occasion compel us to listen for a decent time, though our thoughts wander to pity for the unhappy fate of the huge beast. To be as big as that, and yet because of “a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip,” as Falstaff puts it, to be in the estimation of infant schools a compound of the clown and the pantaloon; and to be lectured on by pupil-teachers,

“Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias,”

it is a cruel destiny. But who could respect an animal with that tail?

The lesson is devoid of interest. How do I know, when admittedly my thoughts have been wandering? Because the children are better judges than I, and they have damned it by entire indifference. Would the Inspector like to ask any questions at the end? Only one:

“What does the elephant eat?”

“Buns.”

Will I take the second class? Certainly. I am offered the camel. The camelus scholasticus is as well known to me as my dog. I know his whole history, his habitat, his food-and-water arrangements, his disposition. He differs considerably from the Camelus Kiplingicus, or Melancholy ’Oont:

“The ’orse ’e knows above a bit, the bullock’s but a fool,
The elephant’s a gentleman, the battery-mule’s a mule;
But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said and done,
’E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan child in one.”

But our camel is gentle, meek, anxious to oblige. The lesson is going on, while I make these valuable reflections, and the beast’s picture hangs on the easel: if he is at all like his picture, mallem errare cum Platone, I side with Mr. Kipling. The camel has been called the ship of the desert. He is very useful; he lives in very hot countries, where it is very hot. Tommy Jones, don’t fidget; listen to teacher. And he lives in the desert, where there is nothing but sand all round. Mary Smith, if you don’t give over talking, teacher will be very cross with you: yes, my word, &c., &c.

When the stream of drivel has run dry, I ask:

“Where does the camel live?”

“In very ’ot coontries.”

“Yes: but whereabouts?”

“In the desert.”

“And what does he live on there?”

“Sahnd.”

“Sand? Yes; but I mean, what does he get to eat?”

“Sahnd.”

“And what does he get to drink in the desert?”

“Water.”

“And where does he get that from?”

“Out of the taps.”

I had not thought of that. There comes up a recollection of a Norfolk country school, where, after hearing all the uses and the virtues of the camel, I asked whether there were any of these precious beasts in Norfolk? None. And if the camel was so useful, why not? The answer came from the gamekeeper’s son:

“’Cos that ’ud tread on th’ young pheasants.”

I looked at its sprawling feet as shown in the picture, and understood their unfitness for a game-preserving county.

We must move on again. The third class is hearing about the mole, and I pause for a minute on the way:

The mole is useful because it eats the worms, which would eat the potatoes and get into our food. Is it ever idle? No, it is always working; digging fresh passages.

Good old mole! “Well said, old mole! can’st work i’ the ground so fast?” Let us try the next class. It is engaged on the lion, and an elderly dame has got to thirdly and lastly. Etiquette requires that the lesson should conclude with some remarks on the use of the lion.

“What is the use of the lion? The use of the lion is to ’unt. What is the use of the lion, children?”

Chorus: “To ’UNT, teacher.”

I find she means “to be hunted”: and, when the children are gone out to play, I put it to her whether she really thinks that beneficent Providence has created the lion on purpose that man should hunt him. She is a little staggered by this presentment of her own doctrine, but pleads that it is so stated in her book, and produces it. There it is in black and white! I have little doubt that a similar belief is held by fox-hunters and other sportsmen. “Crewel,” said an old keeper, when reproached for badger-baiting, “why, whativer do yo think as badgers was made for?”

In ten minutes the children return from the playground, and I am implored not to forget the babies: they are going to have an object-lesson, and the pupil-teacher is waiting for me. It is Mary Williams, whose pretty face and pretty ways make her the idol of the babies, and even draw a smile from my grimmest Sub. I yield to pressure. The babies are hot and dusty, and riotous, and have to be relieved with a song, just to blow off steam. What is next on the agenda paper? The cow? Let us have the cow. The whole class sees the picture of the cow brought down from the wall, but nevertheless we must approach the subject as tradition dictates:

P.T.: As I was coming to school this morning along High Street I heard a great noise, and there was a man in a blue frock, driving a great big animal down the road. What do you think it was, babies?

Chorus: A kyow, teacher.

(H.M.I. to head mistress, sotto voce: “If ye had not plowed with my heifer, ye had not found out my riddle.” Head-mistress, uncertainly: “Ye-es.”)

P.T.: Yes, a cow, and here’s a picture of a cow. (The class regard it with blank indifference born of familiarity.) Now the cow is a very useful animal:——

Billy Jones (Amicus curiæ): I seen a kyow this mornin’ as I was comin’, an’ it was a bull: and it run at a mon an’ ’orned ’im nearly, only ’ee got away—”(pauses for want of breath).

P.T. (coldly): That will do, Billy, you mustn’t talk now till teacher has done. And it gives us milk. What little boy or girl had milk for their breakfast this morning, I wonder? (Alarums and excursions, many competing claims to have had two moogs full.) Yes, and that came from the cow. What has it got on its head? Horns, yes. And what can it do with its horns, Jenny?

Jenny: Hike yer. (i. e. toss you.)

P.T. (much shocked): Oh, Jenny! I told you never to say “hike.” The cow would give you a great knock. And how many legs has it got?

My attention wanders, as if I were sitting under a dull preacher, and in the absence of mural tablets I study the pictures and general exhibits. With joy I hail a reading sheet for infants:

Bill is not well. He is ill at the mill. Bid Ann fill a can of jam, and get us a bit of ham, and we will go with them to him. Did Bill sip the jam? Oh yes, he sat up in his bed, and did sip jam till his lips were red. He did not have a bit of ham. We sat with Bill till six, and then we set off.

I infer that Bill succumbed to this novel treatment at 5.55, and that they fled in haste, when they were quite sure, you know. But I think if they had given him the ham, too, he would have gone off quicker, if that was all they wanted.

Over the fireplace is the time table for the babies’ class. It is “approved by me as satisfying the Conscience Clause.” (In those days our control over time tables went no further.) The babies have two lessons a week, each of fifteen minutes, on “threading a needle.” I think the Conscience Clause might come in here. On Friday afternoon they have a lesson on riddles! And I never knew that! “Why does a miller wear a white hat?” “When is a door not a door?” For children who have gone through a year of this course of instruction, including the cow, the camel, and the cat, life has no further terrors, and death comes as a happy release.

The cow is nearly exhausted. “And it has a very, very long tongue, and when it wants to get some grass to eat, it wraps its tongue round the grass, and tears it off. Isn’t that clever? Yes, Sally, you shall go home directly, if you are a good girl.”

The closure is applied: the lesson ends, and the cow “winds slowly” to its place on the wall. As I go, I mutter to myself the old tag—

“Claudite jam rivos, pueri, sat prata biberunt,”[40]

and it reminds me of a familiar Swiss scene. The Matterhorn, the Zmutt glacier, and the Dent Blanche make the background: in the foreground daddy with a spade is diverting the runnels to feed another meadow, and Anastasia, aged seven, is not embittering life in Standard I., but superintends the prolonged meal of a tethered cow, and at the same time “minds” Seraphina and Claudinus, aged three and four respectively, who sprawl contentedly on the Alp, and pull to pieces what I call crocus, and the gods call Colchicum Alpinum. They toil not, nor do they thread needles, but they know a good deal about a cow.

Where is Mary? “Oh! Mary, Mary, quite contrairy, did you tell those babies any mortal thing about the cow that they didn’t know before they came in?”

“Well, Mr. Kynnersley, there was that about the tongue.”

“Mary, Mary, did you ever hear of the book—” (I pause, trying to remember the details)—

“Do you mean the Bible, Mr. Kynnersley?”

“No, Mary, nor ‘Bradshaw’: the book that contained things that are true and things that are new: but the things that are true are not new, and the things that are new are not true?”

Mary looks at me in utter bewilderment. I box her pretty ears, pull her pretty hair, and dismiss her, quite unrepentant, to her dinner. The teacher of the second class stands where I left her—“Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves.”

She thinks I was not pleased with her presentment of the camel. I soothe her, and at that moment appears from the end class-room a bright-eyed little body, with a model, and a pile of literature. “Why, Miss Miranda!” I exclaim, “where have you been all the morning?”

“In the class-room with Standard I., Mr. Kynnersley, and you never came near my class.”

How was I to know that there was a class in there? What has she got in her hands? There is a model of a camel, a sketch of its internal arrangements, “Wood’s Natural History,” and rough notes of the lesson. Oh, Miss Miranda!

“Excellent wench!
Perdition catch my soul but I do——”

wish there were more teachers like you.