Martin A. Buckmaster, 1948
At the request of my daughter Annette I am writing this brief sketch of my life; uninteresting as it may be to others, it may be of some small interest to her.
I was born on 2 August 1862 on No 9 Platform, Clapham Junction; this does not mean that I first saw daylight in a train, but that our house stood on that site which was acquired by the Southern Railway for their vast extensions. At this time there were two lines only, East and West, through the station. Now there are over 100 tracks. Clapham Junction, or rather Battersea, was comparatively a rural neighbourhood, but with some appalling slums round the parish church near the river.
Towards the common it was a pleasant residential neighbourhood with some fine houses of Queen Anne and Georgian architecture, with pleasant names like 'Lavender Sweep' and 'Cut Throat Lane', indications of former culture and crime; as children we ran through 'Cut Throat Lane' in fear of our lives to reach the common to pick mushrooms and blackberries for home consumption.
To return to my birth, I was the fourth unwanted son, as my parents wanted a daughter; they had to wait 6 years for the realization of this happy event, which definitely put my nose out of joint for at least ten years.
My father, a Civil Servant in the Board of Education, then the Science & Art Department, South Kensington, could not afford a large family and although we kept two or three servants, in the Victorian manner, as well as a governess, I found myself very much a backstairs slave, cleaning the household boots and knives — no rustless steel then. My father and mother were most hospitable, and if friends called they were usually invited to lunch or dinner, no fuss or preparation, only a few more plates and knives and forks for me to tackle later. I did not much mind slavery in the kitchen and scullery, but I hated the servitude of the dinner parties, when my father dressed me as a waiter, in a boiled shirt and white tie, to wait on his guests and my brothers, through a five course dinner. I know I was a snob but I hated the patronage of the guests who told me "how well I waited". I was then about sixteen years old, a very sensitive age.
I now know that my father was a great man, hard but always just, self made from yeoman stock, a keen Cobdenite, and a fine orator; had he adopted politics as a career I feel sure he would have reached the highest office; he was well known and respected for his work for the Liberal cause, by John Bright, Gladstone, Lord Rosebery and John Burns. His record is well given in his book The Village Politician so further notice is needless.
My mother was a capable housewife in every way and endeavoured to distribute her affectionate nature equally into five parts, but it was natural that a big fifth went to my sister Phoebe, who was a lovely girl, with a sweet disposition. She had a few boyfriends introduced chiefly by myself at the Art School dances at the Kensington Town Hall; these friendships were not much encouraged as she was shipped off to a German school at Coblenz — a town full of Prussian officers — where she nearly finished herself with one of them, Herr Schultz. She died of cancer in 1918, after marrying George Alexander of the Scottish Education Board, much missed by her many friends; her husband was a kind just man but, like all Government officials, rather dull. My mother died of the same malady in 1890. A window in the east end of St Alban's church, [...... illegible], by my father in her memory and I had to see to it all as 'the artist in the family'. In 1941 it was blasted out, and now in 1948 the window is in the hands of Martin Travers for replacement, I being the only member of the family left in the position to do this, as my elder brother Alex (94) is unfit to carry out the job.
Another job at Teddington fell to my lot as the 'artist of the family'.
My father was a keen fighter for the preservation of commons and public footpaths — in fact he fought Lord Spencer on Common rights for Wandsworth Common, which was fast being enclosed, and built on, by the Lord of the Manor Lord Spencer, hence the Spencer Park Estate, which undoubtedly at one time was a part of the Common. My father had a meeting on the Common to protest against the encroachment by Lord Spencer of Common rights. This led to the breaking down of fences by the mob and the arrest and prosecution of my father. Blank ruin seemed to be the lot of the House of the Buckmasters, but with the support of friends he won his law case and no further encroachments on Common rights were attempted, and the "Commons Preservation Act" was shortly passed through Parliament.
This brings me to my second art job, the memorial to Timothy Bennet which stands by the gate to Bushey Park in the Hampton Road. Timothy Bennet (1835), like my father, objected to footpaths being closed. One footpath passed from Hampton Court to Hampton Wick direct, saving a walk of about 1_ miles round Bushey Park. Bennet was a cobbler and his business was at Hampton Wick, but his home was at Molesley, so his short cut was by the footpath which George IV had closed for his own convenience and privacy. Bennet was enraged so he went to law with the King. The lawsuit ruined Bennet, and hastened his death, but he won his case against the King and the footpath remains open to the present day. The memorial, in Doulton Ware and erected at my father's expense to Bennet, stands by the entrance to the public footpath; may I not be judged by the art achievement!
[PB: Twickenham Museum: Timothy Bennet]
[PB: Google images: Timothy Bennet]
[Alamy: Timothy Bennet memorial, JCB]
Another memorial by my father was to his mother Phoebe, whom he never saw as she died of smallpox when my father was two years old. It is the lychgate at Slapton church, Buckinghamshire, where he was born. This I am not ashamed of; I designed it on the formal lines of such gates. It is in solid oak excellently made by a local craftsman, with whom it was a pleasure to work; the whole job went through in about six months and it will stand for five hundred years, a worthy and unselfish memorial to the mother he never saw, and such was my father of whom I am justly proud, and I am glad I was able to help in this manner.
To return to my childhood, my father as a member of the Brewers Company, although he never attended a single function, apprenticed me to the company and sent me to a Brewers school, where my brother Stanley had already been for a term. There were no preparatory schools at that time (1870) so at 8_ years I was deposited in this perfectly foul school, with boys of up to twenty years of age, presided over by a drunken headmaster, more fitted to govern a concentration camp than a public school. No master entered his classroom without a cane, sometimes two, and no class finished without some boy being beaten.
As it was a Brewers school, beer was the only drink at our mid-day meal. My first effort was not a success as it was a very hot day. I drank more of the horrid stuff than was good for me and staggered out of hall drunk, the first time I had tasted alcohol. I soon got used to it, and I now believe this good beer, probably local, did much to keep us nourished and in health.
A day at Aldenham School — Winter 1872
7.30am Bell
7.45am Get out of bed, break ice in basin and wash, no time for teeth
7.50am Toothache starts
8.00am Prayers
8.15am School Latin Grammar, beaten
9.00am Breakfast, bread and butter, coffee out of watering can
9.45am School, Greek, toothache worse
1.00pm Dinner, cold meat, bread and cheese, beer
2-4pm School, more classics
4-6pm Dash about to keep warm, watch a fight — a bloody spectacle, fagging, clean football boots
6-7.30pm School
7.35pm Tea, very hungry, bread and butter only
8.30pm Prayers
9.00pm Bed, very cold, toothache still bad
10.00pm Placed naked on lead square in middle of dormitory for cheek
1.00am Shot out of bed, that is mattress turned over on you onto the floor, a great shock from sleep
So ends a perfect day!
My chief education was one of avoiding difficulties, both in and out of school. I would get other boys to do my Greek and Latin translations with the result that I learnt little of either and hated them both intensely, which has remained with me to the present day; the undue attention given to the study of classics in the public schools, to the detriment of other more useful subjects, has always intrigued me, but I now discover it is by its handsome rewards in after life in secure jobs: this alone makes the study of the classics a paying proposition.
My final act at school (in 1876) was milking the headmaster's cows in a field just opposite the school gates. A boy called Belfield and myself would chase the cows into a corner and proceed to milk any cow that would permit us to do so into a tin saucepan. One held the saucepan while the other did the operation. However at last we were caught red-handed with a saucepan half filled with milk. The cowman walked us across the field in the direction of the Headmaster's House. We knew we should be beaten unmercifully, so jointly arranged a plan: as it was the end of term we promised the cowman £1 each on our return the following term. I could never have raised £1 at home by any chance but fortunately my father took me away at fourteen from the hateful place, which I never visited again for seventy years.
My brother Stanley, the one with me at the school, returned to the school after my headmaster left and the new one was appointed, who promptly cleaned up the place and raised the numbers from 70 to 250. From this time it became a first-rate public school and my brother, one of the first scholars to Christ Church, Oxford. The headmaster, Kennedy, was very kind to Stanley. He took a great interest in him and they went on fishing holidays together. He had 2_ years at the school under Kennedy. I feel if I had the same chance when the school improved my future would have been entirely different and I might have gone to Oxford as my three brothers did and I have always regretted this loss.
My eldest brother Alex [Charles Alexander] had an easy and successful life as a Civil Servant at the Board of Education, retiring at 60 on a pension and doing nothing further. He married and had four children. He is still alive, 94 years old [4.8.48] but he has lost all his faculties and has to be carefully looked after. His only son, Ralph, was torpedoed in the 1914 — 18 war returning from the nitrate fields in Iquique, when he was banished from home, a nice boy thoroughly misunderstood.
Hilda, now warden of Crosby Hall, is politically minded and has made two unsuccessful attempts to enter Parliament, and is now trying a third in the Liberal interest — not a hope. Ursula, the eldest daughter, has indifferent health. Elizabeth, the third daughter, married but is now divorced and living as a school mistress in Rochford College, America.
To turn to George, my favourite brother, the second of the family and undoubtedly the most brilliant of the four of us. We hunted a good deal together, up to the time he went to Germany on his Radcliffe Travelling Fellowship. His remarkable educational career should be recorded. He went to Christ Hospital School (c.1869 — 75), then in Newgate Street in the City, now moved to fine premises at Horsham; he was a boarder and suffered much the same brutality that I did. Oddly enough, about twenty years later I inspected the school in Art for the Board of Education and stayed the night with the headmaster, Upcott, and thought the school a very pleasant place. It is pleasant to know the sadistic masters of the 1870s now cease to exist. From school George went to St George's Hospital as a medical student, and I frequently walked with him from "No 9 Platform" over the Albert Bridge and halted for an hour at the Albert Bridge Hotel for a game of billiards, quite unknown to our parents.
From St George's Hospital George gained a Demi-Scholarship to Magdalen College, Oxford, of £95 a year for four years. This Oxford life suited his temperament well, he got into a fast set, was sent down after his first year and lost his Demiship. This scholarship was most essential as my father could not afford to keep three sons at the university at the same time unless they had scholarships. Alex had a science one at Lincoln College and Stanley a mathematical one at Christ Church, so when George lost his there was naturally consternation at home. Father, showing his usual grit and determination, packed his bag and departed for Oxford to see the President of Magdalen. It was then arranged that George should return to Oxford, as an "unattached student", without the privileges of Magdalen College. He took lodgings in Holywell Street, "pulled up his socks" and secured every available science scholarship going, including the Radcliffe Travelling Scholarship valued at £350, and he left university with the equivalent of about £1000 a year. He went to Hanover to study physiology and took lodgings in a house where a designing mother and two daughters also had a flat. This lonely student in a foreign country, with little knowledge of the language, was soon captured by the mother and a marriage was arranged, which turned out badly — one daughter, now a doctor in Bath, with two children, her husband torpedoed in The Cairo returning from Burma. He ended up as a Professor at Bristol University, but he often came to town when we would foregather at our clubs, the Arts and the Savile for talks and billiards. He died from a stroke. I miss him very much.
Phoebe, my sister, when she married George Alexander went to live in Glasgow and Edinburgh, so I saw little of her until he was transferred to the Scottish Education Department in Whitehall. They took a large house in Nevern Square, Earls Court, within ten minutes of our flat so I saw a good deal of her until she died in 1918 in a nursing home close by. Nevern Square was completely bombed out as a residential square by a buzz-bomb in 1943 and has not been restored to normal yet, 1948. George Alexander married again and had two children (Phoebe and Dorothy) by his second wife; he died a few years ago. I miss both Pheobe and George (my sister and brother) very much.
To return to a personal record, after I left school I had an acute attack of nephritis, a disease of the kidneys which kept me in bed for a long time, very weak but very little pain, a good opportunity to read many novels which I should not have done otherwise. I got through the whole of Dickens, Thackeray and some of Wilkie Collins and Bulwer Lytton amongst others, but I did not do much in the higher branches of History or Literature, beyond Macaulay's History. My doctor, regardless of expense, ordered me to New Zealand, or South Africa, as the only chance of saving my life. This was out of the question, so I was sent to the I.O.W! and gradually recovered. I was very weak as I was not allowed meat for two years, only a slop diet. I am now 88 and have not had a serious illness since.
The family problem on my recovery was what to do with me for the future. With all my brothers well landed I was like a fish out of water and I felt the situation acutely. First I tried to be a chemist and was sent to Folkestone to a chemist shop, where I worked from 8.30 in the morning till 9.30 at night, and on Saturday nights till 10.30pm, a good start for an invalid but eventually the Folkestone air was good and I did not suffer beyond general fatigue. I came back to London to pass my Pharmaceutical examination, for which I was entirely unprepared. Of course I failed so the idea of being a chemist was abandoned.
I was next tried in a bookshop at Cambridge. I liked this better. I helped arrange the small circulating library and corrected the Cambridge town Directory, a tedious job when visiting the slums in Barnwell: the inhabitants were not too anxious to give their names, and were frequently abusive. The days of inspectors and filling in forms did not then exist so my enquiries were generally unpopular. I worked in the bookshop for eighteen months and earned £2, the first money I ever earned. The bookshop idea faded out, I never knew why, possibly too much capital required to start me.
Then my father, working at the Board of Education, South Kensington — then the Science and Art Department — thought art a suitable career for me as still in a delicate state of health. I had never shown any ability in that direction and had never had a drawing lesson in my life. Here my brother George came in, and I worked hard at freehand drawing under his 'scientific' direction, and although he could not draw himself, like most people he could discover elementary faults. After some time I attempted the entrance examination for the Royal College of Art and failed to qualify. However, I continued freehand drawing at home, working chiefly in my bedroom as I intended to make a second attempt at the examination on my own. Fortunately I managed to borrow the entrance fee for the examination, which was £1, and walked up one evening to South Kensington to take the exam. I waited anxiously for the result and as it did not come as soon as I expected I wrote to the Principal, Sir Ed. Poynter R.A., to know if I had passed. He kindly wrote back to say I had passed "Excellent" and would receive a prize in due course — my first box of paints. I was now popular at home and could enter the National Art Training School in October, so, totally ignorant and unprepared, I started my art career which has not proved altogether a failure.
I enjoyed life at the National Art Training School, gained many friends, and many certificates, and had a very happy life. I liked my work, and appreciated my luck in having a free run at all times in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Here was bred my love of antiques which endured for 70 years. I worked hard at the National Art Training School most evenings till 9.30 at night, teaching and working on my own. I wanted knowledge of many crafts, so I did modelling, woodcarving, etching, as well as the general subjects for Certificate such as architecture, painting and design etc, but I soon had to shorten these studies when I was appointed to Tonbridge School in 1890 where I remained for 51 years.
At first Tonbridge was a difficult job, the school was about 270 boys with a rather incompetent headmaster given to politics, which was not popular. I had a class of 80 boys for three hours in the mornings, without a break, in company with a German master who did not teach but presided over the class by shouting at the boys in the truly Prussian manner. The art work was futile, the boys did what drawing they liked, there was not a T-square or set of compasses in the school. After a year a new headmaster was appointed, a confirmed classic, and no use for art reform. I served with him for five years and he then went off his head. When the new man was appointed I got the art school regulated to 25 boys in a class, and engineering and architecture as regular art classes (c.1897), and an assistant art master was appointed to deal with the lower drawing school. The headmaster bought some of my water colours so I became somewhat established, and was eventually invited to address the Headmasters Conference on the neglect of art in the public schools (1928). It was the only time in the existence of the Headmasters Conference that an assistant master had addressed their meetings. It lasted two days and I had a fine time at three dinners and luncheons. I left Tonbridge in 1942. A new Art School was built and the then Duke of Kent opened the building. The architect consulted me on the plans, so adequate premises were secured and the art department improved accordingly. The new art master appointed in my place is a modernist and "self expression" rules in the art school, and architecture and engineering drawing has been shifted or almost squeezed out. I made many friends at Tonbridge and served under seven headmasters, and through two wars.
To return to my art life at the National Art Training School, I was a paid student on the teaching certificate, £2.10 a week, a princely income for me. I took a studio at £40 a year at 17 Coleherne Mansions (Old Brompton Rd) and commenced "the artist's life". I soon found models too expensive and I had to do some hard thinking whether to be an artist or an art master. My father was not in a position to finance me as an artist with an allowance of £100 a year, so I was compelled to take up teaching and continue painting during the long summer holidays. I made great friends with Mabel Bruford, a good water colour artist, and we worked together for years, taking a studio in Cornwall (St Ives, Newlyn, etc), which at that time abounded in artists great and small — Llwellyn, Stanhope Forbes, Sidney Lee, Arnesby Brown etc. We both worked hard all day and enjoyed the evenings together with other artists. It was a happy simple life on 30 shillings a week all found. We spent some of our holidays abroad, in the Chateaux district (unpaintable), also at Pont Aven, a famous French art centre, two hotels close to each other, the Café India and the Glonneg [?], the latter the cheaper hotel almost entirely given up to artists. Here I saw frequently Van Gogh and Gauguin, neither of them at that time either famous or notorious. Van Gogh had not then lost his ear and always worried that he could not draw well. We also went to Brittany but found little to sketch, a dull country but good for oak antiques. One Sunday morning, cycling through Landeviseau, I saw an oak armoire, a kind of cupboard, outside an antique shop. I shouted to Elsie and Mabel to stop as I wanted to visit the shop. They were both horrified, "what, shop on Sunday?" I said certainly, and walked in. Mabel and Elsie sat in the dull parlour, no doubt talking about my sinful behaviour, which resulted in the oak armoire £3 and the carved circular wood oak frame thrown in. I also bought for 3 francs a hideously carved oak panel which I later presented to Elsie in memory of the Sunday deal.
Mabel [became] mistress of the Liskeard School of Art, retired on a small pension and sold some of her watercolours and so had a comfortable living. She adopted Tryphena Kelly's son, Peter. He was a great source of happiness to her; she paid for his education at Kelley College, Plymouth, and he is now married and runs a most successful nursing home in Torquay. He was very good to Mabel and realised how much he owed her. He has taken her name and is now Peter Kelly Bruford, a mark of sincere affection.
I now started bicycle tours with C. H. Crofts (1905 — 10), France, Italy, Spain, chiefly Italy, from Milan to Palestrina, so visited most of the country and difficult places to get at by train, such as Ravenna, Rimini, Pesaro, Urbino, Gubbio, Arezzo, Volterra, Cortina, Foligno, as well as all the notable cities; and in France the South, Pyrennees districts and all the interesting towns east of Bordeaux. Brittany and all the west was the dull part of France so we gave that a miss. We of course had many exciting times crossing the Auvergne Mountains, which had four feet of snow on them, with bicycles and packs; it meant carrying our bicycles about a mile with no certainty of getting down before dark. However we were lucky. One other incident, which might have resulted in death, occurred in Italy. Cycling down one of their famous hairpin roads past a stone quarry where men were working in the boiling heat, evidently in very had tempers, they shouted at us as we passed them at about twenty miles an hour. Then they hurled rocks at us as we turned on the hairpin bends, then stones passed us by inches, but if one had hit us, or our bicycles, it would have been "kingdom come" for us. Lucky escape. These cycling tours were cheap, without passports or the least bother booking hotel bedrooms, even in Rome, Florence, Siena or Venice — arriving in Venice on a bicycle was an unusual event. Poor Tuppy (Crofts) is [now] a serious invalid and I am 86 and in good health.
No doubt my travelling abroad, particularly in Italy, increased my appreciation for all things beautiful and my desire to possess such things in my home, so every spare £1 was spent in this manner, cutting lunches and amusements to a minimum. I [then] did some private art teaching which added to my income. At a private "Ladies College" at Beckenham I did some most distasteful work with chiefly little young ladies who started straight away to paint pictures in oils without any knowledge of drawing. They would be taken away from the Art Class at any moment for a riding or fencing lesson. I was not popular with the headmistress who gave me the sack for missing a lesson to go to the theatre with Mabel. This was rough justice and restricted the buying of antiques for a time, but I was glad to be quit of Beckenham Ladies College. I was exhibiting a few pictures at the London galleries and sold a few water colours, but art teaching had to be my living so I had to get down to it.
My antiques collection was growing so I took over the next studio flat, occupied by Paulson Townsend at another £40, so for £80 a year I had adequate premises which I lived in, as a bachelor, and [then] a married man for fifty years. Married in 1910, I practically gave up painting and continued teaching at Tonbridge School under better conditions. Our remarkable wedding needs describing to be believed. We were married at St Judes, Collingham Gardens, SW5. My mother and father-in-law lived in Sydney Place about _ of a mile from the church, but the wedding reception for about 50 people was held at my studio, with my capable servant Elizabeth and Lillywhite, the porter, superintending the function. It is amazing to me now that the reception was not held at the bride's home, the usual practice where there were servants and a large home.
[At Tonbridge] in 1914 "Skinners Day" offered a house, to be built for me as the school was prospering; then the First World War came and scrapped everything. I joined at once the "Old Boys Corps", hated the military life and the weekends at Wembley, route marches with packs, and constant drills. Volunteered for the front but turned down on account of age. Many from my Company A went and many were killed. General transport very had so I had to bicycle to Tonbridge, found this rather a strain. 1918 end of war, never thought there could be another and from the same source. 1920 — 22 more or less back to normal. Holidays abroad with Dorothy and Annette [wife and daughter]. A party trip to Sicily with Stephen Eve, Bob Hilton and Sylvia Moore.
Summer sketching holidays now over for good so practically gave up painting and spent more holidays abroad. Decided when I left Tonbridge I would go to Italy in May in comfort and avoid school holiday crowds which I had never been able to do for 50 years. The first war robbed me of a house at Tonbridge, the second of a holiday abroad at a chosen time, now (1948) it seems I shall never be able to go.
Shortly after my appointment to Tonbridge School, the art mastership at Harrow fell vacant. I applied for the job as it was nearer town and much better pay. I was selected and had an interview with Weldon the headmaster. He said "I might consider myself appointed" and to start work the following term. In the meantime Herkomer, of the Bushey School of Art, heard of the vacancy and riding over to Harrow on horseback persuaded Weldon to appoint one of his men — Clarke by name — in place of me. I received a letter from Weldon trying to explain this dirty trick. However, I was very happy at Tonbridge, if poorer by comparison, but with examination work for Oxford and Cambridge and London University I did not do too badly and was able to collect some valuable antiques which I hope will be appreciated by others when I have passed on.
In 1942 I retired having had three years of the war, there and in town as a warden, but that is another chapter. I was granted a pension by the governors of £100 a year, with Income Tax deducted at source brings in about £60, a generous allowance after fifty one years' service!!
The War 1939 — 1945
So much has been written about the war that this is only a personal experience. I joined the Civil Defence Force at once and after passing my examination at the Town Hall was allotted to Post 30 where I remained until we were disbanded; we did not get uniforms for some considerable time, an armlet was sufficient, and should have remained sufficient for the duration and would have saved the government considerable expense. Our early duties were issuing gas masks, which were always carried about but never used. I never carried mine and so was "ticked off" by superior officers once or twice. I was never "gas conscious". Odd things happen at raids, some terrible, some amusing, but from 1940 onwards they got worse and there is no doubt Kensington suffered very badly and the loss of life was considerable. I was bombed out in 1941 but of that later. For Dorothy the air raids were very distressing, so she went to Llandrindod Wells, Falmouth and Stebbing Bran End. The last was close to a large aerodrome, so she did not get far away at least from the noise, but possibly out of danger. One had night she spent in the Holborn tube. Maggie (our housekeeper since 1917) went down to Twickenham for a time so I was alone for a time in the upper flat when it lost its windows. I came down to sleep in Crook's flat, in the basement, which was convenient as we usually did night wardens duty together, and during the October 1940 raids (Battle of Britain) frequently watched the ring of fires over the docks, a terrifying sight. One night when Crooks was away I was sleeping in Crook's place alone, in fact at that particular time the only inhabitant in this block of flats, so on Sept. 24th 1940, Hitler, or Goering, bombed me about 10.30pm when I was trying to sleep before night duty at 12pm. I was not hurt but smothered with plaster and rubble and yellow dust, like a London fog in nose, eyes, ears and mouth. I heard the thing coming, whistling but not a great noise before the explosion and then all the doors in the room were blasted out. After I got a light I dressed and went to the Post, was received very kindly and given a bath and clean underclothing by Gen. Hoare at Brechin Place and went on duty, as usual, from 12 — 8am without further incident. Then came the reckoning: a good deal of the furniture and pottery was damaged or destroyed, a fine William and Mary mirror and many Hispano Moresque plates irretrievable, both the longcase clocks in fragments (but wonderfully restored which took 2 years). This decided me to move all my furniture, pottery, silver and glass to Tonbridge School until the end of the war, although nothing serious happened to this block until the Coleherne Court Raid when some glass was blown out and an Hispano Moresque ewer broken for the second time by blast. It was difficult during the war years [at Tonbridge], as in the middle of class the boys would have to take cover under the drawing slopes to avoid the possibility of flying glass. A bomb fell near the chapel and damaged a few stained glass windows and one or two art school ones also. We were in the direct line of flight for London and it is wonderful how lucky Tonbridge School and town were during the whole of the war, as thousands of hostile planes passed over us.
This is not a war record but some curious events are worth recording. Early in the 1940 — 41 raids things were pretty hectic in Kensington and of course elsewhere. One evening from the roof Crook and I saw a had fire in the Fulham direction about 12.30 in the evening. "Let's go and see if we can do anything". So after a night's duty we started off, about 2_ miles, much further off than we imagined as fires from a distance always are. Arriving we found a large L.C.C. school fully ablaze, with firemen and hoses very busy; we messed about but did little good, the building was already destroyed and no loss of life so it mattered very little. As soon as we arrived at the incident we were warned about an unexploded bomb in three slum dwellings close by, messing about with the fire we soon forgot that until an almighty explosion close by caused us to bury ourselves in the gutter and protect our eyes as much as possible; three slum dwellings were blasted into the air and brickbats, timber and pieces of furniture went flying about, a brick or stone hit me in the ribs and played a had symphony on my tin hat, which no doubt saved a weak brain. It was now time to return home with a pain in my left side and 2_ miles to walk at 3am. Crook was not touched, evidently he got deeper into the wet and stinking gutter than I did. "And so to bed" and a hearty sleep, none the worse for this unofficial visit for which we were both ticked off for going "outside our area" for other sensational raids. In the morning I found a good deal of blood on my pillows, I was cut on the head but quite unconscious of the wound, which did not hurt in the least, showing that the brick in the ribs was sufficient to occupy my complete attention.
This reminds me of the Addison Road raid — a few deaths as a large public house was destroyed with a quantity of glass flying about; there I met Dr Hill bandaging up bloody limbs and faces. He said "don't be distressed about blood, that's unimportant, it's fractures that matter". I remembered that afterwards at Troy Court, High St Kensington, a midday raid when many lives were lost. I met a man with his face streaming with blood, he was quite cheerful and he said "this is nothing to do with the raid, only an accident": he was taking down a heavy mirror that had been blitzed and most of the glass fell on his face. I took him to the mobile dressing station and he was soon fixed up. Other incidents sad, and some comic; at this horrible raid nearly all lunching at the White Horse restaurant were killed, and it was heart-rending listening in dead silence for groans under the rubble before the heavy rescue parties got to work. The Kensington cinema was a large and convenient mortuary.
Some odd incidents, humourous in a way, also happened. Troy Court itself was gutted, but the iron structure was intact so according to plan — as there was no fire — I combed the premises from top floor to basement. A comparative few of these residents were severely hurt. On the top floor but one I found a distracted woman who placed a Pekinese in my arms and sat me on the sofa, full of dust and plaster, so that the little beast should not get glass in its feet. She was hunting for her jewels in a cupboard in the next room which she could not reach as a door had been blasted across it. I moved the door, an easy matter, she then said she would not get them until her husband returned, evidently afraid that I should steal them. She was evidently hysterical, but in no way hurt, so I told her I must go as others might need help and I figured myself nursing the Pekinese until the husband arrived from Whitehall. The next floor was different, a dear old lady with silver hair about 70, said "do come in Mr Warden" which was funny as there were no doors left to come in by and the ceilings almost completely down, a terrible mess all round. "Look, my beautiful lunch destroyed, what am I do to?", a table spread for a meal with great care, silver ornaments with flowers and fine china all broken and scattered all over the place, the furniture — fine of its modern kind — all wrecked. She was unhurt, which was remarkable, but although she cried she was not really hysterical. I was sorry for her.
Another earlier incident is worth recording. I was out on patrol with a senior officer when the night band began to play quite close to Redcliffe Square and Cathcart Road. The officer said "you stand here until I return", so I stayed put while things dropped and fragments flew about. I went flat three or four times and then recovered and stood again at my post. The senior officer in the excitement of Cathcart Road forgot entirely about me until at Post 30 they wondered what had happened to me, so sent out another patrol and picked me up at the identical spot much relieved. One other incident at Nevern Square, a flying bomb destroyed three houses on the north side, but destroyed as a residence the entire square, blasting out most of the doors back and front, and nearly all the glass, leaving the structure intact. This was a Sunday afternoon and I discovered it while returning by bus from a visit to the cinema with my daughter. A man playing golf at Mid Surrey, Richmond, said "that was a nasty one, I hope it is not Nevern Square" but it was, an unpleasant surprise for him. I went home and put on my uniform and out again to see if I could do anything. It was now getting dark. A man came up to me and said "Can I get into that damaged house?", one that had half of it blown away. I said I would ask the "incident officer" who was writing his report at a table in the middle of the square. The incident officer said it was impossible as it was too dangerous. The man was much upset as he was a Government official and had important papers in the bombed house which he hoped to find. I said "have you a torch? If so we will have a shot." We climbed up to the second floor, fortunately a stone staircase, pushing rubble and bricks out of our way until we reached his room, a sorry sight, everything smashed up, just a heap of debris. He said "there is my suitcase but it is an official portfolio I want as I am off to Exeter early tomorrow morning". At last under a mass of rubbish from the ceiling, through which we could see the stars, I lighted on the portfolio. He cared about nothing else and did not particularly appear to resent his house — or more probably his lodgings — being broken up. He thanked me warmly for my help and we parted. I returned to the incident warden, still busy writing. I told him the man had found his portfolio and departed much pleased. I was now for it. The incident warden said "give me your report". I said I hadn't made one. "Well, give me the man's name". I could not even do that, I could only say he was going to Exeter. He replied "a grave dereliction of duty. I shall report it. What is your post. I said 30. "Well as this is 28 I shall say nothing more about it. Good night." So I learnt something by the Nevern Square raid, and I am certain I helped the right man and not a spy, yet I admit I was careless.
I was called about midnight to the east end of Coleherne Court: something heavy had fallen in the basement. It was an iron cylinder container about 3'6" long and 6" diameter to contain incendiary bombs, which fell into the area empty. I could never understand how I carried it round to Post 30; it was still hot and it hung on the railings outside for many weeks. In one of the earliest raids — this gap here by St George's Hotel — Toby, our cat, assisted Crook in light rescue work, and became famous in a Daily Telegraph picture. He ought to have a Defence Medal. I was at Tonbridge during this incident.
A few notes on work
By examination work, for Oxford, Cambridge, London University and Board of Education I was sufficiently established to undertake marriage (1910) and I was able later to hand on similar examination work to Dorothy, some of which she retains at the present time (1948). The work was tedious but profitable and Phoebe, at first, helped me considerably in entering marks. It had an interesting phase when working with H. T. Gerrans of Worcester College, Oxford. He was secretary to the Oxford Local Delegacy of examinations, and it was easy with him to carry out reforms. With his help I introduced the History of Architecture to the examinations, with the result that many schools had to teach architectural history to their students. By Gerrans's direction I had to prepare a textbook on architecture for these students, which is selling at the present time. Subsequently, again by the backing of Gerrans, I introduced the Secondary Teachers Art Certificate to qualify those students only who had School Certificate or Matriculation, the idea being that future art teachers should have some general education before teaching art. This certificate ran successfully for many years and expired just before the last war, frowned on by the Board of Education, and Cambridge University who were invited to support it at its initiation. To me this was a great disappointment, as well as a loss to my income. But a much greater disappointment was to follow. My friend Gerrans died in 1925 and all hopes of art development at Oxford died with him. He was succeeded by Burnet, a mathematician, who had no desire for any encouragement in the arts. Had Gerrans lived much could have been done as he was always willing to listen to and act on my suggestions. I succeeded H. Macdonald M.A. of Worcester College and Senior Examiner for Oxford locals and he promised he would get me an Hon M.A. degee the same as Macdonald had, in the course of a year or so. Then Gerrans died and Burnet would have nothing to do about it, so one of the greatest desires of my life, to be a member of Oxford University, failed me.
(One more setback: as I was apprenticed to the Brewers Company by my father. After I had served my time as an apprentice I thought I would like to join the Brewers Co, which I knew would cost me about £50. So I went up to Brewers Hall, Addle Street — now a mass of ruins — to put forward my claim, to be told I could not enter the company unless a Brewer or the owner of a Public House, one of the few city companies reserved to the trade only.)
About 1906 Tonbridge School started a masonic lodge. I was induced to join and as it was a school affair I thought I should like it. I was never interested in masonry although I was a regular attendant at the lodge meetings. They appointed me Almoner, but I refused to go on to the Chair. I resigned after about ten years, as I did not approve of some of the financial procedure. This I have never regretted.
Architecture has been my chief interest as I considered it of practical importance as a career from the public schools. This idea worked well at Tonbridge and the Governors, on my suggestion, granted a scholarship of £75 a year for five years. Several of my boys gained the scholarship, but what a heritage of architectural inefficiency they have come into, building by bulk but never by beauty. This modern period in art seems to be ruled by crazy critics and untrained artists. Guy Dauber (Sir Guy Dauber), a great friend of mine at the Arts Club, put up my name as an Hon. A.R.I.B.A. for my work for architecture in the public schools. I was elected and gratified for this official recognition. My successor at Tonbridge School has not taken the £75 art scholarship since I left; he has destroyed practical art and instituted modernism and "self expression" in its place. What value this will be to these school boys in the future time alone will prove.
This is my very sketchy account of my life without much order in the matter of dates, but in my early days from 5 — 9 years old I was frequently sent down to my Great-Aunt Sutton who lived in The Abbey, Chertsey, a poor Victorian house standing on the site of the old abbey with a fine walled garden. The old lady was a dear religious old soul, but she frightened me to death — early rising although the old dear was 80, breakfast sharp at 8 and one did not dare to be late. After breakfast she always made me "read a chapter" from the Bible. I used to ask "what chapter" and she invariably replied "any chapter, it's all beautiful", which of course it is not. "Auntie Sutton", who was a stern Victorian, died in about 1885.
She quarrelled with her neighbours, who lived in a large house next door — John Waterhouse, a wealthy stockbroker I believe. They shared the same drive to their respective houses and fought about the trees and shrubs in the drive; this led to much bitterness on both sides. At last the old lady got furious with Waterhouse and asked for Father's help. We went down to Chertsey together and again my "art and architectural knowledge" was to be employed, not really needing either. I planned two perfectly beastly cottages to stand in Aunt Sutton's paddock overlooking Waterhouse's lovely garden. This was the old woman's horrible revenge. The whole Abbey estate has now been scrapped as Chertsey is now Surbiton, so my disreputable houses (still standing) cannot be recognised. Aunt Sutton died very shortly after these houses were inhabited but she lived to see the unruly families destroying her property as well as her neighbours', such was the spirit of Victorian revenge. Yet according to her lights Aunt Sutton was a kind and charitable woman. I think she disliked children, she was in a way considerate, but never demonstrative, so I was always glad (aged 7 — 8) to get away from her but not the Abbey garden, which I found afterwards was not large but to me, at that time, immense, well supplied with fruit which I pinched whenever the gardener was not looking. Here I learned to ride horseback, without a saddle, on the pony in the paddock — where later I erected the beastly cottages. My exploits were not highly successful, it was difficult to mount the little beast and before I had time to seize him by the mane he had thrown me and if I managed to stick on he ground my legs against the wall. So I never acquired the art of horsemanship, taking later to a bicycle, the "penny farthing" variety, a tricky machine almost as difficult as Aunt Sutton's pony. Still I went many Sunday rides on it as far as Guildford and back in the day, with, in the early stages, many falls as a stone in the very poor roads at the time would easily upset you; later the safety bicycle made everything easier, particularly luggage carrying, days abroad with everything required for three or four days' travel. This was perhaps the happiest time of my life, no passports, no booking hotel rooms and 15 cents for a bicycle on the railway all over France. The motor car and two wars has changed all the joy and simplicity of life.
To return to Tonbridge School, at first I worked the art side single-handed, but that was soon found impossible with a class for three hours without a break. After the first year the periods were changed to one hour and I was given an assistant, Charles Tatterstall Dodd, an old student friend of mine at the College of Art, a capable artist and a good teacher but totally unsuited for controlling boys in a public school. He was "ragged" unmercifully and almost driven ill by worry. His teaching ability was entirely frustrated as all his time was spent in trying to keep order. After several years of purgatory he retired and another man called Branson was appointed. He stayed for a few years but his domestic affairs went sadly wrong and he had to leave. Then a series of assistants helped me for a time — Martin Travers, Martin Hardie, Malet and Nichols, and finally Hervey Adams, a modernist.
A few facts of disillusionment. One Thursday a member of the staff met my train from London looking very distressed and he said something to this effect: "Bucky, you are the only man I know who can help me and unless I can raise £100 by next week I shall lose my job and worse"; so the tale went on, of course he would pay me back etc. etc. I told him I hadn't got £100, but he said blandly "you have some shares, sell out, I shall be most grateful." I had £100 in Consols which could be realised easily, so I sold them on my return to London and sent him a cheque. Imagine my dismay when he met my train again on Thursday and said "Bucky, I never thought you would let me down particularly as you promised to sell your Consols; now it is all up and I shall be prosecuted on Monday for default." I repeated that I had posted the cheque for £100 on Monday, and at the latest he should have had it by Tuesday. I walked up to his office at the school, protesting that I had done all I could possibly do. He said "have you a blank cheque on you?" and I said yes. "Then will you write me another?" I thought this at first to be a plot to get another £100 which I knew was impossible as there wasn't the money in the bank so the cheque would be dishonoured if he had already paid in the first cheque. Here I did him an injustice as he had not paid in the first cheque, but he cashed the second one at once; it did not save the situation: he got nine months for embezzlement and my £100 went down the drain. He was our Registrar. How the first cheque went adrift is worth recording as it must have happened before with many secretaries who use rolltop desks. In his excitement and worry he must have placed my letter, with the cheque, on the tambous front of these desks, then opening and rolling back the front, this letter slipped behind. It was not found until about a year afterwards, when it had been opened and handed back to me. This man died shortly afterwards, leaving a wife and child almost destitute who repeatedly asked me for money. During the war her appeals ceased; perhaps something horrible happened, you never know. Advice to those who lend money — never do it. Make your contribution a gift, it is better that way for both. Small sums I have frequently lent but I have never been repaid. How much better had they been gifts.
Brought up in a Victorian family it is not surprising that my religion was canalized in the usual channels. Sunday a day of church attendance, usually both morning and evening in a dull modern suburban church, totally uninspiring, much singing of hymns at home. My mother was a religious woman, and was much influenced by my brother Alex, who when he went to Oxford was attracted to the high church movement (c.1878) which was then very strong. The effect on me was natural — colour, good music, arts — and when I went to live with Alex, for eight years I became a Ritualist, otherwise Anglo-Catholic, and this type of worship appeals to me at the present day, although I am a poor observer of its services and I still think it is a pity that some faith is not maintained throughout life. My own experience is that ideals are vital to help filter the impurities of human life, so some faith in God appeals to me essentially, as well as admiration, and subjection to the miracle of nature in the animal and vegetable kingdom, so enthralling and delightful, if we ever trouble to seek it, and still remaining mysterious and inexplicable.
Sport of all kinds always interested me, but I never had the chance to pursue it fully at school as my father would not pay the sports fees, small as they were at the time, so I only got the chance of a cricket bat and a ball when I abstracted one from the school pavilion, the boys generally being unaware that I had paid no games fees. I think I had a good eye as I could hit a moving ball in most directions. I have enjoyed very much playing most games, but am now confined by age (88) to billiards, having enjoyed real tennis, lawn tennis (with a 5 shilling racket) cricket, football (soccer) and a very little golf. I hit hard at this game but direction poor, so I lost many balls. I played on the Ashford (Middx) links with a fellow art student who was a little less erratic than myself; the game for me was tedious, particularly on the putting green.
My regret at not going to Oxford or Cambridge has in a measure been compensated by visits to the Common Rooms of Magdalen and Christ Church (Oxford) and frequent weekends at Queen's College, Cambridge. I presented a portrait of my brother Stanley to Christ Church as I thought, as Lord Chancellor, he should be there with other celebrated men. It was painted by Reginald Eves, a famous portrait painter of his time (1936). I also presented a pair of Stuart silver spoons to Queen's, Cambridge, which are much appreciated and are placed on the High Table whenever there are guests. I was asked by a member of Queen's to recommend an artist to paint the portrait of Princess Elizabeth for the Drapers Company. I recommended three artists: one died before he could take on the order, the other two were good artists but impossible for a royal portrait. The portrait, given eventually to a poor artist, but a gentleman, now hangs in this year's Academy (1949) with [one of] the Duke of Edinburgh and this man's artistic career is now secure.
I should have liked to have been a painter but at 21 I had not the pluck to throw over security (as an art master at Tonbridge School) for three or four years on a speculative adventure as a portrait painter. Still, I had had a pleasant professional career, with a good deal of art thrown in, feeling certain that there is no other career in life that offers so little financial success but so much in the culture and happiness of life; money making is often the ruin of man's soul. The principle of life should be no debts, no worries.
Years afterwards I visited Althorp Hall, Northampton, Earl Spencer's estate. It is interesting to note that the present Earl is the grandson of the "Red Earl" that my father had a lawsuit with on the preservation of Common Rights, previously mentioned in this journal. On leaving Althorp Hall and thanking the Earl for showing us his wonderful house and collections, I mentioned to him the incident with my father. He was very nice and cheerful about it and said he remembered the case perfectly as he had all the documents preserved with all the archives in the house. We had a pleasant talk about it and it revived memories of eighty years ago. The house contains a wonderful collection of pictures, chiefly 17th and 18th centuries. The Earl tragically remarked on parting that he could keep it going at the most for another three years, then heavy taxation will force him to sell the property.
At 87 years old I had appendicitis; Dr Hill did wonders for the appendicitis without cutting, with liberal doses of morphia at 12.30pm, a wonderful drug!
This short history is bound to be sketchy, and cannot be consistent in the matter of dates, all the events hopelessly mixed up. It would never have been started except to satisfy Annette. I must now record something to her credit, the most cheering event of the bloody war, both for servicemen and civilians — we were all in it. At the Munich crisis, entirely on her own accord she decided she must do something practical for the country, so she gave up a dressmaking business and joined the Land Army and worked for six years all the daylight hours — no eight-hour days for Land Girls — with hardly any break. She was awarded the B.E.M. Fourteen of these awards were distributed out of 50,000 Land Army Girls. I am immensely proud of her for I know she worked well and hard without complaining.
[Annette wrote: I quote in full my father's address at the Headmaster's Conference held at Tonbridge School, 1928.]
Address on Art in the Public Schools
given at
The Headmasters Conference
December 21st 1928
by
Martin A. Buckmaster A.R.C.A., Hon A.R.I.B.A.
held at Tonbridge School
I have waited, not altogether patiently, for twenty-five years for the opportunity of addressing you, and I sincerely thank you now for at last allowing me to do so. I hope you will bear with me when I state what I believe to be some rather unpleasant truths.
The important subject of Art Education in the public schools has not been considered with sympathetic interest, or intelligence, during the whole existence of the Headmasters Conference, a period of more than fifty years. At the moment I almost feel an atmosphere around me which is not too friendly towards art education, as it might reasonably appear at the outset that I am about to appeal for more time for art instruction in an already overcrowded timetable.
This is not my aim, although it might possibly be done in about fifty per cent of the schools here represented without serious difficulty. My appeal is different: it is for a fuller sympathy for an art education on the aesthetic side from all present here today. The importance of the subject on this, the aesthetic side, is now so universally recognised, although so shamefully neglected, that it is only necessary to mention the fact that no classical education can be considered complete without the study of classical architecture, and sculpture in particular, and to this should be added painting and other crafts.
The history and practise of architecture is in some schools already taught, but it should be made a compulsory branch of study for every classical boy — in fact for every boy. There is a movement from the Institute of British Architects and other art societies to induce the public schools and the universities to play their part in this direction. Regular instruction in art can only be secured in our present secondary school system by including this subject in the entrance and scholarship examinations. Some schools do this, and as all important preparatory schools teach drawing, there should be no difficulty in this direction. Oxford, Cambridge and the University of London provide in their school certificate and matriculation examinations a choice of five to eight different subjects in art architecture and painting included; so the machinery is already in working order. It is only necessary to follow this up by an art paper on wide lines in the Honours Schools at Oxford and Cambridge, then at last some of the public school boys would be given their chance for a fuller, intelligent appreciation of the fine arts.
That Sir Christopher Wren attached the greatest importance to art instruction is shown by a reference in the Christ's Hospital Committee on November 24th 1692 which reads as follows: "It was observed by somebody that our English artists are dull enough at invention, but when once a foreign pattern is set they imitate so well that commonly they exceed the original — I confess this observation is generally true. This shows that our natives want not genius but education which is the foundation of all mechanical arts, a practise in designing and drawing to which everybody in Italy, France and the Low Countries pretends more or less. I cannot imagine anything could be more usefully taught your children, especially such as will naturally take to it, and many such you will find amongst your numbers, who will have naturally genius for it which it is a pity should be stifled".
You have all been told in the press, and at meetings such as these, of your great responsibilities until you are weary of hearing about them, but not so repeatedly about your great opportunities; and it is surely now about time to see that these great opportunities are not wasted and that the public schools cease to be the dead-end of all art development.
You have formed societies — Hellenic and others — to cultivate and inspire yourselves, for them also in your schools to interest the boys in art and see that they are kept alive. The Hellenic Society never gets much beyond the admiration of Greek temples and theatres, the latter really not architecture at all as they have no constructive basis — they seem to forget there is also medieval and Renaissance art defined by an eminent professor last April on board the S.S. Lotus. Some of you doubtless were present. The professor goes off the deep end in his admiration of the Venus de Milo which he candidly admits having seen only in a plaster cast — one of those three foot six affairs so frequently found decorating professors' and headmasters' studies; I feel this plaster industry would have perished years ago had it not been for the generous support of the scholastic profession.
Such professors are of little use to the cause of art, for they lack the artistic vision for which I am now pleading. It is remarkable at the present time how many high scholars are deficient in the most elementary facts of art. In a very large degree most of the crude ugliness in our streets is due to a lack of knowledge of the elementary principles of architecture amongst those who have the position, and power, to influence taste. How badly our ancestors accomplished their duties, as guardians of public taste, is evidenced by the squalid buildings throughout the country, franked by councils of presumably educated men without artistic vision, and erected by greedy speculators. There is hope for the future, a much brighter prospect if the training in art I am pleading for is encouraged; remember always the character and health of a people alters for the better as architectural and art surroundings improve. The London County Council is not blind to this fact when it decides to spend many millions on rebuilding the south side of the river and getting rid of houses which never should have been built if years ago our public school system had possessed some art enlightenment.
Gentlemen, may I most earnestly appeal to you all for a wide vision in this direction; let it no longer be said that schoolmasters are a race apart, self-satisfied and self-sufficient. I appeal in particular to the younger headmasters who are not yet encrusted with Victorian mould. Give the public schoolboy a chance to develop his taste for real beauty, the future of this country's welfare is so entirely in your hands, as the boys now under your control must take their part, and a prominent one, in its future development. The universities are also much to blame for their neglect of art, but still the public schoolboy makes the university, and should therefore carry up with him a better tradition of taste to be cultivated further as his general knowledge increases. I am not asking you to turn out practical artists — a few will always be found, even the present inelastic system will be unable to stem the tide of artistic genius, that must always survive — but I do most earnestly ask you to cultivate the aesthetic sense in a general way, which I am sure is dormant in most of us. You will know best how to do this as circumstances will permit. I only offer a few suggestions.
Get a better atmosphere into your schools; this might easily be done by improving the classrooms, dining halls and school houses; get rid of the barbarous pitch pine habit so prevalent everywhere, and don't imagine you have achieved the summit of fine art decoration by three washed out Arundel prints and a bust of Socrates over an ugly pitch pine bookcase. There is such a thing as beautiful furniture — acquire it. See that your prizes, both general and sports, are in better taste; three calf, lavishly gold tooled, in vogue since the creation of the H.M.C., is still the fashion today, and it is not by any means the last word in good book binding. Improve also your sports prizes — in some of these the most hideous forms are displayed and at considerable cost in tortured silver. Useful articles in place of the now useless ones might be substituted, such as candlesticks, salvers, etc., of excellent Queen Anne patterns, which can easily be secured. Remember that two oars placed crosswise over the mantelpiece or doorway cannot be good decoration. Do not mistake me; I am not tilting against sport of any kind. I have played and enjoyed most games but polo and pelota, and all of them indifferently, but sports were not designed to disfigure our homes with ghastly trophies. Some things one never forgets, and the horror of my headmaster's study haunts me still; the physical pain suffered there was nothing compared to the nauseating ugliness of his surroundings. Form an Art Society in your school, secure a good lecturer on architecture and general art, and include the subject in your school debates. See that your museums contain more works of real art merit and fewer savage implements and big game hunter's trophies; a few good pieces of furniture etc. Such collections would grow if started on right lines. General education is safe in your competent hands, but I have my misgivings for art. I would, however, have you remember that for ten you can interest in Homer, Virgil or Shakespeare, fifty or more could be influenced or improved, in a quarter of the time, by an intelligent study of Westminster Abbey, or any fine work of architecture. In medieval times no man was considered educated who did not possess a knowledge of architecture and the fine arts, and I see no reason why the same opinion should not hold good today, and such knowledge could easily be acquired, especially in the elements of architecture, during public school life.
It is a subject of vital interest to the community, and is it not true that had such education been more prominent in the past we should never have had the squalid houses and flashy gin palaces that now disfigure and disgrace all our cities? Any scheme of practical art instruction I must leave out of consideration. There is much to be said on this matter and no time to say it, and as an examiner of most of the public schools, and an inspector of some, I can only say it is in a not too healthy state, possibly due to the want of encouragement from the headmaster. I am fortunate here in having a chief who is keen and who has extended to me a wide and intelligent sympathy, so we are not entirely in artistic darkness, but we could undoubtedly be better. I appeal to the rest of you for similar encouragement on the art side of your own school — in this race for scholarships one is apt to count a million and miss the unit. For those who think there is nothing in art and that it does not pay, let me remind you how it does, and how, in a remarkable way. In the Holford sale of pictures at Christie's last May over £572,000 was realised in two days and £100,000 for a single picture has ceased to be a remarkable event. There is a room in a gallery in Florence, which you all know well, filled with the works on one Master, which if they came into the auction room tomorrow would realise sufficient to buy up two of our largest public schools. I do not believe in this cry that we are only a mechanical age with no artistic sense; it certainly looks so but I am loathe to believe it is the truth; if so it is our own fault.
Great architecture has been described as crystalised music — it is more the crystalisation of great thoughts which otherwise would be lost. In France in the thirteenth century it was a competitive battle of the arts, Chartres, Amiens, Rheims, Beauvais and others, all in this glorious contest, when every mason was a highly educated craftsman and the architect ruled them all, backed up by the generous support of a people interested in art. Commerce and art should ever be in agreement, but this does not mean that art should be commercial. Liverpool cathedral is a happy instance of this union, and it shows a healthy spirit of adventure when a Gothic cathedral of such magnificence can be conceived and erected in this busy city of commerce — a memorial of all time to rank with the Gothic masterpieces of the world.
Human nature is the same now as in the middle ages, the brain cortex has the same cells only some are perishing through neglect while others get abnormally developed; the art cells are starved through lack of proper nourishment due to our present educational system. The country looks to you gentlemen to see that the future generation is not left entirely destitute of all art enlightenment.
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