[Illustration:  Rugby

Matthew Arnold entered Rugby School in August, 1837, living under his father’s roof at the School-house.

He left Rugby for Oxford in June, 1841

Photo H.W.  Taunt]

But these larger views of education belong, after all, to the region of theory, and he never had the opportunity, except very indirectly, of putting them into practice.  With the Elementary Schools he dealt practically, officially, and directly; but even here, as in so many other departments, his influence was rather critical than constructive.  He had only an imperfect sympathy with “that somewhat terrible character, the scientific educator.”  A brother-inspector says that, “if he saw little children looking good and happy, and under the care of a kindly and sympathetic teacher, he would give a favourable report, without enquiring too curiously into the percentage of scholars who could pass the ‘standard’ examination.”  There must be many who still remember with amused affection his demeanour in an Elementary School.  They see the tall figure, at once graceful and stately; the benign air, as of an affable archangel; the critical brow and enquiring eyeglass bent on some very immature performance in penmanship or needlework; and the frightened children and the anxious teacher, gradually lapsing into smiles and peace, as the great man tested the proficiency in some such humble art as spelling.  “Well, my little man, and how do you spell dog?” “Please sir, d-o-g.”  “Capital, very good indeed.  I couldn’t do it better myself.  And now let us go a little further, and see if we can spell cat.” (Chorus excitedly.) “C-A-T.”  “Now, this is really excellent. (To the teacher.) You have brought them on wonderfully in spelling since I was here last.  You shall have a capital report.  Good-bye.”  To those who cherish these memories there is nothing surprising in this tribute by a friend:  “His effect on the teachers when he examined a school was extraordinary.  He was sympathetic without being condescending, and he reconciled the humblest drudge in a London school to his or her drudgery for the next twelve months.”

As regards the matter of education, he was all for Reality, as against Pretentiousness, “the stamp of plainness and freedom from charlatanism.”  He had no notion that children could be humanized by being made to read that “the crocodile is oviparous,” or that “summer ornaments for grates are made of wood shavings and of different coloured papers.”  He wished that the youngest and poorest children should be nurtured on the wholesome and delicious food of actual literature, instead of “skeletons” and “abstracts.”  He set great store on learning poetry by heart, for he believed in poetry as the chief instrument of culture.  He poured just contempt upon the wretched doggerel which in school reading-books too often passed for poetry.  “When one thinks how noble and admirable a thing genuine popular poetry is, it is provoking to think that such rubbish should be palmed off on a poor child, with any apparent sanction from the Education Department and its grants.”