“_If the history of England be ever written by one who has the
knowledge and the courage_, _and both qualities are equally requisite
for the undertaking_, _the world would be more astonished than when
reading the Roman annals by Niebuhr_.”—EARL OF BEACONSFIELD.
Burston village lies eighteen miles south of Norwich.
Four and a half years ago came to this village as schoolmistress and
assistant-master, Mrs. A. K. Higdon, and her husband, T. G. Higdon. They
were welcomed to the Council School by friends, parishioners, etc. They
gained the affection of the scholars, the approval of the parents, and
the blessing of His Majesty’s Inspector. Here it is:
The Government Report,
October 11th, 1912.
The present mistress has had charge of the school a little over a
year and a half, and its condition is very promising.
A good tone prevails; the scholars take a pride in their work, and
the work done in some of the subjects of instruction is very
creditable.
Mental arithmetic is well above the average, and the written
arithmetic of the first class is generally praiseworthy. The singing
and much of the drawing are good, and needlework is taught on
sensible lines.
On the whole the infants and first-class children are making more
progress than the scholars in the middle portion of the school.
(Signed) A. H. MOORE, H.M.I.
This is the last Government report under the Higdons’ _régime_.
Mr. T. G. Higdon, the assistant-master, possesses that dreadful modern
incumbrance, a _heart_.
The Daily Press oft contains an advertisement stating that “Hands are
wanted,” but if they were to issue an advertisement _re_ “Hearts,” the
precedent might prove disastrous to most firms.
Higdon, looking upon the countryside with the eye of a person married to
it, held high hopes of betterment. He could not help observing the long
hours of toil, the scant incomes, the over-crowding, etc., which that
noble soul, the Reverend Charles Kingsley, pictures in “Yeast.”
Higdon, after his day’s teaching, tramped the country lanes, and made
first-hand acquaintance with the joys and sorrows, aspirations and hopes
of Hodge and his helpmate. He spoke words of healing and helpfulness to
the Lazarus of civilisation, Carlyle’s Dumdrudge, and our poor country
cousins. He saw lean labour, wrinkled, seamed and scarred by grinding
toil, privation, self-denial, and short commons; so, John Ball-like, he
carried the message both on Sundays and weekdays.
Unfortunately, he did not attend the local Sunday services.
Unlike Longfellow’s blacksmith, he did not go on Sundays to the church to
hear his daughter’s voice. One reason was that he had no daughter which,
of course, makes a deal of difference, the other reason was that he
preached himself.
You require to be a very strong clergyman indeed to permit competition in
well-doing. At any rate, the rector spoke to Higdon about his
non-attendance at church.