Here’s another history of elementary schools post:
For much of the nineteenth century the Head would be the sole teacher in the school, but as attendances and pupil numbers increased schools began to employ assistant teachers to take on some of the teaching load.
In the second half of the nineteenth century training and qualification meant teaching became a true profession, offering a major new career path for women, and school managers often preferred to appoint women as assistants. This wasn’t for professional or social reasons, but simply because it was cheaper – a female assistant teacher would be paid perhaps only 75% of what a man would receive for the same job. (This practice lasted well into the next century – only recently I met a couple where it had once applied, and the wife was still aggrieved about it!)
Few of us would envy the young female teacher. She might take up her first post while still in her teens, moving into a new community many miles from her home. Yes, she might have embarked upon a professional career, but socially teachers – male or female – were in an uncomfortable position. They were seen not only as inferior to gentlefolk but even looked down upon by their servants. And a woman had few chances to socialise without jeopardising her reputation. One Head washed his hands of his teenage pupil teachers after they “attended last evening a dancing class at the Red Lion public house. I’ve done my best to keep the girls from evil … How is (sic) ES and LC going to do their work and attend a dancing class?”
A Devon teacher, Jane Stevens, was discovered to have had a brief relationship with a married man 250 miles away, and the Rector lost no time in ejecting her even though every other aspect of her work was a great success. Her replacement, approved by the Rector at a higher salary, was a disaster; standards deteriorated and the number on the roll halved, but Jane Stevens never got another chance.
Difficulty in adjusting to a new environment was just one reason why schools frequently had a high turnover in assistants. Many appointments were made by post, without the teacher ever meeting the Head or seeing the school (one appointee at South Crockford in Derbyshire took one look at the school and went straight home again without even stepping inside!), and the harsh realities meant many assistants resigned very quickly.
At Cheddington in Buckinghamshire there were a dozen assistants in three or four years. One left to get married, another resigned to look after her sick mother, some were clearly unsatisfactory, and a couple soon got posts elsewhere. In 1879 a young woman with the magnificently Victorian name of Amy de St Croix became the latest of them. She’d been trained and certificated at Bishop Otter College in Chichester, and the Head was quite taken with her: “I find better help at present from present Assistant than I had from the last one.”
Amy was given Standard II – always a large group of children of various ages who’d progressed beyond the beginner stage but were still at a pretty elementary level. Soon the Head was having reservations: “… Standard 2 give a great deal of trouble, Assistant rather too easy at times.” Worse still, her pupils performed appallingly at the HMI inspection. Relationships deteriorated and a couple of friends from college visited to console her. Shortly afterwards I found the Head’s logbook carried an absolute bombshell – “Received notice from the Rector to leave the Cheddington School on May 14th from a misrepresentation he received from the Assistant Mistress in regard to personal matters which took place in my home.”
Good Lord! What was Amy doing in the Head’s home? What on earth could the personal matters be? What did he do that caused such offence?” I desperately wanted to find out what had happened, and what happened next – but what an anticlimax, and what a letdown. I do know that the Head won his appeal and was given extra help, but that’s all the logbook has to offer – the story was on the final page of the 500-page logbook, and the next volume has been lost.
So I’ve no direct answers to the questions, but this happened in 1880 and I was able to ask the 1881 Census to give me some information. It looks as if things must have been smoothed over. The Head, John George Williamson, and his wife and five young children still lived in the School House next door. Not only them, but also “Schoolmistress Amy Catherine de St Croix”.
So things become just a little clearer. It’s no surprise Amy was there if she was lodging in the School House; I assume that the Head had criticised her work and things got out of hand. Perhaps he used intemperate language, perhaps he even struck her, but if she was still there a year after the event she’d lasted a lot longer than most of her predecessors, so not only must relationships have improved, but her work must have so too.
That’s just about all I know about Amy. With such a distinctive name she’d be easy to track down, but as far as I know there’s no more to be found. There are no descendants to locate either. She never married, and died in 1927 aged 75 in Tunbridge Wells – all the same, whole novels have been written on flimsier material.
I didn’t know much about Albert Coles, either, apart from the fact that he taught in Puddington in Devon at the very end of the nineteenth century. But we do know quite a bit about his classroom, from his report on an arithmetic lesson. His wry account of keeping all the plates spinning will ring a lot of bells:
Synopsis of an Arithmetic lesson: duration 45 minutes, seven Standards, 40 children, one teacher. “Slates on desk, hands behind”. By dictating alternately a line of a sum to Standard I and Standard II, at the same time writing problems on the board for Standards III and IV, a portion of the class will be started off. In the intervals between these operations, give a lesson on compound practice to Standard V, and explain the relation between decimal and vulgar fractions to Standard VI, at the same time commenting upon the respective values of Ordinary and Preference shares to Standard VII: taking care all the while to move about among Standards I and II for the purpose of seeing that the sums are correctly taken down and the figures well shaped.
The lesson may now be said to be fairly begun; and, provided the teacher be able to do seven things at the same time, and withal a sufficiently clever athlete to be in seven different places almost at the same moment, it may be kept going.
By this time Standards I and II will have finished their sums and will be quietly sitting, waiting to be marked; that is, if they are angels. Should they however be ordinary humans, they will in all probability be making the most of the opportunity to talk. The teacher on his way to check their work will, in his progress across the school, keep up in a loud voice his instructions to Standard V re the practice, examine in passing the slates of Standard IV and point out any errors in method, and ask a few questions to assure himself that the children thoroughly understand the methods they employ; and correct the sums of Standards I and II. The teacher will now have a clear head to explain a profound problem in stocks, which would puzzle a broker, brought to him by the Standard VII girl.
At this point, should the teacher still be in his right mind, he can give a lesson in reduction to Standard IV, while he is correcting the exercises of VI and VII, giving a helping word to Standard V who are labouring through their first practice. The alternative method to the above is to give the whole attention to one or two classes, let the remainder have their slates and books, and treat them with ‘unwholesome neglect’. At the end of the lesson mark what they have done, and (unless you are an advocate of the system of ‘keeping in’ children who have perhaps a mile or two to go home), if they’re wrong they’re wrong, ‘and there’s an end on’t’.
Unlike Amy, it’s easy to find out more about Albert. He taught in several schools and later used his writing and speaking talents full time. He died aged 90 in 1965 and there’s an informative Wikipedia entry under his pen name of Jan Stewer.