INSPECTORS
“Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.”
Daniel xii. 4.
Not so much Inspectors, as H.M. Inspectors: that distinction was always
present to the mind of a self-respecting H.M.I. The indoor staff fell
back on the imaginary peerage, which they called “My Lords”: the
outdoor staff went straight to the fountain of honour. And when on some
sudden emergency I called at the house of an exceedingly deaf Rector
(who had forgotten my face) and shouted through a trumpet that I was
The Inspector, I was a little hurt to be asked “What of?” I fear he
ranked me with my esteemed colleague in the other nuisances branch.
There were strange rumours thirty years ago of the all but regal
position assumed by the pioneers of inspection. And no doubt they
received much encouragement in country districts. In one corner of
Bœotia I found a surprising instance of this homage. I had spent the
night at “The Lion” at Littletown; the accommodation was humble, but
sufficient; the bill presented in the morning was aspiring, and more
than sufficient. I suggested some abatement and got it. Two or three
years afterwards my successor proposed to sleep at “The Lion,” but
prudently enquired beforehand whether they were likely to make him
comfortable. The landlord assured him there was no cause for alarm; he
had been patronised by Royalty. On further enquiry it appeared that
the Royalty was Me. _L’état, c’était moi._ Thanks to large
envelopes, “On Her Majesty’s Service,” addressed to H.M. Inspector,
and unsoiled with the common postage stamp, I had been raised to
Royal rank, and the reputation of the hotel and its charges had risen
accordingly. I fear those loyal spirits are more cautious now.
In a leading article in _The Times_ I read one day that a fact, which
the writer had just discussed, occurred at a time “when Inspectors
of Schools were really men of mark.” And about the same time I read
in a novel by a lady writer that the objectionable young man of the
story had got “one of those appointments which require no special
capacity, such as an Inspectorship of Schools.” In the latter case I
took pains to find out in what Inspector’s district the lady lived:
and I discovered that her tyrant was one of the most amiable and most
exemplary of men. Among other qualifications for the post he had the
voice of a turtle-dove afflicted with tonsilitis; and as a preacher--he
was in Holy Orders--he was inaudible at a distance of twenty feet from
the pulpit. It is recorded of him that one Sunday, after he had been
preaching in a strange church, the verger, or beadle, met one of the
clerical staff, who had been engaged elsewhere, and said, “You ’aven’t
missed much to-night, sir; we ’ad a bee in a bottle.”
I cannot think how this colleague can have offended the lady: unless
she sat under him. Her criticism betrays a sense of personal resentment.
The complaint that things and persons are not what they were is
familiar. It must have frequently been made by Eve, after her change
of residence, and in the family of Noah it would be the merest
commonplace. “What pterodactyls we used to have before the Flood!”
But there is some justification for the lament of _The Times_. There
were two or three Inspectors of Schools who were more distinguished
than any whom I have known in later years. Dr. Temple, and Matthew
Arnold, for instance, gave lustre to the office. But the former was
“Inspector, chiefly of Training Schools” (_Life_, Vol. I., p. 97)
for only two years; and the latter was--to put it in most courteous
terms--more efficient on the literary side. “Mr. Arnold inspects our
school in Westminster,” a London school manager said to me. “Of course
we are much honoured, and the managers make a point of attending
to meet him. He arrives in the course of the morning; shakes hands
with the managers and teachers; and talks very pleasantly for a few
minutes; then he walks through the classes between the desks, looking
over the children’s shoulders at some exercises, and so makes his way
to the door, and we see him no more.”
His letters in his _Life_ give some plausibility to the story: his
heart was not in the work, and the drudgery was distasteful. But he
wrote admirable Reports in the Blue Books: there is a volume of these
collected Reports before me, and I think no one reading them would
detect any lack of experience in the writer. He did what we were
strictly forbidden to do, and what lesser lights were afraid to do;
he freely criticised the Code, and freely suggested improvements. And
throughout there ran the three threads of humour, irony, and hard
common-sense. Is it possible that my London friend slightly embellished
his account? When managers got bad reports, they were dreadfully
untruthful.
Mr. M. Arnold’s other mission in the world of education was to supply
the Office with amusement. The most detestable of our obligations was
to compile a weekly diary, forwarded to Whitehall every Saturday,
showing the daily employment, and the daily expenditure on travelling
expenses--which the Treasury repaid. “Vex not thou the poet’s mind”
said his great contemporary; and it may be that such minds require
special consideration, when striving to deal with prosaic details.
“Who knows what ‘things unknown’ I might have ‘bodied
Forth,’ if not checked by that absurd Too-too?”
sang Calverley, when his neighbour played on the “crumpled horn.” And
in the office the Too-too was represented by a clerk, whose mission in
life was to return these diaries to negligent Inspectors with pertinent
or impertinent queries. “Why not travel by train instead of taking a
cab?” “Why go round by C. to get to B.?” and so on. When in my latest
days forty-five of these hateful diaries came to me weekly, I began to
see the standpoint of the clerk: but in 1875 the Senior Inspectors had
no such offensive duties: “they themselves were custodianed.”
Arnold’s district consisted of Westminster and Edmonton, a ridiculous
grouping. His official address was “The Athenæum,” and he lived, I
believe, at Esher. By the Treasury rules, if his work at Edmonton
required his attendance for two or more consecutive days, he was bound
after the first day to spend the night there, or to refrain from
charging his train and cab fares home again. Being a poet, of course
he returned home, and charged his fare every day. “The knight of the
Blue Pencil,” as he called his enemy, sharpened his blue pencil, and
wrote--“Mr. M. Arnold, H.M.I. Why not stay at Edmonton?” And the great
man plaintively replied: “How can you expect me to stay at Edmonton,
when John Gilpin[26] couldn’t?” The account was passed.
I imagine that his rule was lenient. A colleague told me how they sat
together at Whitelands Training College (where the girls have the rude
wind of education tempered to them by the study of Ruskin, and the
cultus of the maypole) and listened to “Recitation,” which at school we
called “Lines.” The prosaic colleague, looking over the poet’s marks,
noticed that every girl had got the highest mark possible, and he
commented on this monotony of excellence. Arnold merely purred--“they
are such charming girls.”
Of these two great men Dr. Temple represented the clerical inspector,
who in those days inspected the National schools: Arnold and a few more
laymen took the Protestant Dissenters, and the British and Foreign
Society’s Schools. A still smaller body visited the Roman Catholics.
The clerical inspectors were men who had aspirations above parochial
work, and souls above common-room life. The laymen were men who wanted
a fixed income and congenial work, and saw neither floating on the
surface of any of the ordinary professions. It must be borne in mind
that inspecting schools was only part of the early inspectors’ work:
they were missionaries over all the land, and did much to stir up
men and bodies of men to take an interest in education. Men of high
attainments and diplomatic powers would be most valuable at such
times, and if the country got them, whether clerical or lay, the
country was fortunate.
There were others famous in the land besides the two above mentioned;
Brookfield, Bellairs, Fitch, many more. There were also some very
inefficient persons. A clergyman who dislikes the profession which he
has adopted, is not necessarily the best man for the profession which
he chooses for his second string. A layman who sees no prospect of
success in the learned professions, need not be the best critic of the
teaching profession. On the whole I think it safe to say that if we
have fewer men of remarkable talent, we have fewer men of remarkable
unfitness.
There were many anecdotes of the giants of old. In one county stories
of the eccentric Mr. Goodheart still survive. A country rector told me
some:
“Mr. G. frequently stayed here for the inspection of my school. In
those days there was no such system of pupil-teacher examinations as
you have now (he referred to the monthly examinations, long since
dropped): the Inspector examined the candidates at their own schools,
or at any convenient centre, and set his own questions. He always came
to the parish school here on a Monday: slept here that night, and took
St. George’s school next day, examining the pupil-teachers where he
could. One year he asked me to allow the P.T.’s of both schools to come
up to the Rectory at 6.30 to be examined, and of course I agreed. I was
only thankful that he didn’t fix 6.30 A.M. When they came,
he put them in my study; gave them questions on paper in Arithmetic,
Grammar, Geography, and History; and then joined me at dinner.”
“What?” said I; “and left them in the room with all your books?”
“Oh yes: he wouldn’t trouble himself about a little thing like that.
Well, we dined, and we had some wine that he liked, and then he told
stories about My Lords: you all do that, don’t you? And time went on.
About ten o’clock the study bell rang, and the parlourmaid came in
with a grin, and a message: ‘Please might the teachers go home?’ Old
Goodheart had forgotten all about them.
“At St. George’s his proceedings, which never varied year by year,
would have surprised you. He went first to the Boys; heard some
Reading; picked out some pieces for Dictation; and gave the master a
lot of Arithmetic cards to deal out. Then he went to the Girls, and did
the same. Lastly he went to the Infants, where he chatted with Miss
Buxom, who was a great favourite of his, till 12 or so. He wound up
by returning to the Boys’ and Girls’ schools, and collecting all the
Dictation and Arithmetic which had been done in his absence: also he
marked the slates. The school was done.”
This took away my breath for a minute. Every “pass” was worth four
shillings up to 1876, and the teachers usually got half the grant. They
would not help the children, as a rule, though I have twice seen that
done; but would they prevent copying?
The Rector’s eyes twinkled: “Well, we used to get better grants and
better reports too from old Goodheart than we do from you.”
Odd trick: honours easy.
There were many legends also in three districts of the Rev. Mr.
Bluffer, H.M.I. He was of the common-room don type: formerly, and still
_gourmet_: formerly rough to undergraduates; now rough to managers,
teachers, and children; but withal combining a certain human element
and a liberal hand in spending his own money. “Why,” I once asked, “did
not the managers rise up, and demand Bluffer’s head on a charger?” And
the answer was, that the old sinner would at times wash down his advice
and criticisms with cheques in aid of struggling schools.
There was need of some washing. The Secretary of the Department told
me, some time after Bluffer’s death, a story of H.M.I.’s behaviour in
school. The master was an elderly man of the village pedagogue type,
and his fumbling ways were a little irritating to an official in a
hurry. The first class wanted reading books, and the old man went off
to fetch them; searched in one cupboard unavailingly; found them in
another; collected them; piled them up in his arms, and limped back.
“Look alive, man!” shouted Bluffer, with a vigorous slap on
his fat thigh. The master jumped: down went the books, and the children
roared.
The manager, who told the story to the Secretary, was a peer of the
realm, and a wealthy one. I think if he had kicked Bluffer out of the
room--say 40_s._ and costs--and had let the Government grant go hang,
he would have enjoyed himself more on his death-bed--and thereafter.
But yet, as I said, there was a human element in Bluffer. From another
country school after the inspection the mistress wrote to her former
headmaster:
“Her Majesty’s Inspector has been here. He was in a lovely temper. When
he had done, he kissed all the boys, and all the girls: then he kissed
the pupil-teachers; and last, but not least, he did not omit your
humble servant.”
“_On ne s’arrête pas dans un si beau chemin_,” said Mr. Pleydell, when
he saluted Julia Mannering after Lucy Bertram. It reminds one also
of the old cottager who learned for the first time that Solomon had
had all those wives: “Lor, sir, what blessed privileges them early
Christians had.”
Bluffer’s last district was in a large town, and a friend of mine was
a manager of a school therein. When the day of inspection arrived,
the rector was away, and my friend, being senior curate, was left
to receive the great man. He knew Bluffer by reputation, and with
commendable prudence enquired at the Inspector’s London club what, as
Mr. Weller would put it, “was his partickler wanity.” It was oysters,
and oysters accordingly were laid in. On the appointed day the curate
approached the official, explained his position as vicegerent, and
proffered hospitality. The inspector hesitated: to lunch with a curate
was hazardous, and, indeed, _pessimi exempli_: but this curate was a
Fellow of his college, and had “sat at good men’s feasts, and from his
eyelid wiped a tear” when the cook fell short of excellence; it was a
long way to the hotel: on the whole he thought he would venture.
“And when he came to my lodgings,” the curate reported, “and saw the
oysters laid out on the table, _and the brown bread and butter_, his
face lit up with a heavenly smile, and the report was excellent.”
No such mitigating features were noted in Snarler’s reputation. Perhaps
it was malice that attributed to him the appalling statement, “I never
feel that I have done my duty in school unless I have left the mistress
in tears.” It is not likely that he made the statement, or that, if he
did, he meant it. But such stories are not told of amiable men. “Men
must work, and women must weep,” but the actions, if concurrent, must
not be causal. “It is better that women should greet than bearded men,”
was Ruthven’s theory; but his methods were considered rough, even in
Edinburgh, even in the sixteenth century.
Let it not be supposed that the modern type of inspector is wholly free
from folly and vice. I could unfold several tales, but _de viventibus
nil nisi bonum_ is a safe motto. Whether ancient or modern, in my
somewhat lengthy experience, H.M.I. is not generally beloved. At one
time I used to attend an annual dinner, where the great majority of
guests were clerical. They would come to me, one after another, with
the same story:
“Are you still inspecting schools? Still in the same district? Do you
know our man, Mr. M. or N.?”
“No; we never meet our colleagues outside the Division.”
“Ah, dear me: I wish _you_ would come to us instead. Our man is very
unpopular; requires _so_ much in the way of improvements. Why, what do
you think he did last March?” &c., &c.
It was pleasant to think that on that summer day all my school managers
were wandering about England, making the same complaint about me.
It is a pleasant profession for a peaceably-minded man. If I were asked
to state its principal charm, I should say it is Irresponsibility. The
income is moderate, but sufficient and certain. In the dim and distant
future looms a pension, assuring bread and butter. The standard of
comfort, therefore, is assured: unfruitfulness of honest work does not
threaten poverty; Patients, clients, customers, cannot leave one.
But the chief comfort is that there is no personal worry. A doctor
grieves that his patients die; a barrister gnashes his teeth at the
blind stupidity of judges and juries, who heeded him not; a parish
priest lies sleepless o’ nights, sorrowing for the wickedness of
Crooked Court, notably for the backsliding of hopeful converts. But the
entire collapse of the arithmetic in Crooked Court Board School would
not deprive the “irresponsible, indolent reviewer” of a moment’s rest.
The work is often very heavy, but it is not work that kills: it is
worry.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] A colleague insists on a variant: “when John Gilpin’s _horse_
couldn’t.”