The Position Of Ephesus

by Barry Pain

THE POSITION OF EPHESUS.

BY

BARRY PAIN.

---

[Being an extract from the note-book of a private School-Master.]

The day commenced as usual with the Scripture lesson in early morning school. In accordance with my instructions to be moral, geographical, or historical, but not doctrinal, I put the question, "Where is Ephesus?" George Weeks was, as usual, at the top of the class; I generally find that he has prepared his work; but he did not know where Ephesus was. I told him how impossible it was for him to take any intelligent interest in the subject unless he looked up such points. He seemed downcast.

The next boy repeated the question aloud: "Where is Ephesus? Oh!" Then he paused, and looked at me much as old Peter used to look in my unregenerate days when we played poker together, and he suspected me of bluff. It was a searching suspicious look. "I see," he continued brightly. "Ephesus was one of those cities that are now extinct; it isn't properly anywhere at the present time; it's stopped."

"Look here, Melsham," I said, frigidly. "Do not try to be too sharp, and do not imagine for one moment that if you are ignorant upon any point, you can conceal your ignorance from Me. If you would kindly remember those two things, you would get on much better. Now then—next, please. Where is Ephesus?"

The next boy, Smithson, did not know. In the ordinary course, if a boy does not know the answer to the question he merely says nothing. Smithson said nothing, but he shook his head. It was an unusual and unnecessary action. I feel certain that he had shaken his head, because his guilty conscience told him that there was that within his mouth which would make articulation difficult—or, indeed, impossible.

"Smithson," I said, "I must ask you to tell me exactly what you are eating."

He turned white, and told me—very indistinctly—that it was a chocolate caramel.

It takes a complete boy to eat a chocolate caramel just five minutes before he will—in all human probability—be eating a boiled egg.

I told him to place the remainder of the sweetmeat in the waste-paper basket and go to the bottom of the class. I spare details, but I should think that the chocolate caramel might be used for mending broken china. I said a few words to Smithson on the subject of conscience and the futility of any attempt to conceal sin. He wept a little.

The next boy really knew nothing about the position of Ephesus, but asked me vaguely if it wasn't a part of Palestine.

"Let us suppose for one moment that Ephesus is a part of Palestine. Would your answer be correct? No, my dear boy. Accuracy—absolute accuracy—is essential to information of every kind, if it is to have any real value."

It seems hard to believe that not one of these boys who had been reading about Ephesus the night before had taken the trouble to look it up in the atlas. But it was so.

The true educationalist uses his opportunities, and I think that I had used mine. Starting with a question as to the position of Ephesus, I had found an opportunity to impress upon these young boys, with their minds open to every salutary influence, the necessity for intelligent work and absolute accuracy and straight-forward dealing. I had warned them against over-subtlety and futile attempts to conceal sin. In a word, I had set up before them a far higher moral standard than that which I have found it expedient so far to keep in general use.

When the question had gone all round the class, and every boy had missed, that little brute Melsham had the cheek to put the question to me—

"Well, sir, where is Ephesus really?"

How could I possibly know? It is one of the things which you are taught, only to forget. I knew where Ephesus was once; but I certainly did not know when I asked the question, and I could not get a couple of minutes with the atlas just then. What ordinary man does know the position of Ephesus? If he wants it he looks it up; if he does not want it he leaves it. I glanced at the clock, and saw that it was just on breakfast time.

"Very good, Melsham," I said; "I am very glad to hear you ask that question; it shows that you are beginning to see now the necessity for an intelligent interest in your work. I wish that you had seen it before, but better late than never. Now, before I draw on the blackboard the map that will—what, the breakfast bell! Next chapter for next time, and use the atlas."

So that was quite all right.

At breakfast I got another letter from old Peter. He still insists that I should do better to take orders, as he has done. He gets ninety-five and boards himself; I get seventy and am boarded—except the holidays, of course. No, thank you, Peter; arithmetic is arithmetic and the proposal is not funny enough. This post is not brilliant but it's better than that.

Just fancy old Peter a curate! He is really not fit for it.