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on every side, to the building and decoration of the Chapel, to the organization of the games and of the work in school."
As to the directly Christian aspect of his work, it is perhaps enough to remember that he became the Chancellor of Lincoln, the Bishop of Truro, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. "There was nothing in his whole Wellington life," so his son tells us, "in which my father took such constant delight as the Chapel and the Chapel service." He preached regularly, so we learn from his widow, every Sunday morning. He used to think of the sermon during the week, but he seldom put pen to paper till the first service was over, about 10 o'clock. And he had to preach the sermon at the 12 o'clock service.
Those who know his Sermons on Boy-Life, and how packed they with thought as well as feeling, may be surprised at this seeming hurry; but when the heart of an able man is full, it becomes "the pen of a ready writer." It was the same with the simple, massive talk of Arnold and the finished, tender appeal of Vaughan. Both were produced at what might seem to some "fever heat," but there was no other sign of fever in them.
There is yet another piece of constructive and eminently Christian work which I can but touch. I refer to the almost heroic achievement of the late Canon Woodard. It is right to own that I have no first-hand knowledge of himself or his system. But there may be some here who, like myself, may be not only gratified but even startled to learn how vast a bulk of Christian work in the cause of education stands credited to his name. His working years were, roughly speaking, from 1851 to 1880, much the same period as that of Thring. He conceived the grand design of founding, by means of a society, all over England three distinct grades of schools, for the gentry, the upper middle class, and the poorer classes. These schools were avowedly on High Church lines, "in the doctrines and principles of the Church now established, and under the direction of clergymen and laymen in communion with the Church."
Already upwards of half a million has been expended on this group of schools. From the short account of the Founder in the Dictionary of National Biography, I gather that there are at least nine of them for boys, and at least three for girls. Many thousands of boys and girls must already have been trained there. A great work for forty years! That great preacher and thinker, the late Professor James Mozley, has devoted to these schools three of his most thoughtful sermons.
"And what shall we more say? For the time would fail me to tell of" other Christian foundations; of the High Church College at Radley, founded by Sewell; of the Wesleyan, "The Leys," founded by Dr Moulton, here at our very gates; of the Evangelical work at Liverpool College by Conybeare, Dean Howson and Canon George Butler; or again at Repton by that admirable man Stewart Pears, whom I remember in my boyhood as an Assistant Master at Harrow. Still less is there time to enter upon another great parallel movement, the widespread establishment of Schools for Girls, like that founded by Miss Buss in North London, which only a few months since held its solemn Jubilee in St Paul's Cathedral, the roll of benefactors being read out by the Bishop of London, and the sermon preached by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
My friends, I have told you a long story, and yet you must see that our chief difficulty has been to suppress.
The last three-quarters of our century must always surely stand out well in the records of Christian work at our Public Schools. The evidence is complete that the effort not only to improve their intellectual culture but to penetrate their life with the true Christian spirit has, at least since the time of Arnold, been earnest and continuous.
Is there any reason to fear that the tide so long flowing is beginning to ebb? One fact is certain that the proportion of clergy to laymen among the Masters is nothing like what it was even twenty years ago. It is more and more difficult—I speak as a Governor of four of our chief schools, and as one intimately
acquainted with many others—to secure as a Head Master a man who is at once in Holy Orders and also in the very front ranks of University distinction. I hold it to be certain that during the coming century the chief posts at the Public Schools will be largely held by laymen. Nor would this prospect have any terrors for me if only it be understood by the coming generations, as it has been by our own, that one of the chief qualifications for a Head Master is to care for the spiritual growth of his boys, and if, in consequence of this belief, it be one of his recognized duties to speak to them constantly, if not weekly, from the Chapel pulpit. This has been done already by laymen from not a few pulpits, and with the happiest results. It is by extending this system far more widely, and, if necessary, removing any legal obstacles, that I seem to see the best guarantee for the maintenance of what has been, under God, one of the chief religious forces of our time.
A Head Master of a boarding-school who had no desire to speak habitually to his boys of God, of sin, of the words and works of Christ, of the consecration of their lives to Christ, both in boyhood and manhood, would in my judgment have mistaken his calling. A Head Master, whether lay or clerical,, is a Pastor, or he is nothing. That lesson at least has been taught us by one aspect of Christian work in the reign of Queen Victoria.
SOME ASPECTS OF
THEORY AND PRACTICE IN
MISS AGNES WARD.
[The writer desires to acknowledge the help derived from, amongst others mentioned in the text, The Child and his Book, Mrs Field; Child Life in Colonial Days, Mrs Morse-Earle.]
YEARS before the 19th Century dawned Saint-Cyran (that great, if sombre, genius who moulded Jansenism and withstood the Jesuits in the heyday of their power and success) defined the teacher's calling as une tempête de l'esprit. The phrase is significant. Uttered 100 years before Rousseau's decisive dogma, that in "the return to Nature" lay the universal panacea for all the ills of a rotting civilisation, SaintCyran's phrase went, sounding at once the knell of hope and ringing out that irresistible summons to pity and tenderness in dealing with the weakness and ignorance of childhood which sanctifies and irradiates the Jansenist conception of education.
Two hundred and fifty years have passed since Saint-Cyran's incisive phrase rang out: but whether its echoes are yet silent may well be doubted by those who note the confused and con
fusing ideas which inspire our theory and practice of education in the present day. The confusion probably lies rather deeper than at first sight appears. I hope to indicate what I take to be one of its causes, and, if I do not seem unduly optimistic, to suggest the lines on which some result more consoling, some vista more inspiring, may be reached.
When the 19th Century opened the child was still in disgrace,-except from the point of view of the Revolutionary theorist. The costumes of children in the first half of our century are not without significance. They are in general abbreviated editions of those worn by their elders. Frills, feathers, reticules, sandals, shoe buckles, trousers and shortwaisted jackets remind the child at every turn that he is a growing animal, immature and therefore awkward-a being whose very clothes emphasize the antagonism between his physical instincts and the demands of conventionality. Clothes are, as a matter of fact, the first signs which a child understands from close personal experience of the restrictions imposed by an alien civilisation on his nascent liberty. Locke, as we all know, advocated bad shoes as a necessary part of that hardening practice which physically he desired: Rousseau, wiser amid all his extravagances than Locke, attacked swaddling clothes, heated rooms, unnatural diet, and eloquently and forcibly preached the duty and necessity of personal hygiene, of simple habits, of fresh air and activity, of a development of self-reliance in place of luxurious habits, dependence on others, and artificial standards of life. But in spite of teaching such as this, the Infant of the 19th Century was still tied and bound in garments which, however much they delighted adult relations, must have worried and heated and pricked and scratched the tiny, soft-fleshed, gelatinous baby. Conservatism in baby-clothes is, when we consider the point, still stubborn. In the Tudor Exhibition of some few years ago some babyclothes were exhibited. These were said to be the work of the Princess (afterwards Queen) Elizabeth for the expected child