THE UNDYING FIRE
seventy boys, following a worn-out routine. A little Latin was taught and less Greek, chiefly in order to say that Greek was taught; some scraps of mathematical processes, a few rags of general knowledge, English history—not human history, mind you, but just the national brand, cut dried flowers from the past with no roots and no meaning, a smattering of French. . . . That was practically all; it was no sort of education, it was a mere education-like posturing. And to-day, what has that school become?"
"We never grudged you money," said Sir Eliphaz.
"Nor loyal help," said Mr. Farr, but in a half whisper.
"I am not thinking of its visible prosperity. The houses and laboratories and museums that have grown about that nucleus are nothing in themselves. The reality of a school is not in buildings and numbers but in matters of the mind and soul. Woldingstanton has become a torch at which lives are set aflame. I have lit a candle there—the winds of fate may yet blow it into a world-wide blaze."
As Mr. Huss said these things he was uplifted by enthusiasm, and his pain sank down out of his consciousness.
"What," he said, "is the task of the teacher in the world? It is the greatest of all human tasks. It is to ensure that Man, Man the Divine, grows in the souls of men. For what is a man without instruction? He is born as the beasts are born, a greedy egotism, a clutching desire, a thing of lusts and fears. He can regard nothing except in relation to himself. Even his love is a bargain; and his utmost effort is
46
