brace of parents to you. Impress them! There are prospects of more
to-morrow, so with any luck we ought to be able to pull up your numbers
to a decent level after all."
"Thank you very much," says a meek voice at the other end.
* * * * *
Then there is the bluff, hearty parent--the man who knows exactly what
he wants, and does not hesitate to say so.
"I don't want my son taught any of your new-fangled nonsense," he
explains breezily. "Just a good sound education, without frills! The boy
will have to earn his own living afterwards, and I want you to teach him
something which will enable him to do so. Don't go filling him up with
Latin and Greek: give him something which will be useful in an office. I
know you pedagogues stick obstinately to what you call a good general
grounding; but, if I may say so, you ought to _specialise_ a bit more.
You're too shy of specialisation, you know. But I say: Find out what
each boy in your School requires for his future career, and teach him
_that_!"
A Headmaster once replied to a parent of this description:
"Unfortunately, sir, the fees of this school and the numbers of its
Staff are calculated upon a _table d'hote_ basis. If you want to have
your son educated _a la carte_, you must get a private tutor for him."
* * * * *
Then there is the Utterly Impossible parent. He is utterly impossible
for one of two reasons--either because he is a born faddist, or because
he has relieved Providence of a grave responsibility by labelling
himself "A Self-Made Man, and Proud of It!"
The faddist is the sort of person who absorbs Blue Books without
digesting them, and sits upon every available Board without growing any
wiser, and cherishes theories of his own about non-competitive
examinations, and cellular underclothing, and the use of graphs, and,
generally speaking, about every subject on which there is no particular
reason why the layman should hold any opinions at all. Such a creature
harries the scholastic profession into premature senility. Him the Head
always handles in the same fashion. He delivers him over at the first
opportunity to a Housemaster, and the Housemaster promptly takes him out
on to the cricket-field and, having introduced him to the greatest bore
upon the Staff, leaves the pair together to suffer the fate of the
Kilkenny cats.
The other sort of Utterly Impossible is not so easily scotched. The
ordinary snubs of polite society are not for him. He is a plain man, he
mentions, and likes to put things on a business footing. Putting things
on a business footing seems to necessitate--no one knows why--a recital
of the plain man's early struggles, together with a _resume_ of his
present bank-balance and directorships. Not infrequently he brings his
son with him, and having deposited that shrinking youth on a chair under
the eyes both of the Head and himself, proceeds to run over his points
with enormous gusto and unparental impartiality.
"There he is!" he bellows. "Now you've _got_ him! Ram it into him! Learn
him to be a scholar, and I'll pay any bill you like to send in. I've got
the dibs. He's not a bad lad, as lads go, but he wants his jacket dusted
now and then. My father dusted mine regular every Saturday night for
fifteen year, and it made me the man I am. I'm worth----"
A condensed Budget follows. Then the harangue is resumed.
"So don't spare the rod--that's what I say. Learn him all that a scholar
ought to be learned. If he wants books, get them, and put them down to
me. I can pay for them. And at the end of the year, if he gets plucked
in his examinations, you send him home to me, and I'll bile him!"
The plain man breaks off, and glares with ferocious affection upon his
offspring. All this while the shrewd Head has been observing the boy's
demeanour; and if he decides that the exuberance of his papa has not
been inherited to an ineradicable extent, he accepts the cowering youth
and does his best for him. As a rule he is justified in his judgment.
Lastly comes a novel and quite inexplicable variant of the species. It
owes its existence entirely to journalistic enterprise.
Little Tommy Snooks, we will say, arrives home one afternoon in a taxi
in the middle of term, and announces briefly but apprehensively to his
parents that he has been "sacked." He is accompanied or preceded by a
letter from his Headmaster, expressing genuine sorrow for the
occurrence, and adding that though it has been found necessary for the
sake of discipline to remove Master Thomas from the School, his offence
has not been such as to involve any moral stigma. Little Tommy's
parents, justly incensed that their offspring should have been expelled
from school without incurring any moral stigma, write demanding instant
reparation. The Headmaster, in his reply, states that Thomas has been
expelled because he has broken a certain rule, the penalty for breaking
which happens to be--and is known to be--expulsion. _Voila tout._ In
other words, he has been expelled, not for smoking or drinking or
breaking bounds (or whatever he may happen to have done), but for
deliberately and wantonly flying in the face of the Law which prohibits
these misdemeanours. Either Tommy must go, or the Law be rendered futile
and ridiculous.
This paltry and frivolous attempt to evade the real point at
issue--which appears to be that many people, including Tommy's parents
and the Headmaster himself, smoke, drink, and go out after dark and are
none the worse--is treated with the severity which it deserves. A letter
is despatched, consigning the Headmaster to scholastic perdition. The
Headmaster briefly acknowledges receipt, and suggests that the
correspondence should now cease.
[Illustration: RANK AND FILE]
So far the campaign has followed well-defined and perfectly natural
lines, for a parent is seldom disposed to take his boy's expulsion
"lying down." But at this point the new-style parent breaks right away
from tradition--kicks over the traces, in fact. Despatching that
slightly dazed but on the whole deeply gratified infant martyr, Master
Tommy, to salve outraged nature at an adjacent Picture Palace, the
parent sits down at his (or her) desk and unmasks the whole dastardly
conspiracy to a halfpenny newspaper of wide circulation. "I do this," he
explains, "not from any feeling of animosity towards the Headmaster of
the School, but in order to clear my son's good name and fair fame in
the eyes of the world." This is interesting and valuable news to the
world, which has not previously heard of Tommy Snooks. The astute editor
of the halfpenny paper, with a paternal smile upon his features and his
tongue in his cheek, publishes the letter in a conspicuous position--if
things in the football and political world happen to be particularly
dull, he sometimes finds room for Tommy's photograph too--and invites
general correspondence on the subject.
Few parents can resist such an opportunity; and for several weeks the
editor is supplied, free gratis, with a column of diversified but
eminently saleable matter. The beauty of a controversy of this kind is
that you can debate upon almost any subject without being pulled up for
irrelevance. Parents take full advantage of this licence. Some
contribute interesting legends of their children's infancy. Others
plunge into a debate upon punishment in general, and the old battle of
cane, birch, slipper, imposition, detention, and moral suasion is fought
over again. This leads to a discussion as to whether public schools
shall or shall not be abolished--by whom, is not stated. Presently the
national reserve of retired colonels is mobilised, and fiery old
gentlemen write from Cheltenham to say that in their young days boys
were boys and not molly-coddles. Old friends like _Materfamilias_, _Pro
Bono Publico_, _Quis Custodiet Custodes_ rush into the fray with joyous
whoops. There is quite a riot of pseudonyms: the only person who gives
his proper name (and address) is the headmaster of a small preparatory
school, who contributes a copy of his prospectus, skilfully disguised as
a treatise on "How to Preserve Home Influences at School."
But the boom is short-lived. Presently a crisis arises in some other
department of our national life. Something cataclysmal happens to the
House of Commons, or the Hippodrome, or Tottenham Hotspur. Public
attention is diverted; the correspondence is closed with cruel
abruptness; and little Tommy Snooks is summoned from the Picture Palace,
and sent to another school or provided with a private tutor. Still, his
good name and fair fame are now vindicated in the eyes of the world.
But it is not altogether surprising that the great Temple should once
have observed:
"Boys are always reasonable; masters sometimes; parents never!"
III
Correspondence between school and home is conducted upon certain
well-defined lines. A boy writes home every Sunday: his family may write
to him when they please and as often as they please. But--they must
never send postcards.
Postcards in public schools are common property. Many a new boy's
promising young life has been overclouded at the very outset by the
arrival of some such maternal indiscretion as this:
_Dearest Artie,--I am sending you some nice new vests for the
colder months. Mind you put them on, but ask the Matron to air them
first. The girls send their love, and Baby sends you a kiss.--Your
affec._
_Mother_.
"Dearest Artie" usually comes into possession of this missive after it
has been passed from hand to hand, with many joyous comments, the whole
length of the Lower School breakfast-table. He may not hear the last of
the vests and Baby for months.
As for writing home, a certain elasticity of method is essential. In
addressing one's father, it is advisable to confine oneself chiefly to
the topic of one's studies. Money should not be asked for, but
references to the Classics may be introduced with advantage, and perhaps
a fair copy of one's last Latin prose enclosed. The father will not be
able to understand or even read it; but this will not prevent him from
imagining that he could have done so thirty years ago; and his heart
will glow with the reminiscent enthusiasm of the retired scholar.
Mothers may be addressed with more freedom. Small financial worries may
be communicated, and it is a good plan to dwell resignedly but steadily
upon the insufficiency of the food supplied by the School authorities.
Health topics may be discussed, especially in so far as they touch upon
the question of extra diet.
Sisters appreciate School gossip and small talk of any kind.
Young brothers may be impressed with daredevil tales of masters put to
rout and prefects "ragged" to death.
The appended _dossier_ furnishes a fairly comprehensive specimen of the
art. It is entitled:
THE BIRTHDAY
_Correspondence addressed to Master E. Bumpleigh,
Mr. Killick's House, Grandwich School_
No. I
MESSRS. BUMPLEIGH & SITWELL, LTD.,
220B CORNHILL,
_Telegrams_: "BUMPSIT, LONDON."
_November 6, 19--._
MY DEAR EGBERT,--Your mother informs me that to-morrow, the 7th
inst., is your fifteenth birthday. I therefore take this
opportunity of combining my customary greetings with a few
observations on your half-term report, which has just reached me.
It is a most deplorable document. With the exception of your health
(which is described as "excellent"), and your violin-playing (which
I note is "most energetic"), I can find no cause for congratulation
or even satisfaction in your record for the past half-term. Indeed,
were it not for the existence of the deep-seated conspiracy (of
which you have so frequently and so earnestly warned me) among the
masters at your school, to deprive you of your just marks and so
prevent you from taking your rightful place at the head of the
form, I should almost suspect you of idling.
I enclose ten shillings as a birthday gift. If you could contrive
during the next half-term to overcome the unfortunate prejudice
with which the Grandwich staff appears to be inspired against you,
I might see my way to doing something rather more handsome at
Christmas.--
Your affectionate father,
JOHN HENRY BUMPLEIGH.
(_Reply._
_November 7._
MY DEAR FATHER,--Thanks awfully for the ten bob. Yes, it is most
deplorable as you say about my report. I feel it very much. It is a
rum thing that I should have come out bottom, for I have been
working fearfully hard lately. I expect a mistake has been made in
adding up the marks. You see, they are all sent in to the
form-master at half-term, and he, being a classical man, naturally
can't do mathematics a bit, so he adds up the marks all anyhow, and
practically anybody comes out top. It is very disheartening. I
think it would be better if I went on the Modern Side next term.
The masters there are just as ignerant and unfair as on the
classical, but not being classical men they do know something about
adding up marks. So if I went I might get justice done me. I must
now stop, as I have several hours more prep. to do, and I want to
go and ask Mr. Killick for leave to work on after bed-time.--Your
affec. son,
E. BUMPLEIGH.)
No. II
THE LIMES, WALLOW-IN-THE-WEALD,
SURREY, _Monday_.
MY DEAREST BOY,--Very many happy returns of your birthday. The
others (_Genealogical Tree omitted here_) ... send their best love.
I fear your father is not quite pleased with your half-term report.
It seems a pity you cannot get higher up in your form, but I am
sure you _try_, my boy. I don't think Father makes quite enough
allowance for your _health_. With your weak digestion, long hours
of sedentary work must be very trying at times. Ask the matron ...
(_one page omitted_). I enclose ten shillings, and will send you
the almond cake and potted lobster you ask for.--Your affectionate
mother,
MARTHA BUMPLEIGH.
(_Reply._
_November 7._
DEAR MUM,--Thanks ever so much for the ten bob, also the lobster
and cake, which are A1. Yes, the pater wrote to me about my
report--rather a harsh letter, I thought. Still, we must make
allowances for him. When he was young education was a very simple
matter. Now it is the limit. My digestion is all right, thanks, but
my head aches terribly towards the end of a long day of seven or
eight hours' work. Don't mention this to the pater, as it might
worry him. I shall work on to the end, but if the strain gets too
much it might be a sound plan for me to go on the Modern Side next
term. You might mention this cassualy to the pater. I must stop
now, as the prayer-bell is ringing.--Your affec. son,
E. BUMPLEIGH.)
No. III
THE LIMES, WALLOW-IN-THE-WEALD,
SURREY, _Aujourd'hui_.
DEAR EGGIE,--Many happy returns. I have spent all my dress
allowance, so I can't do much in the way of a present, I'm afraid;
but I send a P.O. for 2_s._ 6_d._ You got a pretty bad half-term
report, my dear. Breakfast that morning _was_ a cheery meal. I got
hold of it afterwards and read it, and certainly you seem to have
been getting into hot water all round. By the way, I see you have
got some new masters at Grandwich, judging by the initials on your
report. I know "V. K." and "O. P. H.": they are Killick and
Higginson, aren't they? But who are "A. C. N." and
"M. P. G."?--Your affec. sister,
BARBARA.
(_Reply._
_November, 7._
DEAR BABS,--Thanks ever so much for the 2_s._ 6_d._ It is most
welcome, as the pater only sent ten bob, being shirty about my
report; and the mater another. Still, I haven't heard from Aunt
Deborah yet: she usually comes down hansom on my birthday. The new
masters you mean are A. C. Newton and M. P. Gainford. I don't
think either of them would take very kindly to you. Newton is an
International, so he won't have much use for girls. Gainford is
rather a snipe, and has been married for years and years. But I'll
tell you if any more new ones come. I am making a last effort to
get on to the Mods. next term--about fed up with Higgie.--Your
affec. brother,
E. BUMPLEIGH.)
No. IV
THE SCHOOL HOUSE,
OAKSHOTT SCHOOL, BUCKS, _Monday_.
DEAR EGGSTER,--Well, old sport, how goes it? Just remembered it is
your birthday, so send you 9_d._ in stamps--all I have but 2_d._
How is your mangy school? Wait till our XV plays you on the 18th!
What ho!--Your affec. brother,
J. BUMPLEIGH.
Just had a letter from the pater about my half-term report. He
seems in a fairly rotten state.
(_Reply._
_November 7._
DEAR MOPPY,--Thanks awfully for the 9_d._ I am about broke, owing
to my half-term report coinsiding with my birthday. Putrid luck, I
call it. Still, Aunt Deborah hasn't weighed in yet. All right,
send along your bandy-legged XV, and we will return them to you
knock-kneed. I must stop now, as we are going to rag a man's study
for wearing a dickey.--Your affec. brother,
E. BUMPLEIGH.)
No. V
THE LABURNUMS, SURBITON,
_Monday, Nov. 6._
MY DEAR NEPHEW,--Another year has gone by, and once more I am
reminded that my little godson is growing up to man's estate. Your
fifteenth birthday! And I remember when you were only--(_Here
Master Egbert skips three sheets and comes to the last page of the
letter_) ... I am sending you a birthday present--something of
greater value than usual. It is a handsome and costly edition of
_Forty Years of Missionary Endeavour in Eastern Polynesia_,
recently published. The author has actually signed his name upon
the fly-leaf for you. Think of that! The illustrations are by an
Associate of the Royal Academy. I hope you are well, and pursuing
your studies diligently.--Your affectionate aunt,
DEBORAH SITWELL.
(_Reply._
_November 7._
DEAR AUNT DEBORAH,--Thank you very much for so kindly remembering
my birthday. The book has just arrived, and I shall always look
upon it as one of my most valued possessions. I will read it
constantly--whenever I have time, in fact; but really after being
in school hard at work for ten or twelve hours a day, one is more
inclined for bed than books, even one on such an absorbing subject
as this. I am much interested in Missionary Endeavours, and help
them in every way I can. We are having a sermon on the subject next
Sunday. There is to be a collection, and I intend to make a special
effort.--Your affec. nephew,
E. BUMPLEIGH.)
* * * * *
Extract from the Catalogue of the Killickite House Library, Grandwich
School:
_"Forty Years of Missionary Endeavour in Eastern Polynesia._
Presented by E. Bumpleigh, Nov. 8."
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FATHER OF THE MAN
Among the higher English castes it is not good form to appear deeply
interested in any thing, or to hold any serious views about anything, or
to possess any special knowledge about anything. In fact, the more you
know the less you say, and the more passionately you are interested in a
matter, the less you "enthuse" about it. That is the Public School
Attitude in a nutshell. It is a pose which entirely misleads foreigners
and causes them to regard the English as an incredibly stupid and
indifferent nation.
An American gentleman, we will say, with all an American's insatiable
desire to "see the wheels go round" and get to the root of the matter,
finds himself sitting beside a pleasant English stranger at a public
dinner. They will converse, possibly about sport, or politics, or
wireless telegraphy. The pleasant Englishman may be one of the best game
shots in the country, or a Privy Councillor, or a scientist of European
reputation, but the chances are that the American will never discover
from the conversation that he is anything more than a rather superficial
or diffident amateur. Again, supposing the identity of the stranger is
known: the American will endeavour to draw him out. But the expert will
decline to enter deeply into his own subject, for that would be talking
"shop"; and under no circumstances will he consent to discuss his own
achievements therein, for that would be "side."
Shop and Side--let us never lose sight of them. An Englishman dislikes
brains almost as much as he worships force of character. If you call him
"clever" he will regard you with resentment and suspicion. To his mind
cleverness is associated with moral suppleness and sharp practice. In
politics he may describe the leader of the other side as "clever"; but
not his own leader. He is "able." But the things that he fears most are
"shop" and "side." He is so frightened of being thought to take a
pleasure in his work--he likes it to be understood that he only does it
because he has to--and so terrified of being considered egotistical,
that he prefers upon the whole to be regarded as lazy or dunderheaded.
In most cases the brains are there, and the cleverness is there, and
above all the passion for and pride in his work are there; but he
prefers to keep these things to himself and present a careless or
flippant front to the world.
[Illustration: THE MAN OF THE WORLD]
From what does this national self-consciousness spring? It has its
roots, as already indicated, in the English public school system.
Consider. The public school boy, like all primitive types, invents his
own gods and worships them without assistance. Now the primitive mind
recognises two kinds of god--lovable gods and gods which must be
squared. Class A are worshipped from sheer admiration and reverence,
because they are good and "able" gods, capable of godlike achievements.
To Class B, however, homage is rendered as a pure measure of precaution,
lest, being enormously powerful and remarkably uncertain in temper, they
should turn and rend their votaries. Indeed, in their anxiety to avoid
the unfavourable notice of these deities, the worshippers do not
hesitate to sacrifice one another. So it is with the schoolboy. Class A
consists of the gods he admires, Class B of the gods he is afraid of.
First, Class A.
What a boy admires most of all is ability--ability to do things,
naturally and spontaneously. He worships bodily strength, bodily grace,
swiftness of foot, straightness of eye, dashing courage, and ability to
handle a bat or gun, or control the movements of a ball, with dexterity
and--ease. Great emphasis must be placed on the ease. Owing to a curious
kink in the schoolboy mind, these qualities depreciate at least fifty
per cent. if they are not _natural_ qualities--that is, if they have
been acquired by laborious practice or infinite pains. The water-funk
who ultimately schools himself into a brilliant high-diver, or the
overgrown crock who trains himself, by taking thought, into an effective
athlete, is a person of no standing. At school sports you often hear
such a conversation as this:
"Good time for the mile, wasn't it?"
"Yes; but look at the way he has been sweating up for it. He's been in
training for weeks. Did you see Jinks in the high jump, though? He
cleared five foot four, and never turned out to practice once. That's
pretty hot stuff if you like!"
Or:
"Pretty useful, old Dobbin taking six wickets!"
"Oh, that rotter! Last year he could hardly get the ball within a yard
of the crease. I hear he has been spending hours and hours in the
holidays bowling by himself at a single stump. He's no earthly good,
really."
It is the way of the world. The tortoise is a dreadfully unpopular
winner. To an Englishman, a real hero is a man who wins a championship
in the morning, despite the fact that he was dead drunk the night
before.
This contempt for the plodder extends also to the scholastic sphere. A
boy has no great love or admiration for learning in itself, but he
appreciates brilliance in scholarship--as opposed to hard work. If you
come out top of your form, or gain an entrance scholarship at the
University, your friends will applaud you vigorously, but only if they
are perfectly certain that you have done no work whatever. If you are
suspected of midnight oil or systematic labour, the virtue is gone out
of your performance. You are merely a "swot." The general attitude
appears to be that unless you can take--or appear to take--an obstacle
in your stride, that obstacle is not worth surmounting. This leads to a
good deal of hypocrisy and make-believe. For instance:
"Pretty good, Sparkleigh getting a Schol, wasn't it?" remark the rank
and file to one another. "He never did a stroke of work for it, and when
he went up for his exam. he went on the bust the night before. Jolly
good score off the Head: he said he wouldn't get one!... Grubbe? Oh
yes, he got one all right. I should just think so! The old sap! We'd
have rooted him if he hadn't!"