private, shall stir up the old foundations to exertion, in order to
maintain their ground, that college which, from the inefficiency of
its tutors, fails to educate, will at least soon be relieved from
the necessity of pretending to educate at all. Even its foundation
scholarships, with which we would never meddle, will fail to recruit
its ranks, if the path to a fellowship be made, as it should, to lie
only through a fair place in the Honour-list. With the addition
which may thus easily be made to the staff of college tutors—by
exacting some little additional labour from each—by abolishing at
once the monopoly which now drives a man to enter at a bad college
rather than not to enter at all, and allowing, at the same time,
every Master of Arts, who has sufficient confidence in his own
abilities (and in whom the University shall place sufficient
confidence), to open a hall of his own—and by rigorously insisting
not only upon attendance at lectures, but upon due preparation for
them—college tuition may again become what we believe it has been,
what an innocent public naturally suppose it to be, and what it
undoubtedly ought to be; and the hydra-headed incubus which has
gradually supplanted and overpowered it will thus, if not
annihilated, become a very innocent monster indeed. When the regular
college work makes its full demand on the undergraduate’s time and
powers, private tuition will only be resorted to by those who have
more money than brains; and the private tutor will gradually come to
be considered, by all well-regulated minds, much in the same light
as a “_crib_” to Thucydides, or a key to Colenso’s algebra. Even
now, his services are absurdly magnified, and much of the supposed
benefit derived from them is wholly imaginary. Men who, years ago,
rose to the highest University honours without such artificial aid,
may fairly challenge, in the extent and accuracy of their
scholarship, any name in later class-lists; nay, it is no unheard-of
or unfounded complaint that, in spite of the formidable _apparatus
criticus_, and various modern patents for learning-made-easy—in
spite of the “invaluable” facilities afforded the student by these
private tutors—(it might be unfair to say _because of_ these
things)—the scholarship of Oxford has declined. Nay, the _cram_,
“purchased and handed down from tutor to tutor,” is not actually so
valuable, even in the schools, as either buyer or seller would fain
persuade themselves. The man who lost his “First,” because he had no
private tutor[33]—whom Mr Rawlinson so pathetically holds out as a
sort of George Barnwell to undergraduates—would have made a very
good addition to Mr Douglas Jerrold’s “men of character,” as a
pendant to “the man who couldn’t help it;” but the latter character
is more common in Oxford. For one man who fails in the attainment of
expected honours, from ignorance of some technical formulas, or
recondite information, supposed to be the exclusive property and
stock in trade of practised private tutors, twenty break down from
inaccurate scholarship, or imperfect knowledge of the actual
text-books of the examination. It is quite true that the examiner,
who has unfortunately himself been a private tutor, is very apt, in
the _vivâ voce_ examination, to lead a candidate into these by-ways
of learning, where he himself feels so much at home, when, if the
candidate be also one of the initiated, a very pleasant dialogue
takes place, to the great delectation of the audience, but probably
with very little effect upon his place in the class-list. For it
must be remembered that, even should the candidate succeed in
flattering the known predilections of a single examiner into a false
estimate of his abilities, there are three others sitting by who
regard all this display with perfect indifference. The atrocious
blunders made by showy men would pass the belief of any but an
examiner. A few specious answers on a “science paper” will not cover
the multitude of sins. We have heard from the lips of one of the
ablest examiners in Oxford—whose name would have some weight even
with the Commissioners—that more men lost their expected class from
a want of knowledge of their books than from any other cause
whatever. But one of the great evils of the system which now exists
is, that it is so infectious; it is hard for a young man not to
believe that the assistance which he sees others so eager to obtain
is necessary, or at least very desirable, for himself; if A, B, and
C read with private tutors, D considers that he starts with a
disadvantage unless he does so too. And when the college tutor sees
that nearly all his men prefer to seek other aid, he, very
naturally, if he be an indolent man—not without some vexation, if
his heart be in his work—feels his own responsibility in a great
measure taken from him.
And this so-called liberty in the choice of an instructor, thus opened
to the youth of Oxford, how often is it wisely exercised? What a mere
caprice of fashion it is often which makes men rush in crowds to this or
that popular tutor, as if he alone were in possession of some specific
for the schools! whilst he again has soon to give place to some newer
favourite—
“Arbitrio popularis auræ.”
Can one blame the teacher, if with such a precarious tenure he strives
hard, for the time being, to make the most of his brains? Is it
wonderful if he is willing to take pupils whilst they are to be had,
even at the rate of twelve hours a-day?[34] It has been done—with what
effect upon the tutor, with what benefit to the pupil, let the reader
judge for himself. So again, in the case of a pass-tutor (whose course
of preparation is only for Responsins, or for the ordinary degree), his
reputation is sometimes made or unmade by the result of a single
examination—some half-dozen men plucked whom he had considered almost
safe—a few desperate cases “shaved through,” who had failed under other
trainers; this, or less than this, in the chapter of accidents, is quite
sufficient to overwhelm a man with applications for the next
examination, or leave him gradually almost without a pupil.
In short, this forcing system, which aims at pumping into the pupil’s
brains the condensed results of another’s labours, owes its chief
popularity to the notion that it saves the pupil work. Whether even a
less amount of actual knowledge, if the result of personal labour and
research, would not be far more valuable, is a question which the
undergraduate, anxious only for his examination, cannot be supposed to
ask. If the true object of a University education be “to train the
powers of the mind,” every artificial aid which tends to weaken
self-reliance, and discourage self-exertion, is a step towards defeating
it. It is quite true that the results of originality of thought, as
displayed in the examination papers of even the best candidates for
honours, may not be very valuable in themselves; but the habit of
thinking for one’s-self, and the exercise of mental power in mastering
difficulties, are amongst the most precious fruits of a student life.
And if ever one of the most valuable suggestions contained in the Report
be carried out, as we trust it will, and candidates for classical
honours be tested more and more, as may easily be done, in the
translation and analysation of unseen passages, it will do good service
in proving the hollowness of a system which aims at communicating to the
student knowledge ready made, instead of strengthening him to attain it.
We have said little of that strange hallucination which has led the
Commissioners to see in the extension of the professorate alone the
remedy for all the educational mistakes of Oxford. It has been so
effectually exposed by other writers, and has been so little popular
with any but its authors, that it may be considered as pretty well
disposed of. It is very satisfactory to find the “Tutor’s Association,”
in their Report (No. II. p. 42), in a few cool words giving us the
deliberate opinion of so large and important a body, that “it is in no
way desirable that the instruction of professors should ever become the
main instruction of the place.” That some addition may with great
advantage be made to the present number of professors—still more, that
existing professorships should be made efficient—no one will deny. We
could be content to take the last reform first as an instalment. We
should like to have one or two of the existing types of the class put
into working order, that we might know how to value the effect of a
larger importation; for the professor, as he is, is not unknown in
Oxford, though not apt to exhibit much for the public delectation. But
we have the thing, of various species—Regius, Margaret, and others—and
have not as yet been much the better for them. We are told that with new
professors we shall have a greater command of talent than can be
expected in the case of college tutors. “I have always found,” said
Arnold of Rugby, “that the great difference between one boy and another
lay not so much in talent as in energy.” No man was a better judge; few
men in themselves had more of both; and we are sure he would have
applied unhesitatingly to the teacher what he had said of the taught. We
need, in those who are to regenerate Oxford, talent, it is true—we need
yet more energy. There is enough Greek and History and Philosophy
already dormant in University Chairs, “_celata virtus_,” to satisfy the
most voracious undergraduate that ever hungered and thirsted after
knowledge. It may be a great comfort to him to know that his teachers,
or those who should be his teachers, know so much, but with this comfort
he must rest content. And even with the immense “run” of public talent
which our modern tyro is to have opened to him, let him not be too
sanguine. In the multitude of his new councillors there shall surely be
wisdom, but not surely for him. He shall have teachers in plenty, but
they shall only teach as shall seem to them good. The Commissioners have
made the profound discovery that no statutes “can compel a man to
lecture well;” and one of their chosen witnesses even doubts whether
they should be compelled to lecture at all.[35] Because the plan of
teaching in large classes does not work well in colleges, the student
shall be transferred to larger classes, under other names, formed out of
the whole University. Because existing professors are a failure—those
who have done their duty having been “brilliant exceptions,” “not even
encouraged by success”[36]—therefore he shall have more. Because college
tutors do not always lecture well, he shall have a new set of teachers,
who shall lecture, if it so pleases them, not at all. By some magnetic
process, the learning of the professor shall be instilled into the pupil
without having recourse to the ordinary mediums of communication. We
have not patience to pursue all these absurdities to their conclusion.
Yet we must not wonder that the Commissioners’ scheme has on this point
found able advocates. A measure of reform which is to create at once
some fifty snug and honourable appointments, of from £800 per annum
downwards, can hardly fail to be popular amongst unemployed and
ambitious M.A.’s. More than one name might be pointed out amongst the
eager witnesses for the prosecution, who are already in fancy seating
themselves in the professors’ chairs. If they have not been slow to
impute to existing teachers low aims and unworthy motives, they must not
wince if they are cross-examined closely as to the feelings which might
possibly influence themselves. It would not be difficult to select from
those names probable candidates for the visionary chairs of
“Jurisprudence,” “Philosophy,” or “Mental Philosophy.” “Professor, sir?
Here you are, sir!” we fancy we hear chorused by a score of eager
voices. They are conscious, many of them honestly conscious, of talents
which have not yet found scope enough for exercise, and long naturally
for recognised position and rank. The pay, as Mr Vaughan slily says, “is
a slighter but not unfelt consideration.”[37]
We must protest, at all events, against this _ex parte_ evidence. It is
too late now to discuss the wisdom of that policy which closed so many
lips, which might have been fitting oracles of Oxford, before a court
whose jurisdiction they denied. But we now claim to hear those men of
grave and mature experience, whose names are not upon the Commissioners’
list of witnesses; there are some among them to whom all must listen
reverently, although all may not adopt their views. The University has
called for their opinions; let them now speak, or else hereafter for
ever hold their peace.
OUR COMMISSIONER IN PARIS.
It was on the evening of the 22d of August, 1853, that a party
consisting of a gentleman, two ladies, and four packages, emerged from
the door of the Castle Inn at Southampton, and bestowed themselves in
and upon a one-horse fly. Something had happened which apparently had
disturbed the equanimity of the paternal leader of the flock; and as an
attentive bystander might have heard him mutter in no very benevolent
accent, while he indignantly crumpled up a small bit of paper and thrust
it into his waistcoat-pocket—“We might have dined at the Clarendon for
the same sum”—it is not an unlikely conjecture that the entertainment
had been bad, and the charge excessive. A drive of three minutes
conducted them to the pier; when a demand for an infinite variety of
shillings and twopences still farther increased the traveller’s
dissatisfaction, which, however, only reached its climax when Jehu, wet
and tipsy, insisted on a crown. It was now eight o’clock; the Grand Turk
lay alongside the jetty, fretting, and fuming, and spurting out angry
ejaculations from its funnel; the deck was strewed with boxes of all
imaginable shapes and sizes; the rain was falling, porters swearing,
deck slippery, companion-ladder dark, and, when the cabin was at last
attained, the glimmering lamp threw a melancholy light over the visages
of twenty or thirty people who sat in solemn silence, or anxiously
whispered to each other as to the safety of hat-box or umbrella. The
party we have mentioned took their seats with the rest; and, if we
pursued the very novel style in which we have begun this narrative, now
would be the time to introduce a description of the travellers’ personal
appearance. It was manifest the relationship between them was rather
close; a father, mother, and daughter were on their way to the gay city
of Paris, and adopted the route by Southampton and Havre, intending to
spend a few days at Rouen by the way. The description of any of the
party would, however, be useless; for before it had got beyond the bold
and intellectual glance of the senior traveller, his hair glossy black,
clustering in rich ringlets around his well-shaped, head—his majestic
features, now radiant with an indefinable expression and now sunk in
serene repose—and the tones of his voice redolent of scholarship and
romance—the dullest of readers would at once perceive that it was no
other but Our Commissioner on his way to France; determined, as in duty
bound, to communicate to Maga the result of his observations—
“To talk of sciences and arts,
And knowledge gained in foreign parts.”
So, leaving to the reader’s imagination the discomforts of a night
passage in an over-crowded boat, with a sharp wind, and an angry
chopping sea, he will merely state that he arrived weary, but safe, at
the excellent Hôtel de l’Europe, in the bustling town of Havre; and,
after a copious breakfast, proceeded to survey the place. A very
pleasant, active, clean place it is. The docks so intersect the town
that half the streets have their frontage occupied by the shipping. It
looks more like what we have read of Amsterdam than what we had expected
to find in France. The tide rises three-and-twenty feet, so that, though
there is depth of water enough for vessels of large burthen, the docks
are not available for them at all hours; and the outside harbours did
not strike us as either capacious or safe. The fortifications as they at
present stand are contemptible, and could not stand the attack of the
“Duke of Wellington” for an hour; but batteries of great strength are
soon to be begun, and the maritime capital placed out of danger of a
_coup-de-main_. At five o’clock we got into the train for Rouen; and,
through a rich, flat, uninteresting country, very much resembling the
Isle of Thanet, we careered at twenty-five miles an hour, and reached
our destination as comfortably as on the best of our English lines. Let
all men who stop at Rouen go to the Hôtel d’Albion; it is situated on
the quay, and nowhere is the beautiful Seine more beautiful than here.
It is spanned by several bridges, from which the view both up and down
is of extraordinary richness. Towers, and pinnacles, and great high
houses, all breathing of the middle ages, surround, and are reflected in
a river, which is bright to-day with the gay sails and flags of all
nations, and which is the same that bore William the Conqueror on his
way to England. Somehow or other, this same William the Conqueror gives
us a sort of vested interest in the scenery of Normandy. We feel a kind
of property in his castles; and can’t help a small sensation of enmity
to Joan of Arc for ousting us from our hereditary domains. However, let
us look on her statue in the marketplace without a blush, for the
English did not burn her as an enemy, but the French ecclesiastics
burned her as a witch. The cathedral is gaudy, and over-ornamented
outside, but solemn and grand within; a hurried glance is sufficient for
all the internal sights of the place, but the fine old streets, the
gable-ended houses, the projecting balconies, the straight, steep roofs,
would furnish food for contemplation for a month. Then the walks around
it are delightful, the heights that encompass it very rich and finely
moulded, fruit and provisions very cheap, and the people good-humoured
and obliging—no wonder many English families have established themselves
here, and taken possession of the most charming situations—a sort of
reprisal for the behaviour of the Normans in 1066.
Next day saw us on the way to Paris, careering through a country still
flat and monotonous, except when here and there the windings of the
Seine showed us the chalky banks through which it had forced its way;
or, at a remote distance, a few hills, or rather elevations, crowned
with an occasional ruin. For, though this is the highway to the capital,
and one of the richest provinces in the kingdom, there is an appearance
of desolation spread over all the district, as if it had very recently
been the scene of some devastating war. The villages are all either half
finished, or half destroyed. Instead of the three or four gentlemanly
dwellings—the surgeon’s, the retired tradesman’s, the neighbouring
manufacturer’s, besides the squire’s, and the rectory—which you see
dotted among the humble cottages in almost every English village—here
you see nothing but straight, narrow stone huts, no fruit on the walls,
no garden attached—but single, bare, and comfortless, clustered, like
some recent fungi, round an old squat-spired church, which seems to look
with blank astonishment out of its broken clock-face at the railway
carriages hissing past it, and disturbing its “ancient, solitary reign”
over a trampled peasantry and roadless country. There are not above
three chateaus visible between Havre and Paris; and the tale of at least
one of them is told by the appearance of three or four great high
factory-chimneys, which were of course utterly unknown to the original
seigneur, but are very convenient for the present owner of the mansion,
as they are situated just at one end of the long-terraced garden, and
must be a comfortable accession to the view from the drawing-room
windows. All old things have died away in this part of France, and a new
order of things has not yet risen. Here are houses dismantled in the
riots of ’93 still unroofed. Even the old chateau inhabited by the great
Sully, and giving the title “de Rosny,” by which he was originally
known, does not seem to have a tree about it more than thirty years old.
Yet the chimneys are all shaky with age, and if there were any cracks in
the wall that gave rheumatism to the great councillor of Henry IV.,
depend upon it they are there still. We did not see a house under repair
all the time we were in France. The owner seems to wait till it is
actually uninhabitable, and then he builds another. The result is a
combination of novelty and decay which it is very unpleasant to look
upon.
One style of building, however, it must be confessed, is carried to
great perfection in France. As you approach Paris, you see on all hands
barracks and fortifications. At intervals you hear far-distant military
music, and catch the glimpses of long rows of bayonets in the sunlight;
and on the elevation commanding the plain you see enormous lines of
strong low walls crowded with embrasures for cannon, and on a stout
little post swings in the summer air the universal tricolor. Universal
we call it; for, go where you like, the blue, white, and red, are sure
to meet your eyes: they hang over book-stalls, and auction-rooms, and
_restaurateurs_, and theatres. Over small cabarets in rural villages you
still see the flag; over all the government offices, small and great;
over merry-go-rounds at a fair; over a conjuror’s booth; over the tilted
waggon of a perambulating quack; and, finally, over the central pavilion
of the majestic Tuileries. Flags, therefore, and fortifications are the
principal characteristics of the capital. But, in fact, the massive
style of masonry, and the isolated nature of the dwelling-houses, fit
every mansion in Paris to stand a siege. Any lodging-house in the street
could be converted into a fortification at a moment’s notice, and would
only require to hoist the tricolor from the roof to become a citadel at
once. In the mean time, it was our object to get into lodgings as soon
as we could; and with this view we hurried from the railway station to
the office of an excellent English agent in the Rue de Rivoli.
Fortunately an _appartement_ of eight rooms was vacant on the first
floor above; half an hour saw the bargain made, the trunks deposited,
the services of a native cook secured, and everything as comfortable as
heart could desire.
The rooms were intensely French. There were nine windows in the
lodging, and nineteen doors; there were five clocks, enamelled,
gilded, and otherwise ornamented, which did not go, and one in the
kitchen which was always wrong; there were four arm-chairs in the
drawing-room, with square gilded legs, and tapestry-covered backs,
which it required an enormous exertion of strength to move from beside
the wall; there was a sofa so tremendously elastic that you kept
swinging up and down for a minute or two after you had taken your
seat; there was a round table, so small that it couldn’t hold the
smallest tea-tray, and so heavy, by means of a marble top, that it
couldn’t be moved from its place; and, what with tables and chairs,
and sofas and clocks, and jars and mirrors, and curtains and
firescreens, and brackets and other useless encumbrances, there was
only left a narrow serpentine walk across the floor more intricate
than, and quite as dangerous as, the entrance into Portsmouth harbour.
The bedrooms had the same characteristics of over-furnishing and
encumbered space; but the colours of everything were so gay, the
gilding so bright, the mirrors so glossy, that our spirits were never
depressed, and we entirely escaped the Penitentiary-at-Millbank sort
of feeling which invariably takes possession of us on being ushered
into the dull, heavy, monotonous apartments of a London lodging-house.