SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK
J. W. M. THOMPSON
If it hadn't been for Mr Edward Short's ringing words this week few people would have guessed that the education system was on the brink of collapse. Most would have thought it imperfect, certainly, but plodding along -somehow. Mr Short has now exposed this error. The schools have suffered 'one of the blackest days . . . in the last hundred years.' They face 'the greatest crisis of this century.' They are in 'mortal danger.' And more, much more, of the same. As Mr Short is the Education Minister, when I read his speech the thought occurred to me that perhaps he was confessing failure before apply- ing for the Chiltern Hundreds and honourably departing to work in some overcrowded primary school. But no: his hysterical words were meant to do no more than serve as some sort of answer to some of his critics (such as A. E. Dyson, on the previous page). It was, in fact, just another of those flatulent political speeches which no sensible person would dream of taking seriously. It will pass into oblivion like the rest. Even so, I wish Mi Short would reflect that, at least while he is in charge of education and the supposed custodian of certain standards, he should eschew this oafish devaluation of language. His speeches might then be listened. to with respect.
Outsider
In spite of the 'backlash' which Mr Short oddly says has been 'triggered off,' I'm surprised to learn that the dignitaries of Edinburgh University have rather starchily turned down a suggestion that they should Confer an honorary degree upon A. S. Neill. This remarkable old man has been practising (and writing about) 'progressive' education at Summerhill School since the 1920s.,He has, it's true, consistently gone against conventional
ideas; I suppose it could even be argued that his notion of education—with self-government by the pupils and the maximum possible free- dom, including freedom to stay away from lessons—is reflected in the student discontent which is such a plague to university authorities. Nevertheless, his influence upon educators' ideas has been tolerant and profound; there can hardly be a school in the_ country which doesn't consciously or otherwise owe some- thing to him. Besides, the old boy is now eighty-five and it is our national habit to look affectionately upon rebellious spirits in their old age. And in this case, Edinburgh has a special reason for doing so, since Neill is a graduate of that university. I was reading the new Pelican collection of his writings recently and noted his reflection (in his eighty-fourth year) upon his own singular reputation: 'No university, my own of Edinburgh included, would ever think of offering me an honorary degree.' This, as it turned out, was only half- prescient. Two English universities have in fact subsequently done him just that honour. But not Edinburgh. I find this refusal sad. To quote Neill again: 'I have never yet met anyone who was honestly indifferent to recognition.'
Private disaster
It's years since I suffered from a burglar's attentions (I hope it isn't tempting Providence to say that), but I still remember vividly the hateful scene of devastation and the dis- piriting discoveries, in spbsequent days, of the loss of this or that personal possession—not objects of any value, but things which had become a part of daily life. I thought of that unimportant personal disaster when I heard of the theft of a major part Of Sir Roland Pea-. rose's dazzling collection of pictures over die-
weekend; for, as anyone who knows Sir Roland will appreciate, that very large private disaster is a cruel blow in a way quite unconnected with the huge money values put upon his col- lection in various press reports. The pictures have for years been a part of his life. Sir Roland is, in fact, the exact opposite of the collector who buys paintings as he buys stocks and shares, with a sharp eye for capital appre- ciation. He bought his pictures for the only thoroughly good reason—because he loved them. The fact that years later the art market caught up with his taste and multiplied the value of his acquisitions many times over was quite incidental. The pictures were hung in a relaxed domestic way, the best way, around his rooms; it has always seemed to me a perfect private collection, founded solely upon the taste and discernment of its creator. It is hard to guess at the motives for such a robbery, for with pictures so famous there can be scant hope of ever selling them, unless to some mad millionaire out of an Ian Fleming story. But if such robberies happen, the future of great private collections in domestic settings looks highly doubtful. Their owners will have to turn their homes into fortresses and doing that, of course, destroys the domestic setting at a stroke.
Sweet and sour
No one can say that the English fail to respond with enthusiasm when their climate deviates briefly into benevolence. The winter has been long and cheerless; the morning darkness in- flicted upon us by authority has deepened the gloom; then, all of a sudden, a few days of blue skies and sunshine arrive and everyone reacts as though to a marvellous and unex- pected present. One lesson our climate ought to teach us, in fact, is the immense value of contrast in life. This element was certainly plentiful during my own Easter weekend, which I spent in one of the Pennine dales. Sunshine, warm air, deck-chairs in the garden, cool drinks after mild exertion on the hills--but all in a landscape made sparkling by great drifts of snow still lingering from the exceptional winter. Sometimes one forgets how marked the climatic contrasts are between one part and another of this little island. When snow is a mere memory in the south it can still be a daily problem only a few hours away. Still, for simple luxury, I thought it would be hard to beat the pleasure of sunbathing in a garden with a bank of snow glistening a few feet away from your chair.
The only people who failed to purr with pleasure up there were the hill farmers. For them the spring has come too late, the hardy little dales sheep have died by the thousand in the severe weather, the lambing season is the most disastrous anyone can remember. Walking over the slopes, it was pitiful to see dead or dying ewes in almost every field. A shepherd breasting a hill with his flock close behind him made a fine biblical sight: it was less pleasing when he explained that their de- votion sprang from the failure of the grass to grow, which meant that he was still hand- feeding his stock—ruinously expensive, and unsatisfactory as well. These small farmers, as admirably independent and hardworking a breed as could be imagined, are on the eco- nomic rack this spring. Even in this urbanised, motorised land some communities are as dependent as ever on the primitive struggle with indifferent natural, forces.
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