“Oh! How can I explain?” said Challis. “Let me take an instance. You propose to teach him, among other things, the elements of arithmetic?”
“It is a part of the curriculum,” replied Mr. Forman.
“I have only had one conversation with this child,” went on Challis—and at the mention of that conversation his brows drew together and he became very grave again; “but in the course of that conversation this child had occasion to refer, by way of illustration, to some abstruse theorem of the differential calculus. He did it, you will understand, by way of making his meaning clear—though the illustration was utterly beyond me: that reference represented an act of intellectual condescension.”
“God bless me, you don’t say so?” said Mr. Forman.
“I cannot see,” said Crashaw, “that this instance of yours, Mr. Challis, has any real bearing on the situation. If the child is a mathematical genius—there have been instances in history, such as Blaise Pascal—he would not, of course, receive elementary instruction in a subject with which he was already acquainted.”
“You could not find any subject, believe me, Crashaw, in which he could be instructed by any teacher in a Council school.”
“Forgive me, I don’t agree with you,” returned Crashaw. “He is sadly in need of some religious training.”
“He would not get that at a Council school,” said Challis, and Mr. Forman shook his head sadly, as though he greatly deprecated the fact.
“He must learn to recognise authority,” said Crashaw. “When he has been taught the necessity of submitting himself to all his governors, teachers, spiritual pastors, and masters: ordering himself lowly and reverently to all his betters; when, I say, he has learnt that lesson, he may be in a fit and proper condition to receive the teachings of the Holy Church.”
Mr. Forman appeared to think he was attending divine service. If the rector had said “Let us pray,” there can be no doubt that he would immediately have fallen on his knees.