Chapter Four.
“Up for Exam.”
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man!
In pursuance of the vicar’s advice, I hied me without delay to the tutor whom he had specially recommended; and, setting to work diligently, crammed, as hard as I could, for my expected examination.
“Cramming,” nothing more nor less, was, undoubtedly, the system pursued by this modern instructor of maturity—I cannot say ‘of youth,’ as the majority of his pupils were men who had long cut their wisdom teeth, and worn the virile toga almost threadbare:—stalwart men, “bearded like the pard,” in the fashion of Hamlet’s warrior, which has now become so general that heroes and civilians are indistinguishable the one from the other.
The crammer dosed these with facts and figures at a five-hundred-horse-power rate, interlarding them with such stray skeleton scraps of popular information as mendicant scholars may pick up from the sumptuously-spread tables of the learned, through those crumb-like compilations of chronology and history, with which we are familiar, styled “treasures of knowledge:”—thus, he injected into the brain of his neophytes dates by the dozen and proper names—geographical ones in particular—by the score, impressing them on stubborn memories through the aid of some easily-learnt rhyme, or comic association, that made even the dullest comprehension retentive for awhile.
His entire curriculum consisted, mainly, in the getting by heart, with their answers, of sundry old civil service examination papers which he kept in stock—continually increasing his store as fresh ones were issued by the examining board, until he was at length master of every question which had ever puzzled a candidate from the era of the first competition down to the present day.
His motive in this was very obvious. The crammer argued, not only wisely, but well, that a certain proportion of these questions were pretty safe to be again propounded in subsequent contests, just as one sees antique Joe Millers appear again and again, at regular recurring intervals, in the excruciating “Facetiae” columns of those penny serials, of limited merit and “unlimited circulation,” that delight the eyes and ears of below-stairs readers, the staple of whose mental pabulum they principally form.
The crammer was right in his premises, as I’ve said, the old queries being so frequently put and re-put, that they amount on average to fifty per cent, at least, of the total number that may be set to-morrow, to addle the brains of the Smiths, Browns, and Robinsons who may be ambitious of serving their country in a red-tape capacity.
It has often struck me that the general principles of our national system of education are open to considerable improvement.
We go to work on a wrong foundation.
Any plan of instruction, meant to be permanent in its effects, should be homogeneous: we, on the contrary, so break up and divide the different branches of ordinary knowledge, that they resemble more a number of disconnected particles, loosely strung together without order or uniformity, than the kindred units of a harmonious whole—as should properly be the case.
We mark out and specify, geography, history, science, and Belles Lettres, as distinct subjects for study—whereas, in reality, they dovetail into one another in the closest bonds of relationship; and, were they only thus judiciously intermingled, in one, thorough, cosmical course of learning, they would, most likely, be better understood in their separate parts, and, undoubtedly, be better remembered.
For instance, in grounding the young idea in the geography of any particular country, the main points of its history should follow as a natural sequence. Its seas and rivers would lead to the consideration of commerce and the polity of nations:—the mention of its towns, suggest the names of its great men in literature and art. Its scenery would call to mind the poets who might have made it famous, the artists who may have portrayed its beauties with their pencil; while, to pursue the theme, its valleys and mountains would remind the student of the value of agriculture and mineral wealth—besides attracting his notice to atmospherical and other scientific phenomena, that can be far more readily comprehended by young learners, when thus seen, as it were, in action, than if taught merely in separate dry treatises that seem to have little in common with the busy, bustling, moving world, whose laws they affect to expound.
My plan, indeed, would be a further development of the Kindergarten scheme, and the Pestalozzian system, generally.
As soon as children had passed through the rudimentary stages of instruction, being able to spell and read correctly, their advanced studies should be entirely shorn of their present routine characteristics. They might be made so full of life, and even amusement, that they would thenceforth lose their lesson look; and be, correspondingly, all the more easily-learnt. In fact, they would appear more as a series of interesting pastimes than school tasks.
Instead of making boys and girls con so many pages, say, of the geography of China, at the same time that they are wading through the history of the Norman Conquest, for instance; those two subjects should be made to bear the one upon the other.
The deeds of Duke Robert would lead to a consideration of the places mentioned in connection with them, their geographical position, geology, local traditions, celebrities, and other archaeological associations; while, their after-bearing on the history of our country should not be omitted.
The doings of the Black Prince might, also be exampled as inducing the study of the geography of northern France. Cressy, and Poitiers, and Agincourt, might, naturally, suggest the first use of gunpowder, its composition, and invention; and, then, the improvements in modern weapons of war would follow as a natural consequence, which would end in their being compared with the old flint implements, that are so frequently found to the delight of antiquaries’ hearts.
In this way, the literature of any particular period might be combined with its history and geography:—science, and other technical matters, being incidentally introduced; and, the pupil’s imagination, in addition, kept in play, by allowing him or her to peruse such good historical novels and light essays as would bear upon the life and times of the people of whom they were reading.
Celebrated battles of the world, memorable deeds, and famous men, would then no longer be classed in separate order, as so many bald facts, and dates, and names, to be learnt and remembered in chronological sequence; but, the young student would take such deep interest in them from the various pieces of desultory and comprehensive information he may have picked up in reference, that he could tell you “all about them” in succinct narrative—in lieu of merely being only able to mention their bare statistical connections.
You may urge, perhaps, that this system would take a long time to work; and that a large portion of the knowledge thus learnt would be quickly forgotten?
But, to the first objection I would reply, that, I do not see why it should take any longer than the ordinary practice of educating children, now in vogue; as, instead of considering the various subjects separately, they would only be taught the same things contemporaneously, as parts of a whole; and, I certainly would be inclined to “back” one of my scholars, if I instructed any on the principle, to know more of the general history and polity of the world and of the different countries respectively that compose it—besides possessing a fair acquaintance with modern literature and science—than one taught in the old fashion for thrice the time.
With regard to your second demurrer, I would say, that, granting that a good deal of this stray information might pass in at one ear and out of the other; still, much would remain—sufficient and more than sufficient to render the scholar better educated, as a rule, than many men who yearly obtain high honours at the university for special attainments in “the humanities.”
Under my system, they would be educated to more practical purpose for future usefulness; for, the knowledge of college men is generally limited to certain class books, while, generously-schooled youths, on this plan, would have extracted the honey from almost every volume they could pick up, ranging from Pinnock’s Catechism of Common Things at one extreme, to Ruskin’s Ethics of the Dust at the other—and, I think, that allows a very fair margin for criticism!
But, you may now ask, what on earth have I, Frank Lorton, got to do with all this; especially at the present moment, when I have not yet passed my examination before Her Majesty’s Polite Letter Writer Commissioners?
What, indeed! All I can say for my unpardonable digression is, that I was, I suppose, born a reformer at heart, having an itching desire to be continually setting matters straight around me of all kinds and bearings. The mention of those confounded “crammers,” led me on to talk about examinations in general; and, while on the topic, I could not stop until I had thoroughly relieved my mind from an incubus of educational zeal that has long lain there dormant.
Now, I will proceed again, with your permission and pardon—which latter, I’m confident, is already granted.
Thanks to an excellent memory, and a firm resolve to succeed “by hook or by crook,” I made the most of all my crammer taught me; although, like most of his pupils, I found it at first rather irksome. However, my work had to be done, and I did it. I consoled myself with the reflection that it was all for Min eventually; and, obeying the behests of my tutor, I quickly learnt all the endless series of names and dates that he entrusted to my memory—to the very letter and spirit thereof.
In a fortnight, he told me that he considered me “safe” to pass “the board”—an assurance which I was by no means sorry to hear; as, independently of my discovering that “cramming” is not the most interesting mode of beguiling one’s time, I received at the end of the same period, through the kind exertions of the vicar on my behalf, a nomination to the Obstructor General’s Office.
The official letter conveying the gratifying intelligence of my nomination, directed me, also, to present myself on the following Tuesday morning, at “ten of the clock” precisely, before the examining board of commissioners—taking care to furnish myself with a duly authenticated certificate of baptism and one testifying my moral character; neither of which had I any difficulty in procuring.
Thus provided, and crammed, “up to the nines,” by my temporary pedagogue, I put in my due appearance, as required, to have my attainments tested:—in order that I might be reported upon as fit, or not, to undertake the very onerous duties of the office to which I had been probationally appointed.
I was quite hopeful as to the result, for my “crammer” again impressed me at the last moment with his entire conviction that I would pass with éclat; while, my good friend the vicar, who had given me the most flaming of testimonials, cheered me up with his cordial wishes for my success, as did also dear little Miss Pimpernell, in her customary impulsive way.
“Down along in Westminster, not far from the side of the wa—ter,” as is sung in the eloquent strains of a certain “Pretty Little Ratcatcher’s Daughter,” who was known and admired “all around that quar—ter,” stands the not-by-any-means-gloomy-looking mansion of Her Majesty’s Polite Letter Writer Commissioners—over whose fell door so many trembling candidates for situations under Government might, very reasonably, trace the mystic characters of the inscription surmounting Dante’s Inferno—“Lasciate ogni speranza doi ch’ entrate!”
Arrived here, and mounting a series of stairs until I had reached the topmost floor, to which I was directed by the janitor, I found myself at last in a long, low, gothic-lighted room—whose windows had commanding views of the grand hotel over the way, the roof of the Abbey alongside, and the police station in the centre of the problematical “green” in front.
Here, the competitors could reflect—while awaiting their papers, or when chewing the cud of contentment or despair at the contemplation of the same—on what might be the vicissitudes of their lot in the event of their failure or success.
At a given signal, fifty-nine other persons and myself, all doomed to compete for six vacancies in the much-desired office of the Obstructor General, were ushered, like schoolboys, into another and inner room, opening out of the former and garnished with rows of green-baize-covered tables, running from end to end.
This room seemed to bring back to me a host of old recollections; and, each moment, I was expecting to see the ghost of “Old Jack,” my head instructor at Queen’s College School in days of yore, and hear him exclaiming in his well-remembered stentorian tones—“Boy Lorton—you are detained for inattention! Stop in and write five hundred lines!”—and, then, to see him come swooping down the room upon me, with wrath and majesty seated on his bald brow and his gown flowing behind him.
He generally took such enormous strides, when moved with a sudden desire to punish some lost soul, whom he might suspect of the heinous crimes of idleness or “cribbing”—both unforgivable offences in his calendar—that the aforesaid gown, I recollect, seemed frequently to float over his head—forming in conjunction with his square college cap, alias “mortar board,” a regular “nimbus,” like that surrounding the heads of the saints in old pictures.
The Polite Letter Writer Commissioners—or rather, their executive—were, I must confess, much quieter in their demeanour, moving about as stealthily as if they were engaged in any number of Gunpowder, or Rye House Plots, or other conspiracies.
Perhaps, you say, they were much too orderly in their proceedings for me?
Well, I don’t think so, exactly; still, I do not believe much in the justice and impartiality of the Vehmgerichte, Parliamentary committees, the Berlin police, the prefects of the past empire, Monsieur Thiers’s communistic courts-martial, or of the New York Erie Ring—nor, indeed of any representative, or, other body, which hides its deeds and decisions under a cloak of secrecy!
Be that as it may, the method of the examiners did not tend to reassure us, speaking collectively of the sixty of us who now awaited judgment—fifty-four of whom were pre-ordained to failure, and knew it, which certainly militated against any chance of their looking upon the preparations for their torture with a lenient eye.
At regular intervals along the green-baize tables were deposited small parcels of stationery, consisting of a large sheet of sanguinary blotting-paper, a quire or so of foolscap, a piece of indiarubber, an attenuated lead-pencil, a dozen of quill pens, with others of Gillott’s or Mitchell’s manufacture, and an ink bottle—the whole putting one in mind of those penny packets of writing requisites that itinerant pedlars, mostly seedy-looking individuals who “have seen better days,” pester one’s private house with in London; and which they are so anxious to dispose of, that they exhibit the greatest trust in your integrity, leaving their wares unsolicited behind them, and intimating that they will “call again for an answer.”
The present parcels were also “left for answers”—answers on which depended our future prospects and position!
Seated in state, on a sort of daïs in the centre of the room, was a courteous and urbane personage of affable exterior. He was further hedged in with a species of outwork of the sentry-box formation, which concealed his lower limbs from view:—a precaution evidently designed to protect him from the fierce onslaught of some demented candidate—who, when suffering from the continuous effect of “examination on the brain,” might have been suddenly goaded to frenzy by a string of unsolvable questions.
This gentleman entreated us, as a first step, to “stand by” the forms—like a crew of sailors about to make sail; and then, in the words of the Unjust Steward, to “sit down and write quickly,” each in front of one of the little piles of stationery.
We obeyed this injunction as well as we were able, although many of us, unaccustomed to rapid penmanship, found the latter part of the order rather difficult of accomplishment. It was all very well to say, “Sit down and write quickly!” but, what, if we had nothing to say, and didn’t know how to say it?
Ah!
Under the tutelage of the superintending chief, lesser satellites ministering occasionally to our wants in the matter of pens and paper, and distributing fresh series of questions to us every hour or so, we were for three days put through the paces of what the examiners held to be “the requirements of a sound liberal English education”—I, certainly, should, however, have thought but “small potatoes,” as the Americans say, of the general attainments of the lot of us in this respect, if all we possessed were tested on the occasion, or even a tithe of our knowledge!
If one could have set aside one’s own interest in the contest, the scene in that long low room of the Polite Letter Writer Commissioners was amusing enough.
You should only have watched the anxious glances we bent around on each other, after first scanning over the printed lists supplied to puzzle us! How we cordially sympathised with the hopeless vacant stare of ignorance, proceeding from some tall, bearded individual, well on in his twenties—who looked far more fit to shoulder a musket and go to the wars, like our French friend, “Malbrook,” than to be thus condemned again to school-boy duties! How we glared, also, at any brilliant competitor, whose down-bent head seemed too intent on mastering the subject set before him; and, whose ready pen appeared to be travelling over paper at far too expeditious a rate for our chances of winning the clerkly race! With what horror and despair, we confronted a “poser” that was placed to catch us napping:—how we jumped at anything easy!
Taking note of the examiner’s watchfulness; the hushed silence that reigned around, only broken by the scribbling sound of busy workers and the listless shuffling of the feet of others, who, having, as they sanguinely thought, completely mastered their tasks, had nothing further to occupy their time until “the gaudy pageant” should be “o’er”—the whole thing, really, was school all over again!
I believed, every moment, that I was back again once more in the well-remembered “B” schoolroom at Queen’s—where and when Old Jack, promenading all in his glory, caused me often to “tremble for fear of his frown,” like that “Sweet Alice,” whom Ben Bolt loved and basely deserted.
To still further carry out the romantic resemblance, we were allowed an hour at noon for rest and refreshment each day that the examination lasted.
Many, undoubtedly, devoted this interval steadily to recruiting the wants of the inner man; but, one could well fancy them bursting off madly into some boyish game, with all the ardour that their previous application may have generated—the shouts of the Westminster scholars in the adjacent yard bearing out the illusion.
I spent my play-hour in wandering through the classic shades of the Abbey next door, looking over the memorial tablets of “sculptured brass and monumental marble,” erected to the honour of departed worthies:—I wished, you know, to keep my mind in a properly reflective state for the afternoon hours of examination—history and other abstruse studies being usually then set.
A few mad, hair-brained youths, however, I was sorry to observe, beguiled the interregnum with billiards and beer; but, these, I’m delighted to add, got handsomely plucked for their pains—as they richly deserved. You and I, you know, never drink beer or play billiards. Oh, dear no! Never, on my word!
As all things must come to an end at some time or other, the examination proved no exception to the rule, duly dragging its weary length along until it came to a dead stop.
A week afterwards I learnt my fate. I had not passed with the ”éclat” my tutor prophesied; but, I contrived to get numbered amongst those fortunate six who secured their appointments out of the entire sixty that competed.
I only got through “by the skin of my teeth,” the crammer said; still, that was quite sufficient for me. I had, therefore, you see, no cause of quarrel with the examining board. They had, it is true, made me out to have only barely come up to the required standard in French—a language with which I had been familiar from childhood; but, they compensated for this, by according me full marks in book-keeping—which I had been totally ignorant of a week before the examination; and, I only answered the questions asked me therein through dint of the wholesale theoretical cramming of my tutor!
So much for the value of the ordeal.
I maintain that, in many instances, these competitive examinations are quite uncalled-for, and a great mistake.
In the one I was engaged in, for example, two-thirds of the candidates were men who had already been employed in the public service as “writers”—some for years. Now, if these were held competent to fulfil the duties of office life, as they must have been, or they would not be thus employed, surely, it was unnecessary, as well as unfair and absurd, to subject them to test the school-boy acquirements, that many had forgotten, which offered no real proof of their aptitude to be public accountants.
And, secondly, I firmly believe that competition neither produces the best clerks—out of those who thus initiate their official life, and who might not have been engaged beforehand, as writers or otherwise; nor does the system, as I’ve already said, afford any guarantee for a sound education on the part of those examined.
The Polite Letter Writer Commissioners, I have no doubt, do their duty as well as they can, in that position and state of life to which an enthusiastic reformer, backed up by an Act of Parliament, has called them; but, at the present time, ignorance has every facility afforded it for riding rampant over their “crucial” tests, while “crammers” drive, with the greatest glee, coaches and sixes by the score through their most zealous enactments.
If the competitive theory is to be the basis of our civil service organisation, it should be extended to all classes and grades in official life; and not be limited merely to the junior clerk at the bottom of the red-tape ladder.
Let every one, up to the under-secretaries of state and members of the cabinet even, be examined and tested and docketed in due order of merit—in the same way as the Chinese conduct their mandarin school—and distribute variously coloured buttons to graduates of different degrees, letting “the best man win,” in accordance with the old motto of the now extinct “Prize Ring.”
Perhaps, if ministers were subjected to some such ordeal—and there might be a good deal in it if it were only properly conducted—they would find themselves fit to grapple with more vital matters than political pyrotechnics, which are only fired off to suit popular clamour; and, were they better acquainted with history, especially that of their own country—as they would be, if forced to “cram” like the commissioners’ candidates—they would hesitate before sacrificing the old renown of England, and the interests which she has consolidated with her blood and treasure for generations, to suit a bastard diplomacy invented by the “peace-at-any-price” party of patriotism-less patriots!
The vicar, naturally, was delighted with my success; and, as for little Miss Pimpernell, she was quite jubilant.
“Dear me, Frank!” she said, when I took the letter announcing my appointment to show her the same evening I received it. “I am so glad—I can’t tell you how glad—my dear boy! Why, we will have you and Miss Min soon setting up house-keeping! Did I not tell you that things would be certain to come right, if you only waited, and worked, and hoped? Never you go against Keble again, my boy.”
I promised her I would not. I should have liked also to have spoken to Mrs Clyde immediately, as Min was still away, and I could hear nothing of her; but, she had left town, too, and so I was unable to carry out my wish—which, indeed, Miss Pimpernell had strongly advised against my doing. The latter counselled me to wait awhile before I renewed my offer; and, it was just as well, perhaps, that Mrs Clyde was away. I might, you know, have put an end to all my hopes in a jiffey, if circumstances had not prevented my hurrying matters again to a crisis!
It was very sad for me not to be able to see Min, and hear her congratulations; but still, that could not be at present; and, in the meantime, other folk took interest in me.
It is wonderful, how people living in a small suburb, or remote country village, are obliged to submit to having their actions canvassed, and the incidents of their private life made public property of, by other persons with whom they may have nothing whatever in common!
For instance, what earthly concern was it of Mr Mawley’s, whether I chose to accept a Government appointment, or not? Why should he have the impertinent officiousness to lecture me when he heard of my joining the Obstructor General’s Office; and, I, be forced to submit to his remarks thereon?
He doubted, forsooth, whether I was really suited to the work! He “hoped” I would “get steadier,” he was pleased to say; and, he was also kind enough to express the desire for me to learn that “deference towards my superiors,” with which I was, at present, according to his idea, “sadly unacquainted!”
Indeed! It was just like his presumption.
I wonder if he thought himself one of the “superiors” in question. Did he wish me always to allow his ridiculous assertions to pass unquestioned?—
Lady Dasher, too, had her say. But, as she suggested a valuable hint to me, I condoned her offence.
I had gone to call one afternoon soon after the change in my condition, which everybody, by the way, seemed pleased at, that I cared about, save dog Catch. The poor fellow missed his walks sadly, having now to put up with a short morning and evening stroll, instead of being out with me all day, as he frequently had been before, when, my time being my own, I was free to roam.
“My lady” appeared more melancholic than ordinarily, when congratulating me on my successful entry into public life. She spoke as if she were condoling with me on the demise of a near relative.
I returned this by praising a new fuchsia with five pink bells and a golden coronal, which she had lately added to her collection; and, she then gave me the hint to which I have drawn attention.
“Ah! Mr Lorton,” she said, after a pause, “life is very uncertain!”
“Just so,” I said, acquiescing in her truism, in order to keep up the conversation,—“but we cannot help that, you know, Lady Dasher.”
“No, indeed!” she sighed, rather than spoke.—“And that ought to make us more careful, especially on entering into life as you are now doing. My poor dear papa used to say that every young man should insure; and I would recommend your taking out a ‘policy,’ isn’t that what they call it? He did not insure his life—poor dear papa did not require it; but he always advised every one else doing so!”
“That’s what most people do,”—I said; still, I was thankful for the hint, and carried it into effect shortly afterwards.
While on the point of friendly congratulations and advice, I should not forget to mention, that Horner also had his fling at me, perpetrating what he considered a joke at my expense.
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” he said the very next Sunday when I met him outside the church after service. “You aah one of aws, now, Lorton, hay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Aw then, my de-ah fellah, you mustn’t chawff me any mo-ah, you know. Dawg don’t eat dawg, you know—ah, hay, Lorton!”
And he chuckled considerably at his feeble wit.
Poor Horner!