TEACHER AND PRINCIPAL
‘Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.’
M. ARNOLD, ‘Rugby Chapel.’
A true history of the Cheltenham Ladies’ College would not be merely a
faithful record of dated events, of building, enlargement, expansion, of
the introduction of examinations, of distinctions gained; it must also
suggest, if only in outline, the working of the spirit which informed the
whole, that by which it grew and became, in spite of its size and the
different elements it embraced, homogeneous in itself and full of force.
[Illustration: _Photo. G. H. Martyn & Sons._
_Ladies’ College and Garden 1908._]
That she was but one worker among many, that she was only part of an
‘order’ which must be temporary, were facts ever before Miss Beale’s
eyes. Those who remember their school-days at Cheltenham with love
and gratitude think not only of the Principal, but of many others,
some of whom passed out of sight before her, some of whom are still
faithfully carrying out the ideas she inspired, but whose influence,
like her own, left an abiding impression. One spirit, one aim, an equal
strenuous effort were what she strove before all things to gain for her
fellow-labourers, and did undoubtedly to a marvellous extent produce
throughout the College. Though Miss Beale did occasionally make mistakes
in her choice of workers, expecting too much, or perhaps taking too much
for granted, this was very rarely the case where class-teachers were
concerned. These, who had the responsibility of forming character as well
as of giving instruction, were always teachers whom she thoroughly knew
and trusted, and had generally trained herself. By these, the thought and
inspiration of the Head were handed on. But beyond this, all who passed
through the College, even if they did not have the opportunity of knowing
Miss Beale personally, came in contact with her in one way or another.
Even the youngest heard her Scripture lessons; all the pupils in Division
I. had their marks read by her, and thus came individually before her.
Those who were confirmed while at school were brought into closer touch
with her, and many through some incident in their school career, or
through peculiar circumstances of home life, learned to know her as a
friend. The highest class in College, and the pupils who were hopefully
named B.A.’s, saw a good deal of her even to the end. And from first to
last in her long headship, it was possible for any child, big or little,
in any part of the College, to know the Principal,—by herself taking
notice of her. Miss Beale’s fastidious honesty, which led her to dread
even the least appearance of stealing hearts away from home, largely held
her back from making personal friends among the girls still at College.
‘Yearned to be loved,’ she wrote once in her diary; but consistently
brought to her work a special gift of self-sacrifice in never seeking
affection for herself personally. She had, moreover, a horror of the
unhealthy attachments which are often a source of danger in girls’
schools. In this connection may be read one of her many letters to Miss
Clara Arnold:[67]—
‘Yes, you are right, that does point to a fatal error. If we
make our children lean on us (broken reeds), they will not
stand long. If they make an idol of any human being, when the
idol is broken their faith goes too. We must try to bid them
fly upwards into the sunlight; they must not tumble about on
the ground like those poor birds whose wings are clipped. They
must look up, not to us, but with us, to our common Lord. What
miserable, weak, sickly creatures many women are, who must
always have a Pope. The children should give you respect and
esteem, and you can give them sympathy and affection too, and
as they are children they may have a helping hand, but make
them give up, if possible, sentimental worship. They must not
do right for love of you, but because it is right.
‘How fight against this? Well, tell the children some of these
things, and talk it over with Miss —— and the other teachers.
There must be harmony of action. I speak strongly, because I
have seen this spirit eat away the higher life of one large
school. I have such a dread of its getting in here.
‘I know there must be a certain amount of hero-worship in the
young. They need help from parents and teacher, but we must
train them out of dependence. This sort of thing, too, leads
to injustice to those who are not worshipped. They are “puffed
up _for_ one, against another.” They waste time and strength
in day-dreams about their idol. When a little older they are
always fancying themselves in love, because they have got used
to an excitement of feeling.
‘I feel inclined to say I wish I could help you more; always
ask me if you think I can. But I advise you chiefly to make
this a subject of prayer. I say daily that Collect for
Whitsunday, about a “right judgment in all things.” Then I
think I should see where the evil is most apparent, not speak
to the whole class but to some few. Very likely, if you try
to prevent this wrong worship, you will create an antagonism
which will give you much trouble; such affection easily turns
to hatred.... This sort of thing does make homes so unhappy
because the wife takes “tiffs.” Try earnestly to brace them, my
dear child.’
Miss Beale’s own shyness also stood in the way of her personal intimacy
with her pupils. She liked to be met more than half-way. She liked the
birthday-book brought to her to sign,[68] the rare wild-flower found and
gathered for her, the little note of sympathy or inquiry or thanks. A
hundred reasons would keep most girls back from taking the simple steps
which would have led them early to find a friend in Miss Beale. While
they were reverencing in silence and at a distance there would come along
some bright thing of quick perception, accustomed to society and to be
welcome everywhere, untroubled by self-consciousness, who would approach
the throne with no ‘unaccustomed awe,’ but stand, and chat, and smile,
and be obviously acceptable to the lonely sovereign. ‘You know, A.,’ she
said once to an old girl, ‘it was your freedom from shyness with me that
first drew me to you.’ And, as a matter of fact, Miss Beale was really
the most accessible of sovereigns. She longed to know all her children,
and to help each personally. It was only a girl whose career was very
short or wholly uneventful, and led in the lower classes of the school,
who could remain wholly unacquainted with her. Even then, it would be
found that the ten minutes’ individual talk which the Principal had with
each as she left the College finally, impressed itself on the mind of the
hearer. Her sympathies were ever most readily drawn out by those likely
in after years to exercise influence—in some prominent, possibly Imperial
position, or as teachers.
At all times a silent, strong, unconscious impression was produced upon
most by Miss Beale’s rare absence from her post, her minute attention
to her own share of the work of the College, her obvious self-devotion.
‘I can’t picture the College without her, she always seemed to be
everywhere,’ one wrote after her death. Another said, ‘Although she might
never speak to you, still the fact that she was not there on any day
always made the College feel strange and empty.’
Her memory for all who had passed through the College was simply
extraordinary. A married pupil, visiting Cheltenham after many years’
interval, writes of her amazement at finding that Miss Beale could tell
her of every girl she had been with in class, and in many cases by whom
she had sat, whom she had liked, and so on. Another, who was for two
years at the College, only spoke twice to the Principal during that
period, and left without the least idea that Miss Beale could know her
as an individual. Two years after leaving the first great sorrow of
her life came, in the death of her class-teacher, Miss Aitken. ‘That
friendship,’ she writes, ‘had never degenerated into any foolish or
selfish attachment. I still count it as one of the strongest motives of
my life.’ In the deep grief over her friend’s death came a letter from
Miss Beale: ‘Just the fact that she remembered and understood was like a
revelation. It was through that that I first realised the possibility of
the individual love and care of God.’
Naturally, it was in the earliest days, when the first class was small
and Miss Beale taught many subjects herself, that an intimate tie between
the head and the pupil was most easily formed. But Miss Beale’s wonderful
freshness of mind and heart enabled her to continue not only the old
friendships so made, but yearly to make new ones. She had a wonderful
way, too, of maintaining friendship. A girl might pass through the school
knowing her but a little, but loyalty to College fostered by the Guild
meetings would each year bring her into closer touch with the Principal.
‘I hope we may meet again,’ she wrote in 1876 to one who had had a deep
love and reverence for her, but not much more than a slight acquaintance
with her in College. Twenty years after, when events drew them together
again, a close mutual friendship which greatly brightened Miss Beale’s
declining years grew out of the seed sown so long before.
Miss Beale herself held that the influence of the Principal on the school
should be through the teachers. ‘She can do more with five hundred if she
has a staff thoroughly in sympathy with her than if she brought direct
personal influence to bear upon a school of a hundred. “If you want a
thing done, do not do it yourself,” should be the motto of a ruler for
everyday use. Act through others, educate them thereby to independence,
and reserve your strength for things that none but a Head can do.’
In teaching, Miss Beale’s definite aim was to inspire. She sought but
little to inform, but much to kindle a thirst for knowledge, a love
of good and beautiful things, and to awaken thinking power. This she
undoubtedly did, though the process was slow; working itself out quietly
in the mind and character of those she taught, in nobler views of life,
more refined appreciations, improved sense of proportion. When there was
a question of preparation for examination, or of the definite knowledge
such as was required in mathematical subjects, it was necessary to
supplement the lessons of the Principal. Yet her teaching of the exact
sciences was hardly less illuminative than of those which make a more
direct appeal to the imagination. She would interest the class in a
mathematical problem, induce the mind to work, leave it at the end of a
lesson impressed and roused, but at the same time not clear about the
subject she had been putting before it. Then afterwards the explanation
up to which she had been leading would often come like a flash to the
puzzling brain.
Naturally the teaching of history was a great opportunity to one who
could so clothe her subject with life. In this she was more than merely
picturesque and vivid, she would allow her own delighted interest to show
itself. Who that heard them could forget her lectures on the reign of
George the Third, in which she and her whole class were transported to
the old Parliament House, listening, it might be, to the younger Pitt’s
maiden speech, or to some stirring debate between him and his rival,
hearing the applause, the dissentient murmurs, even a joke under the
breath of some listener? She would lead up to a climax with dramatic
force. With what astonishment did her audience hear, as if it were a
startling piece of political news of their own day, of the Coalition
Ministry![69]
The study of history has now become organised and scientific. Miss
Beale’s own methods were out of date long before her death; she ceased
indeed to teach the subject herself about 1874, but she never lost the
enthusiasm with which she first entered upon it. As an example she was
always anxious that those who were lecturing on history should adopt the
views she considered just about certain personages. Once, when the Tudor
period was being studied in the College, she summoned the teachers, as
the school hours ended at one o’clock, into a classroom to hear what she
believed to be the truth about Cranmer—with a few words making a terrible
picture of time-serving and cowardice. On the other hand, she was always
anxious that what was great in Elizabeth should be recognised; that every
possible excuse should be made for her faults.
But if Miss Beale’s methods of teaching history have been to some extent
superseded, it should be remembered that she was among the first to
insist on the importance of general history. Though assured of the value
of detailed and special knowledge, she was not content to let one period
stand alone unlinked with its context. She would not cut off the history
of England as a thing by itself, but showed its place in the stream of
time, in the lives of the nations. So almost every class was obliged to
learn something of outline and general history, and here it was that the
_Chart_ and _Textbook_ played so important a part.
Miss Beale’s English literature lessons may, more than any others she
gave, be described as _sui generis_. ‘Miss Beale gives literature lessons
of a peculiar kind,’ was the appreciation of a new pupil who had studied
the subject before coming to Cheltenham. Her literature lesson, indeed,
had many functions. The subject became the vehicle of much teaching
that it was not convenient to give in a Bible lesson. She sought to
interest her class in books, in reading, in noble thoughts, in fine
prose and poetry. But this was by no means all. She sought primarily
to give views of life, conduct, and character such as would enable her
hearers to go from school into a larger world, already prepared to know
what to find. Under the names of friend and friendship much was said
which might apply equally to the choice of a husband and to marriage.
Knowledge of character, she would often say, is so important for women.
Hence she liked, if possible, once a year to read and lecture upon one
of Shakspere’s great plays to the first class. Though ever fresh and
interesting, and herself as interested as ever in these readings, though
the lectures were constantly brightened and enriched by new books and
thoughts brought to bear upon them, there was very little variation
in the treatment of the main theme. At certain crises in the story,
over certain characters, hearers of long standing knew what to expect.
Ophelia, to take an instance, was for all the generations of girls who
read _Hamlet_ at Cheltenham the woman who failed a man because she
could not dare to be true. A matter like this was vital to Miss Beale.
Could any class-teacher in the College have represented Ophelia in any
other light, the Lady Principal would have spared no pains to point out
the error of the treatment, both to her and to those she had misled.
Desdemona, again, was always marked as the wife who not unnaturally
roused the suspicions of a jealous-minded husband, because he knew that
in marrying him she had deceived her father. The misery that may follow a
secret wilful marriage was always hinted at when this story was told.
But there were other and less weighty considerations than influence and
marriage in these lectures. They supplied opportunity for suggestions on
simple affairs such as the choice of books, ways of spending time and
money, manners, conversation, and the like. Often questions of the day,
politics in a very general sense, and social problems were led up to.
Miss Beale might be unacademic to a fault in these lectures, but she
had that power of inspiration which made every poem she prized, every
character she admired, live immortally for those who heard her speak
of them. The actual reading—specially of poetry—was a delight to both
reader and hearers. Miss Beale had a strong dramatic instinct, a keen
enjoyment of poetry and the right use of words. She had also a wonderful
voice, which she managed well, and though always quiet and restrained in
manner carried her audience with her unweariedly. The literature lesson
was long, specially in the early days when, owing to short distances
and small numbers, no time was occupied by arrangements for prayers. For
thirty or forty minutes corrected notes were returned and criticised,
then the lecture proper would begin and go on for a full hour. Sometimes
the whole time, an hour and a half, was taken up by the lecture. It was
certainly very unusual for any one to find it too long.
A further interest in these lectures lay in an effort to make them
language lessons. As a matter of fact, though much interested in language
herself, Miss Beale did little more than inspire a wish to study it
further. Perhaps this was her aim in touching upon it at all. She would
often bring to her lesson a table of Grimm’s Law, explain it very
rapidly, and appear to expect that it should be as rapidly remembered.
Miss Beale’s literature was by no means confined to Shakspere’s plays.
All the greatest and many lesser works in the English tongue were taken
in their turn. But she would seldom take the works of any whose thought
seemed to her inferior; would have little, for instance, to do with
Dryden and Pope. Style in itself had no attraction, and the growth of
literary form, unless accompanied by the development of noble thought,
was of little interest. No subject, perhaps, was more after her own
choice than the poems of Spenser. She would dwell with unfailing delight
on the complicated allegories of the _Faëry Queene_, or on the Hymns to
‘Heavenly Love’ and ‘Heavenly Beauty.’ Nor was a school year ever allowed
to pass without her introducing the higher classes in the College to some
of Browning’s works. How many must have learned to know his greater short
poems by hearing her read them.[70]
But the subject with which the name of Dorothea Beale as a teacher will
ever be associated is that of Holy Scripture. For this her greatest force
was reserved. This was the soul of her work, as any who listened to her
lessons with a hearing ear, or who marked the deep reverence prevailing
in her class, could not fail to observe. Trammelled she was in many ways,
at first by the narrowness which had almost prevented her coming to
Cheltenham; increasingly, as time went on, by the numbers of her hearers
who held opposing views on religion or who had no views at all; much
always by her own dread of ‘offending’ or of hindering an earnest seeker
for truth by a positive assertion. These causes made it inevitable that
her teaching should seem to many vague or insufficient, since she could
not bear to miss putting herself beside those who were as babes, unable
to venture a step into the untried. An old pupil has well described this
attitude:—
‘She did not go very much into every sort of detail, but I
wonder what use can be made of doctrinal details by people
whose general scheme of things is one into which they don’t
fit? and that, I suppose, is the trouble of most people who
are puzzled by such things at all. Whereas Miss Beale, in
anticipation of this difficulty, always seemed to me to set
forth a spiritual construction of the universe, into which no
spiritual truth learned afterwards could possibly fail to fit,
supposing it to be a truth in very deed. I do not see how any
teacher can possibly do a greater work; though I do not say for
a moment that she did no more.’
Certainly in the weekly lesson to the whole First Division of the school
she did a great deal more. Another old pupil may be quoted here:—
‘Speaking for myself, I can say without hesitation that it was
from her that I learned the truth of the sacramental life.
One thing she said to me, and she repeated it with emphasis
at the time of my Confirmation, is as fresh in my mind to-day
as the day she said it. Again, I can say for myself, and my
reading has been fairly wide, that her influence has been
entirely against any weakening of faith. Knowing something at
least of her character and intellectual power, it was natural
to feel that where she was steadfast one need not be afraid.
More than that, her direct teaching by its sympathetic insight
into the deepest aspects of life was always, and always will be
inspiring. If it is true that there was something vague in her
utterances, I believe it was because she had reached a plane of
thought where the words which have become the current thought
of everyday life are inadequate forms of expression.’
If, in order to seek some erring spirit, Miss Beale did at times seem
to neglect others, it must be remembered that in teaching the Bible,
more than at any other time, she really took up the humble position of
simply bringing her hearers to think and listen for themselves. This
was the intention which lay below the reverent behaviour exacted from a
Scripture class. By means of this she strove to impress the importance to
the hearer of being still, ready, attentive, free from selfish or idle
thought. She prepared not only the lesson, but also herself to give it,
with a devotion and self-denial which she never allowed to become relaxed
by pressing business, age, or infirmity.
Not only was Friday evening strictly kept for the final preparation
of the lesson, but the ordinary details of school business attended
to before prayers were put aside on the day it was given. No one in
the College would have thought on those days of speaking to Miss Beale
beforehand except on some urgent matter. Writing to a young teacher in
1880, she said: ‘I used to prepare my lessons on my knees, (don’t say
this to others). You would find it a help, I think, to do this sometimes.’
This earnestness and diligence were shared by many of the class-teachers.
In a short account of Miss Belcher, which appeared in the College
Magazine of 1898, Miss Beale said: ‘Only those who knew her intimately
were aware of the long study and extreme pains she took with her
Scripture lessons. Every Friday at Cheltenham we used to meet and go over
the Saturday lesson together.’
The annual midsummer examination was no mere test of knowledge gained,
but, like the weekly notes, a real exercise of thought. In this matter
Miss Beale received the full sympathy and co-operation of the Rev. E.
Worsley, who for many years examined the upper classes of the College in
Scripture.[71]
The subject of Miss Beale’s Scripture lessons was generally a Gospel
or an Epistle. Occasionally she would take the book of Genesis, from
which she would draw much instruction on Sin, Freewill, Faith. Perhaps
her favourite subject was the Gospel of St. John. Remembering the
Saturday class, the awe with which she would speak of the Logos, or with
passionate devotion follow the sublime teaching of the later chapters of
that book, the glowing ardour with which she would heap up fact and proof
concerning the Resurrection, occur at once to the memory.
Letters to old pupils who had become teachers in other schools show Miss
Beale’s reasons for dwelling on certain points. To Miss Wolseley Lewis,
head-mistress of the Graham Street Church High School, she wrote in 1897
concerning 1 Cor. vii.:—
‘Yes—I have taken it. There is no need to insist on every
word. In reading one’s Bible some things are not suitable for
children, but the teaching of those chapters regarding the
sacredness of the body is extremely valuable. Robertson on
Corinthians is very helpful.
‘I will see if I can find my notes, they would be useful to
you; but you need not be afraid to take it, you will like it.’
And again in January 1898 on the same subject:—
‘I have looked in vain for my notes on Corinthians. I think
Robertson will give you much useful help in working out the
more difficult chapters. It is very important with elder girls
not to leave out the teaching which comes naturally out of the
Epistle, on the sacredness of marriage, and the responsibility
of choice,—on the certain promises that if we ask guidance
it will be given. The example of Abraham in choosing a wife
for his son may be cited,—the necessity of waiting for
guidance,—praying for light until it comes, when we are called
on to decide the most important question of our whole lives.
One may insist on the duty of being so equipped that we can
earn our own living, and not be tempted into the disgrace of
a mercenary marriage. One may just touch upon the detestable
teaching of some modern works, that our affections and acts are
beyond our control. I feel sure you will find you can do much
to help girls thus.’
To Miss Arnold at Truro she wrote:—
‘As regards Acts: I should say not; because one is so much
drawn aside to history and geography; but one may work in
Epistles, etc., if there is an examination required. I made up
my mind I would not take it again.’
And again, in 1891, on the use of Scripture teaching:—
‘I think what we should do is to make it come home to the
children in their daily life as a clergyman hardly can. We know
their faults and temptations. I often take the baptismal vow. I
really can’t find time to write much, and it is so impossible
to suggest much. I am sure you will find things easier when you
begin.’
The immense detail of the teaching, following as it did the innumerable
suggestions that one text might give, was sometimes confusing to a
new class. A term’s lessons might be occupied with a few verses only.
Then there is no doubt that Miss Beale’s large way of thinking and
comprehensive form of expression was difficult to follow. This did not
lessen with age. New pupils, particularly of late years, were often
filled with despair at the prospect of having to write out the lessons.
Many felt the Sunday work it involved to be a strain. This was less the
case at first, when perhaps intellectual interests had more undisputed
sway. The life in College, as in other spheres, has become more full and
offers fewer spaces for uninterrupted thought. Sometimes a whisper that
her Scripture lessons were too difficult reached the Lady Principal. It
grieved her, but she never quite believed it. She wrote of it to Miss
Arnold:—
‘I like you to tell me what is said, but then I do not like to
know more.... There are others much older to whom I address
myself, and I see they do enter more and more as the year goes
on, and I am teaching more now for the future. I do think I
fortify some more for the trials of their future life than I
did when you were here. Those who cannot follow, ought to be
put into a class where the teaching is less difficult. They
do not say this, I hope, about my Monday lessons, only the
Saturday....’
The patient correction and explanation of the pupils’ essays on the
lessons was not the least part of the Scripture work. How full,
elaborate, and diligent this correction was will not readily be
understood by any who do not know the Cheltenham system. But though Miss
Beale wrote a great deal in the girls’ books, her corrections were often
framed on the Socratic method so much prized by her. To take an example.
A vague use of the word _infinitely_ has written against it, ‘Do you
mean from eternity?’ ‘The _universe_,’ writes one pupil lightly, to have
the word underlined and with ‘_Meaning_’ written above it. And she had
a wonderful eye for thought and effort. No writer, however poor, whose
work showed signs of these was discouraged. One writes of this:—
‘I have one of my old Scripture books, and on looking it over,
for the first time for many years, I am most struck by her
power of seeing good in the very crude attempts of a girl of
sixteen. It seems to me marvellous that she, with her great
intellect, could have put herself on our level, so as to see
when we had _thought_, and to encourage us with the “s” and “g”
that we valued so highly. I am afraid I used to look out more
for the “g’s” than for the comments and corrections that showed
how much pains she took _herself_ with each attempt of ours.’
A good deal of enthusiastic drudgery was needed for the corrector of
twenty or thirty Scripture books every week. Even Miss Beale found it
hard at times, and would write:—
‘Much idle time again. At 10 P.M. Thursday not touched a
correction. Thus unfaithful while I am so much helped.’
And:—
‘Tired, but terribly negligent. Put off books in a really
unpardonable way, and felt irritable at work.’
In dealing with individual character, faults, and weakness Miss Beale
showed no common tact, and often surpassing astuteness. To begin with,
she was herself so well disciplined, so well attuned to the highest
thought of work for others, that probably she did not even feel irritated
by the errors and mistakes of her children. Certainly she never showed
annoyance. It is impossible even to think of her being satirical or
sarcastic either in teaching or in dealing with faults of manner or
character. She would have considered it unpardonable in an under-teacher
to be so, almost as reprehensible as to treat or speak of a child as
stupid. She had indeed a special love for ‘ugly ducklings,’ in whom she
would frequently perceive and draw out a latent swanhood.
Some things—such as what she termed the ‘petty larceny of her time’ by
those who prolonged an interview by aimless small talk—did irritate her;
but she would no more have been annoyed by the shortcomings of a child
than a doctor would be at the illness of a patient. Though able to adapt
herself spontaneously to individual characteristics, she had certain
distinct lines along which she worked. Dealing with ordinary childish
faults she would make no appeal on high religious grounds, used no set
or stock phrases. Always, in big and little things, she would show the
child some ground for expecting right action from her, pointing out
something probably connected with her home which, a legitimate source
of satisfaction, should be also a spur to do well. Or she would treat a
rebellious act in such a way as to rob it of all its delight. An amusing
instance of this was told by a writer in the _Guardian_ of November 21,
1906: ‘On one occasion a very clever student, with an unruly temper,
refused, because some one had annoyed her, to eat her breakfast on the
day of an important examination. Her form mistress begged Miss Beale to
persuade the girl to have at least some milk. She was sent to Miss Beale,
and was greatly startled by—“I hear you are fasting to-day; for a temper
like yours it is probably a wise discipline.” Nothing more was said, but
the girl did not refuse her luncheon.’ Such homœopathic treatment was
sometimes also applied to idleness, a rare fault in a schoolgirl. It was,
in ancient days, occasionally known in the Third Division at Cheltenham.
Quite rarely, in consequence, a little girl would be allowed to do
nothing but sit still all the morning. No one had a chance of showing
obstinacy. It was a relief to more than one young teacher to be told that
‘You must never let a child have the satisfaction of holding out against
you.’ If such a thing did occur, there was no contest, no opposition of
superior power on the part of a teacher; a few, very few words from the
Lady Principal would make the child see the futility and silliness of her
attitude.
A moral delinquency was, however, met with the very greatest seriousness.
Parents were sometimes surprised at the extraordinary pains Miss Beale
would take to obtain the confession of such a fault as copying a lesson.
The slightest suspicion of dishonesty was always followed up at once, but
the act was never brought home to the offender until there was positive
proof. Then the way would be made easy for her, the lie prevented by
something like this: ‘My child, I am sure you have too good a conscience
to rest with such a thing as this upon it.’ Conviction and confession
of a fault made it immediately possible to show how it came about,
how it might be prevented in the future. Especially in the matter of
untruthfulness Miss Beale would trace the outside fault to its source,
showing it to be a symptom of some corrupting force within, cowardice,
vanity, or idleness. In this connection it is well worth while to read
her remarkable little paper on Truth.[72]
One tale of her discrimination may well be told. A class-teacher received
some anonymous letters which she took to Miss Beale, naming the girl she
took to be the writer. Some days passed. The teacher thought the matter
forgotten, when one morning Miss Beale said to her, ‘Send —— to me. I can
see by her face this morning that she will tell me all.’ Miss Beale was
not disappointed either in the confession or its effects.
No one could reprove like Miss Beale. Her grief, her admonition were
expressed not only with so much sympathy, but with such an absolute
impersonal sense of rightness and justice, that it was impossible to
resent them. ‘Nothing is more touching,’ she wrote in 1898, ‘than the
penitence of children, when they find that we have seen the good which is
hidden, and not only the evil that comes forth; that we know, not only
what is done, but what is resisted.’[73] Any who had so failed became a
special care. ‘We try,’ she wrote once, ‘to make her feel there is no
anger at all, but sympathy and an anxious watchfulness which will, we
hope, make her more watchful over herself.’
To break the rule of silence was always regarded as a great fault. A
careless pupil, conscious of breaking it only once or twice, would be
surprised to find in her term’s report, ‘Disobedient to rule.’
A girl whose influence was seen to be a source of evil—a single act or
conversation might be enough to prove it—was instantly removed. Careful
as Miss Beale was to let no pupil go who might by any possibility be
induced to stay, she never hesitated a moment in a case of this kind. The
extreme seriousness with which she regarded this may be gathered from the
following letter to a head-mistress:—
‘This is grievous. How is it that girls were allowed to go
out by themselves? I wonder, too, that Miss —— did not _see_
there was something wrong. No girls can act thus without some
unnatural excitement. Then are there no prefects in the house?
no elder girls to be relied on?—no confidential servant? I
don’t see how you can keep _any_ one of the three, but perhaps
there are degrees of guilt. It was so different at ——. A girl
began to _talk_ as she ought not—the younger girls told the
seniors, the seniors came to ——; she told me, and within two
hours the girl had left the house. There ought to be such
confidence between the seniors and the head of the house, and
constant vigilance over the girls’ characters and _insight_. I
always feel that a school is at the mercy of one naughty girl,
and we must never relax our vigilance. It is sad to think that
they have degraded women in the eyes of all that know it.’
Such instances are stated, not because it was continually the part of
the Principal and her staff to deal with iniquity. On the contrary,
the order and conduct of the school were singularly good,—the sense of
duty, fostered by a call to exercise it rather than by precept, was
unusually high. One means by which this was maintained was the constant
collaboration of the parents. In all matters Miss Beale tried to take
them with her, encouraged them to come to her, to talk over the children,
spoke to the children about them, wrote to them on special matters, tried
to get them to understand her aims. Her letters, too, show what pains she
took to bring about a real co-operation. On one occasion no less than ten
letters passed between Principal, parent, and class-teacher on so simple
a matter as a child returning in the afternoon, according to a school
rule, to do a lesson over again. Miss Beale won the child to see and do
what was right, but she also wrote to the mother:—
‘I fear you have led your child to think there is a question to
be settled now as to which is the supreme authority. Of course,
if this is so, it is much to be deplored; it is something like
a conflict between father and mother before their child. We
so earnestly wish that the home and school should be one in
spirit. If this cannot be, it is best, as I have already said,
that the child should be placed in another school.’
One letter to a parent on a matter of the same kind ended with this
postscript: ‘Sometimes we cannot, and sometimes we ought not, to keep a
promise made under a wrong impression. Consider Herod’s case.’
Parents who did not send their children back on the right day, or who
kept them at home for insufficient reason, always heard from her. She
would write thus:
‘Had I known how difficult it would be for —— to return, I should have
advised her remaining here for her holiday’; or, ‘I know things are not
considered so serious at a girls’ school as at a boys’ school, but no boy
would be received back, I am sure, at one of our great public schools who
had been absent without the leave of the Head-master.’
On the other hand, Miss Beale was always most anxious to support the
authority and dignity of the parent. Once, when this seemed not to have
been done by a teacher, she wrote: ‘She saw when I pointed it out how
very wrong it was even to hint to a child that I thought her mother in
the wrong.’ ‘She was never tired,’ ran a notice by an old pupil after her
death, ‘of impressing upon the girls that home must come first in their
affections. It was indeed pathetic to hear her speak, as she did almost
weekly in her addresses to the assembled divisions, of the beauty of the
relation of a child to its parents.’
It is impossible to do more than refer to the many letters which show the
confidence and gratitude of the College parents, but, as an example, one
from a father who held high official rank, on his daughter’s passing an
examination in 1877, may be quoted, with its good wishes which were so
entirely realised:—
‘Excuse my sending you one line of sincere thanks for your
valuable (and inestimable, I may call it) friendship towards my
dear daughter.
‘We were immensely pleased at her success, which we attribute
entirely to the love of work instilled into her by your system
at College generally, as well as by your personal influence.
You not only obtain the respect and the devoted love and
loyalty of your girls, but through them the admiration of their
parents and all those who take an interest in their careers. I
am sure few persons in the army of teachers are more highly
esteemed than yourself, few for whom more hearty prayers are
offered for a long, long life of usefulness.
‘We feel so proud of our [girl’s] success. With every good
wish for the health and prosperity both of yourself and your
glorious College,’ etc.
Lastly and supremely, it was through Miss Beale’s own personal influence
upon her teachers, her clearly defined example always before them, that
the spirit of the College came to be what it was. She had the gift of
inspiration in that rare degree which makes actual direction of less
value. She did not neglect details; she would indicate minor matters
deserving of attention which others would overlook; she often quoted
at a teachers’ meeting the example of the great general who, on taking
over a command, first paid attention to the boots of his men. But it was
never necessary for her to harp upon little things, or to go personally
to see if her wishes had been carried out. One, who had had some years’
experience in teaching before she arrived at Cheltenham as a student,
spoke with something like rapture of the College organisation as it
appeared to her coming fresh from other places of education.
‘If I had a spare hour in the morning, it was useless to
try and concentrate my thoughts on any study, I was simply
fascinated by the superior attraction of watching Miss Beale’s
government of her little kingdom. No monarch ever had more
absolute sway over his subjects; all the threads responded to
her lightest touch....
‘The College, as Miss Beale made it, was an organism, the
product of inner forces needing constant renewal of vitality,
not a vast machine, working without friction for the production
of clever women.
‘Then, for the first time, my soul conceived the possibility
of a beneficent Spirit watching over the general good, and yet
caring for the needs of the humblest individual. Thus she,
who so loved to point out that outward things are sacramental
exponents of the invisible, became herself a channel through
which I realised things unseen.’
This influence was not gained through the more ordinary ways of intimacy.
In one sense Miss Beale saw very little of her teachers, some, as the
staff became very large, she hardly knew at all, though naturally with a
few of the older ones she became more really intimate. There were also
a few special instances of close friendship. Notably may be mentioned
that of Miss Martha Brown, who came to Cheltenham about 1873, no longer
young or strong. Her actual work in the College lasted but a short time,
for her health soon failed altogether, though a keen mind, occupied and
interested by a true love of knowledge and desire to impart it, kept her
up for a year or so, until she was forced to resign herself to her last
illness. For more than a year she remained in Miss Beale’s house, Miss
Beale herself sometimes sharing with Miss Gore the task of nursing and
caring for her in every way, holding it, indeed, a privilege to wait
upon one whose spirit so soared above her circumstances,—she was poor as
well as hopelessly ill,—one who, regarding the mysteries of science as
a lesson-book given to man by God, did not weary in her study of them
even when near the gates of death. Miss Brown is often mentioned in Miss
Beale’s diary, and later her name occurs frequently among those who had
passed beyond the veil, and whom Miss Beale specially loved to honour at
a Guild meeting.
With regard to the greater number of the staff, though it is to be feared
that her dislike of spending trifling sums of money stood in the way
of even small hospitalities, this can have been but a secondary reason
why she did not see more of them. It was a principle with her to spend
time on recreation only so far as would help work; it was a principle to
use the short interviews which alone were possible among large numbers
in the most economical way; finally, it was a principle that influence
may be stronger and better for detachment from everyday occasions. To
spend time on small talk would only fritter away good influence. Yet,
in thinking of this, there must occur to the memory of some, at least,
that she had a kind of dread of the word influence, as implying something
personal, that she thought it dangerous to try to establish a sphere of
influence, that she never consciously tried to acquire it. Once when a
petition was put forward against the suffrage for women, Miss Beale, who
declined to sign it, said that one reason urged upon her for doing so
seemed so poor, namely, that the vote would impair the influence of women
with men.
One aim, a common self-devotion in all was what she desired. To further
it meetings of the staff were constantly held, when she would speak
serious words which would burn themselves into the soul of many a
young teacher. Her intense earnestness impressed, her tremendous claim
was irresistible. Nothing for self! all for those committed to your
care,—your whole life arranged so as best to further your work! This
was the claim she made, and to this she found response. Individually
she helped much by a quiet word now and then, by a little unexpected
note, sometimes by a long letter. One young teacher, who was apt to
become excited in the enjoyment of her work, was surprised one morning
to receive in the midst of it a little note, which, when deciphered,
ran, ‘My dear child, try to work quietly. We must not let good feeling
go off in steam.’ Those who were long at Cheltenham could tell of many
such instances of watchful kindness; letters to those who left to work
elsewhere are full of it. She had a wonderfully keen perception for
reality of intention and earnestness in work, and was quick to encourage
any who showed these qualities. One who was long on the staff at
Cheltenham has written thus of the help she received from the Principal
when she first went:—
‘I often think of the days when I first began to teach, just
a beginner. How Miss Beale encouraged and inspired one.
I remember when she came in to one of my early geography
lessons, an atrociously bad one, she spoke so kindly to me
afterwards about it, and suggested that I should give up the
subject for a time and study it before I taught it again.
Later, she showed me a book with new ideas on the teaching of
geography, and asked if I would try again. I did, and it became
my special subject whilst I was at College, all through her
kindly encouragement and help. She was always so delightfully
sympathetic about one’s family and friends too, and she never
forgot one’s home circumstances.’
When it was necessary to find fault or alter an arrangement Miss Beale
never shrank from doing what she believed to be for the good of the
whole, even at the cost of personal convenience. But she was always
careful not to reprove except in such a way as to leave an absolute
sense of justice. There was no sting in her rebuke. And she could own
herself wrong. She had no foolish fear about giving herself away. One
member of the staff could tell of long and repeated application for an
arrangement which she knew to be right, but which Miss Beale absolutely
and bluntly refused. At last it was granted. Miss Beale herself came and
stood patiently watching the removal of desks, etc., involved. It took at
least an hour. When she had seen it finished, she said: ‘I see you were
right in insisting on this.’ ‘She has given in, and I could die for her!’
exclaimed the teacher, as she reported the incident to another concerned
in it.
It has often been said that the College teachers were overworked. It
would be truer, perhaps, to state that too many chose to overwork, and
that it was easy to do so. Miss Beale, who taught, read, wrote so much,
interviewed people, conducted any amount of College business, and yet
found time to write upon Browning or the Fourth Dimension, was unable
rightly to estimate how little a young woman of average intelligence can
do. She had to learn it by actual experience of cases, and she tried to
learn it. She was always anxious to readjust a burden, took infinite
trouble to do so, but did not always realise the weakness of many a
willing horse, or the want of common-sense, which will make people
heap up tasks or work without plan. She never wanted to play herself,
could not understand that any one should seriously wish to do so; she
therefore regarded such a thing as the teachers’ tennis-ground as quite
superfluous.[74] Nor could she understand why any should wish to live
out of sight of the place of their work. Even in the summer holidays
she frequently chose the Sanatorium for a residence. Her own house was
gradually absorbed by the College buildings, until it became almost
as shut from the outer world as the women’s apartments in an oriental
establishment, with no proper air and light of its own, only such as
was derived from the surrounding corridors of the beloved College. Miss
Beale preferred it should be so. Yet this attitude was but the defect
of the great qualities by which she was enabled to make a complete
self-surrender, and to call upon others to do the same ‘for the work’s
sake.’ The only teachers who really felt ill-used or misunderstood, and
who perhaps had some genuine ground for their complaint, were those
who were unwilling to take trouble over fresh methods and subjects,
or who were unable to rise to the high standard put before them,
innocently thinking that the profession of a school-mistress was just
an interesting occupation, or a means of earning a livelihood. Yet the
practical side had its place. It was to Miss Beale’s foresight and
initiative that the Pension Fund was in the first instance due.
Miss Beale’s letters to Miss Clara Arnold, with whom she had a close
correspondence from the time Miss Arnold left the College to become a
teacher until her death in March 1906, show at once her ideal, and her
close individual care for her own child. Some of the most interesting are
quoted here:—
‘May God bless you and prosper your work. You look to me too
eager,—will you understand my word? Try to feel more what I was
saying to-day, that work is not ours but God’s, and so we may
look up peacefully, trustingly, committing our work to Him. If
we try to serve Him in sincerity, He will perfect that which
is lacking. Are not those chapters in Ezekiel comforting, when
we feel our shortcomings, and that we sometimes lead children
wrongly? Because the shepherds made them to err—“I myself will
be their shepherd.”’
* * * * *
‘_June 1881._
‘I wish I could help you, my dear child. I have copied out for
you parts of an address given to teachers some years ago by Mr.
Body.[75] I took notes of it and send some to you. You must not
let your spiritual life die down, you must get oil to burn in
the lamp of your being: that spirit of grace and life and light
of the soul. Such times of dryness do seem to be sent at times
to try our faith; whether we serve God for His gifts and the
joys of religion, but often they are the result of disobedience
to the Voice of the Spirit. “Because I called and ye refused,”
etc. Some unfaithfulness to what we knew to be right, some
self-indulgent ways, some sloth. Sometimes there is a sin
unknown, and God would make us search it out; sometimes hidden
like Achan’s piece of gold, it causes us to turn our backs on
our enemies. We have to find out and acknowledge the sin.
‘I don’t understand about your Sundays. I find I need so
much that quiet day. I think you should _resist_ making it a
_social_ day, as friends expect,—have a good portion alone for
prayer and study—for the study of rather deep books. “Build
yourselves up, beloved, in your most holy faith.” Take portions
of the Bible and work them out with good commentaries, above
all with prayerful study.
‘Do you intercede enough? If our prayers become selfish they
lose life. Remember the cruse of oil.
‘I wonder if you could sometimes go to St. Peter’s, Eaton
Square, to a Bible class, which Mr. Wilkinson holds generally
once a fortnight on Fridays after afternoon service. I should
like you to see him; but I care for his teaching on Sundays
less than on week-days. It is a fashionable congregation and
the church crowded, still I wish you would go, because he seems
to feel the presence of a living God more than almost any one I
have heard.
‘Do you go to Church now or to the Brethren’s services? To me
the Church services and seasons, and especially the silent
half-hour while others are communicating, is full of teaching.
“I will come to them and make them to sit down to meat and will
serve them.” Do you know the “Imitation”? If not, let me send
you a copy. Perhaps God speaks to _you_ better in other ways.
‘Have you let opportunities slip of helping others? Now see if
there is some one to whom you might give a cup of cold water.
Thank God for such an opportunity, and ask Him to refresh your
own soul and He will, but you must be patient. Not at first
does He answer. Partly this dryness is to teach you humility
and sympathy.
‘I would recommend you to be sympathetic in spite of it. Make
some definite rule for devotion and _keep_ to it.
‘Be particular about _time_, one may waste so much in mere
talk; have some rule and respect it.
‘Take a little time at mid-day for prayer. Then if you don’t
feel right, just go on quietly and untroubled, trying to _do_
as well as you can.
‘Read some daily portion on your knees and look up in faith. He
“feedeth the young ravens that call upon Him.”
To one who wrote that she found the character of the county in which her
school was placed ‘detestable.’
‘I am most sorry about your finding the —— character
“detestable.” If you have seemed called to work there, you must
be intended to love them, to see what is good in them first,
then what needs correction. I dare say their good qualities are
just complementary to yours, just what you want.
‘How does your Bishop feel about the flock over which the Great
Shepherd has made him overseer? and how does the Great Shepherd
Himself feel towards our detestable characters?
Many letters to young teachers dealt with the care of health, which was
always impressed as a sacred duty upon girls and teachers alike. Body and
mind should be kept fit for duty. Hence social engagements which would
make it imperative to sit up late at night should be cut off as far as
possible. Holidays should be spent in such a way as to gain complete
freshness and rest and where there was no risk of infection, not even of
taking cold.
Here is one to Miss Arnold:—
‘I am so vexed to hear about this chronic headache. Remember it
is one of your duties to God, Who has given you work, to keep
yourself fit, so you must use every means. I dare say a tonic
_would_ do you good.
‘Take warning too by —— and do not put too great a spiritual
strain upon your soul; the body is to have rest and not too
great excitement. There have been times of weakness when I have
not dared to let myself feel,—not at church or I should have
broken down. You are not as weak as that, I hope. I believe you
ought to do less in the holidays.’
Again, a month later she wrote:—
‘But I often think that you drive your _poor_ body too hard;
if we do that, we have to carry “the ass” instead of the ass
carrying us, and then we break down under the burden.’
Here is a letter to another head-mistress:—
‘I do wish you would take a real rest and holiday. I feel sure
it would be more economical in the end. You have led two lives,
and for awhile I want you to lead none, go to sleep.... Those
whom you have inspired will carry on your work, and then I hope
you will come back with fresh energy to take up not all, but a
part of the work you have done.’
Miss Beale could also enter into the feelings of exhaustion and
depression which follow some special trial connected with work. But the
sympathy she showed was ever bracing, as may be seen in the following
extracts from letters:—
‘I feel anxious about you, but don’t know what can be done,
and think that the school must suffer if you let these private
troubles occupy your field of vision.’
* * * * *
‘I am grieved that you are feeling so exhausted. If your post
is clearly at Truro, if you have no call to leave it, then you
must brace yourself again, and the work _will_ be done all
right, whether in joy or sorrow. If God has given it you, He
will give the strength to do it. We are inclined to lie like
the impotent man thinking “I can’t.” Directly we hear Christ’s
voice—we can! but it may be this body which you starved and
ill-treated and worked so hard—“the ass,” as St. Francis, I
think, called it, has been overdriven.’
There were many teachers who heard from Miss Beale just at the moment
when they seemed to need help. A few words of encouragement would come at
such times as the beginning of new work. To one she wrote always for the
opening day of the term. Two such letters follow:—
‘_January 18, 1897._
‘I am thinking of you on this your opening day, and this text
seemed given me for you. “Be strong, and He shall comfort
(strengthen, _i.e._) thine heart, and put thou thy trust in the
Lord.”
‘Try, my child, to live more this year for your children, and
to enter, as you are doing, more into the thought that to save
our lives we must lose them.’
* * * * *
‘_September 18, 1899._
‘I have been thinking about you, and supposed you would begin
to-morrow.
‘What a glorious Epistle for this week. May you be strengthened
with might by the Spirit, and be filled with all the fulness of
God. His power does work in it, above all that we ask or think.
‘The prayer in “Great Souls” speaks specially of those worn
down by sickness. I am sorry you feel weak, but the heat has
tried every one, and I think you will revive when your children
gather round you.
‘Perhaps this sort of class will be better for you, and I think
you are suited for it, because you are sympathetic, and will
encourage those who feel themselves backward or not clever, to
use the powers they have, to do what they can. May our Lord
bless and comfort and guide you, my dear child.’
The College was not an easy place to leave. Miss Beale was proud of the
number of head-mistresses she sent out, but she grudged parting with her
best teachers. And there were many who, like Miss Belcher,[76] sacrificed
their own interests to that of the College.
The following is a characteristic letter on the subject:—
‘_February 1894._
‘Miss Wolseley Lewis, who has been here nineteen years as pupil
and teacher, who is B.A., gold medallist, all round, a charming
character, good churchwoman, excellent influence, has come to
ask me for a testimonial! I wish I could write she is horrid!
‘I am losing Miss Edmonds, another gold medallist, and so good
all round, because she wants to be M.D. and missionary. I think
it is cruel to take people at this time of year. Is there any
chance of Canon Holland waiting?’
But when Miss Wolseley Lewis went to Graham Street, she wrote to her:—
‘You have been much in my thoughts this last Sunday. The sorrow
of this year[77] seems to have drawn us nearer, and it is hard
to part with you; but I feel you have been called to this work,
and I am in the depths of my heart glad. May you in some degree
realise the life of the ideal woman, through the indwelling of
the Holy Ghost.’
‘I have known her,’ wrote a head-mistress after the death of Miss Beale,
‘for thirty-six years now, and she has been the truest and most valued
of friends to me. How we who are head-mistresses of smaller schools will
miss her advice and help it is difficult to express.’
And Miss Beale could be most generous in parting with her best even in
obedience to the claims of ordinary life, claims which she did not find
it easy always to recognise. The following letter gives an example of
this:—
‘There can be only one answer under the circumstances,—you
feel you could not return, and I should feel as you do in your
place. It is a great blow to me, for we have learned to feel
such trust in one another, and one cannot trust these young
teachers to every one.... I shall miss from my staff one whom
I had learned to regard as a dear and faithful friend and
fellow-worker.’
Many more extracts might be made from Miss Beale’s letters to show her
care for teachers and her supreme interest in all that concerned their
welfare, but in many cases they suffer by separation from their context.
Therefore, from the large mass of correspondence left, a certain number
of letters dealing with various subjects have been selected to form a
chapter by themselves.