Making Imperial Mentalities: Socialisation and British Imperialism (RLE Education 106) 9780415615174, 9780203816172, 9780415682589, 9780203804162, 0719028647

Table of contents :
MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES: Socialisation and British Imperialism
Copyright
Making Imperial Mentalities: SOCIALISATION AND BRITISH IMPERIALISM
Original Copyright
CONTENTS
General introduction
Introduction: Making Imperial Mentalities
CHAPTER 1: Slavery, social death and imperialism: the formation of a Christian black elite in the West Indies, 1800–1845
CHAPTER 2: Sisters under the skin: imperialism and the emancipation of women in Malaya, c.1891–1941
CHAPTER 3: Drill and dance as symbols of imperialism
CHAPTER 4: 'Mothers for the Empire'? The Girl Guides Association in Britain, 1909–1939
CHAPTER 5: Victorians, socialisation and imperialism: consequences for post-imperial India
CHAPTER 6: Christian imperialists of the Raj: left, right and centre
CHAPTER 7: White supremacy and the rhetoric of educational indoctrination: a Canadian case-study
CHAPTER 8: 'A part of Pakeha society': Europeanising the Maori child
CHAPTER 9: Processes of colonial control: the Bermuda school question, 1926–1954
CHAPTER 10: Examinations and Empire: the Cambridge Certificate in the colonies, 1857–1957
Index

Citation preview

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES Socialisation and British Imperialism Edited by J. A. Mangan

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: EDUCATION

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: EDUCATION

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES Socialisation and British Imperialism

Edited by J. A. MANGAN

Volume 106

Routledge Taylor &. Francis Group LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published in 1990 by Manchester University Press This edition first published in 2012 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 1990 J. A. Mangan All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 13: 978-0-415-61517-4 (Set) eISBN 13: 978-0-203-81617-2 (Set) ISBN 13: 978-0-415-68258-9 (Volume 106) eISBN 13: 978-0-203-80416-2 (Volume 106) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

Making Imperial Mentalities SOCIALISATION AND BRITISH IMPERIALISM

edited by J. A. Mangan

MANCHESTER UNIVERSITY PRESS Manchester and New York Distributed exclusively in the USA and Canada by ST. M A R T I N ' S PRESS

Copyright © Manchester University Press 1990 Whilst copyright in the volume as a whole is vested in Manchester University Press, copyright in individual chapters belongs to their respective authors, and no chapter may be reproduced wholly or in part without express permission in writing of both author and publisher. Published by MANCHESTER UNIVERSITY PRESS OXFORD ROAD, M A N C H E S T E R M13 9PL and ROOM 400, 175 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, NY 10010, USA Distributed exclusively in the USA and Canada by ST. MARTIN'S PRESS, INC. 175 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, NY 10010, USA British Library cataloguing in publication data Making Imperial Mentalities: socialisation and British imperialism. – (Studies in imperialism). 1. British imperialism, history I. Title II. Series 325.320941 Library of Congress cataloging in publication data Making Imperial Mentalities: socialisation and British imperialism / edited by J. A. Mangan. p. cm. – (Studies in imperialism) 1. Socialization. 2. Imperialism. 3. Education—Great Britain—Colonies. 4. Women—Great Britain—Colonies—Socialization. 5. Political socialization—Great Britain—Colonies. I. Mangan, J. A. II. Series: Studies in imperialism (Manchester, England) HQ783.M26 1990 303.3'2'0941—dc20 89-77461 ISBN 0-7190-2864-7 hardback

Typeset in Trump Mediaeval by Koinonia Limited, Manchester Printed in Great Britain by Bell & Bain Limited, Glasgow

CONTENTS

General introduction — ix Introduction: Making Imperial Mentalities J.A . Mangan

page 1

1 Slavery, social death and imperialism: the formation of a Christian black elite in the West Indies, 1800–1845 Patricia Rooke

23

2 Sisters under the skin: imperialism and the emancipation of women in Malaya, c.1891–1941 Janice N. Brownfoot

46

3 Drill and dance as symbols of imperialism Anne Bloomfield

74

4 'Mothers for the Empire'? The Girl Guides Association in Britain, 1909–1939 Allen Warren

96

5 Victorians, socialisation and imperialism: consequences for post-imperial India T. V. Sathyamurthy

110

6 Christian imperialists of the Raj: left, right and centre Gerald Studdert-Kennedy

127

7 White supremacy and the rhetoric of educational indoctrination: a Canadian case-study Timothy J. Stanley

144

8 'A part of Pakeha society': Europeanising the Maori child J.M. Barrington and T. H. Beaglehole

163

9 Processes of colonial control: the Bermuda school question, 1926–1954 Robert Nicholas Berard

184

10 Examinations and Empire: the Cambridge Certificate in the colonies, 1857–1957 A. J. Stockwell Index — 221 [v]

203

GENERAL I N T R O D U C T I O N

Imperialism was more than a set of economic, political and military phenomena. It was a complex ideology which had widespread intellectual, cultural and technical expressions in the era of European world supremacy. The 'Studies in Imperialism' series is designed to explore, primarily but not exclusively, these relatively neglected areas. Volumes are planned, or have already appeared, on environmental aspects of imperial rule, science, disease, sexual opportunity, literature, art and design, policing and the law, racial ideas, among others. But in redressing the balance in favour of such multi-disciplinary and cross-cultural studies, it is not intended that the economic, political and military dimensions should be ignored. The series seeks to demonstrate that these can be fully understood only in their wider cultural context and that imperialism had profound effects on dominant as well as on subordinate societies. The study of education is clearly a key element in such a programme. The series has already recognised this through the publication of 'Benefits Bestowed'? in 1988. The present collection is intended as a companion volume, exploring the broader and often informal educational processes that can be viewed as aspects of imperial acculturation. It examines youth organisations and patriotic festivals, emigration and a variety of religious issues, elite formation and the influence of examinations boards, as well as confronting important aspects of the education, socialisation and liberation of women. These chapters, embracing imperial territories from the West Indies to Malaya, Canada to New Zealand, India to Britain, demonstrate anew the value of trans-continental studies of empire. Major themes emerge which will in turn serve to illuminate local studies. The nineteenthcentury liberal faith in the moral effects of education had a particularly potent expression in the belief that the dissemination of the English language could itself create a civilising and moralising climate. This concern with language, and its post-colonial legacy, is touched on in a number of the contributions. Imperial education inevitably reflected the shifting intellectual debate on race and culture-contact in Britain. In the early nineteenth century, assimilationist ideas, so well represented in the writings of Herman Merivale, carried much force. They gave way to coarser racial concepts later in the century, when the belief in both miscegenation and culture-fusion was largely abandoned, and by the twentieth a cultural relativism, much influenced by the new discipline [ix]

GENERAL

INTRODUCTION

of anthropology, promoted policies associated with indirect rule, the protection of traditional elites, and 'parallel' development. The similarities and differences in the working-out of these debates in territories as diverse as India and New Zealand are exceptionally instructive. They have to be viewed in terms of the shifting needs of the establishment and maintenance of imperial authority and as a dynamic exchange between periphery and metropole. Christian missionaries reflected and influenced these trends. Throughout the Empire they made a major contribution, sometimes virtually the only contribution, to educational processes. Their relationship with imperial authority and its ideas was as complex as their denominational and theological differences. If they appear at various times to act both as the agents of imperial rule and as nationalist collaborators hurrying on its demise, it should never be forgotten that political change can sometimes mask social and cultural continuity. Several chapters refer to the need to understand the manner in which the history of education can illuminate the tendency of post-colonial elites to inherit the imperial mantle. Within these processes of elite formation, missionaries, youth organisations and other educational agencies may well have had a transforming effect on the role of women, though any study which ignores class analysis in this regard is likely to have a shaky foundation. I am confident that this volume will join 'Benefits Bestowed'? in making a major contribution to the enriched study of imperial education. John M. MacKenzie

[x]

Empire revisited There is no longer need to turn away from the Empire... It no longer has that power to seduce the young, the glamour of that enormous animal vitality. We can look at it directly, because it is only a moon now, not a sun. We can look up into the heavens, and study it, as a burned-out star, or rather a constellation of stars. Martin Green, Dreams of Adventure, Deeds of Empire, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1980, p. 344

[xi]

INTRODUCTION

Making Imperial Mentalities J. A. Mangan

In Socialisation: The Approach from Social Anthropology,1 published in 1970, Audrey Richards argued that, in British anthropology, socialisation as an analytical concept had fallen from favour by the 1960s. One reason, she suggested, lay in the crudities of early American anthropological analysis; another lay in a professional self-denying ordinance resulting in the neglect of educational processes and in concentration on other areas of social life such as social structures and political typologies. In her view it was time to reconsider its significance and she called for a return to the 'institutional study of socialisation'.2 This volume of essays is an early attempt by educationalists, historians, political scientists and sociologists to satisfy this request in the specific context of British imperialism. Education in the formal sense, of course, is not to be seen as a synonym for socialisation but only as one part of a more general process of the introduction to society.3 Formal education, self-evidently, is only one means of cultural transmission.4 In 'Benefits Bestowed'?, the companion volume to Making Imperial Mentalities, the emphasis was on formal education5 but it was stated in the Introduction that the wider aspects of the educational process subsumed under the global heading of socialisation would receive consideration in this volume. It was further stated that the emphasis in both volumes would be on political socialisation defined as 'tuition, formal and informal, planned and unplanned, explicit and implicit, involved in the adoption of appropriate political perceptions, the acquisition of associated cultural beliefs and the learning of related social attitudes'. 6 Political socialisation may be both narrowly and broadly conceived. Narrowly conceived, it may be considered as the deliberate inculcation of political knowledge, values and practices by agents and agencies formally charged with this responsibility. Broadly conceived it may be [1]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

considered to encompass not only political but also apparently nonpolitical learning, formal and informal, calculated and uncalculated, which effects the learning of politically relevant attitudes and the development of politically relevant individual and group behaviour.7 It is scarcely a dazzling insight to suggest that, in all nations and all empires, political socialisation has had most often as its purpose acceptance of the dominant ideology, promotion of compliance with the prevailing social order and its values, adjustment to its economic, political and military requirements and rejection of alternatives.8 In this context, the dominant political group, more often than not the significant agent of socialisation, attempts to act first as an innovatory, then as a stabilising and finally as a conserving influence. The process of political socialisation invariably involves the power to define relationships 'including the capacity to nominate others as equal or unequal... memorable or abject, discusser or discussed'.9 In any consideration of this phenomenon concepts such as indoctrination, induction, inculcation, assimilation, adaptation and adjustment are significant terms. And these terms in turn stimulate important questions: among them, what is the relationship between early indoctrination and adult orientation, what are the various formal and informal mechanisms adopted in attempts to ensure ideological conformity and compliance, and, most pertinently perhaps, how effective are these mechanisms in the reality of everyday life, in situations of competing cultural demands and in contexts of superiority and inferiority? The latter is an especially significant question. The ability of cultures to sustain, against all the odds, 'a continuity even under extensive pressures arising from enforced cultural contact'10 is sometimes remarkable. This problem of maintaining cultural identity and cultural continuity is, of course, a contextual feature of imperialism and one that receives substantial attention in this volume. However, also of considerable significance and interest are the changes in a colonial setting that the colonialists themselves underwent. Is it safe to assume that 'European colonialists were just like us'?11 Surely it is more sensible to recognise that the European in empire was frequently changed, often substantially, by 'the experience of dominance'. 12 In this volume attention is also devoted to this aspect of colonialism. Philip Mason in Patterns of Dominance observed 'the categories into which men classify each other are continually changing'.13 A further major issue in the study of imperialism is the relationship between continuity and change as societies influenced by imperial imperatives struggle to adapt to, to maintain or re-establish a configuration of values and actions that symbolise an ordered and meaningful world; and yet a further matter of importance in the context of imperial control is the [2]

INTRODUCTION

difference in successful adaptation between the generations. Youth, it has been observed, has the greater facility to adapt to severe cultural change. In consequence, strenuous efforts by the dominant to socialise the young have been a feature of imperialism.14 Imperial socialisation incorporates at least two major elements: enculturation, the process of aggressive induction into the dominant culture, and acculturation, the process of acquiring more passively, through contact, elements of this culture. Within the framework of British imperialism our concern is with both elements, and the main purpose of this book is to explore the means by which attempts were made to ensure that individuals and groups within both dominant and subordinate cultures within the British Empire learned by either means appropriate values, attitudes and behaviour so as to ensure the survival of the imperial system. Since such attempts preclude neither agreement, compliance nor endorsement on the part of the socialised, the issues of resistance, adaptation and rejection receive frequent attention. In this regard, both coloniser and colonised, of course, must be observed as participants in their own history, otherwise consideration of imperialism must remain incomplete.15 However successful, no assemblage of ideological practices and meanings and no set of political, cultural and economic arrangements can be totally monolithic. In addition, and most importantly, the influence of these practices and arrangements, whether successful or unsuccessful, did not end with the passing of imperial rule. It has been stated rightly that the adjective colonial should not tempt us to confine our attention to former colonial and imperial systems now vanished, since the term represents interaction between groups possessing the ability to dominate in varying degrees in the present as well as in the past.16 Therefore, the post-imperial consequences of attempted imperial socialisation will be the further concern of some contributors. Clearly such interaction and its consequences have been different, at different levels of society, in different parts of the empire, at different periods of empire and subsequent to empire! There were a multiplicity of agents of contact, distinct phases of contact, degrees of contact, varying means of contact and various methods of contact.17 This colonial 'contiguity', as it has been called, has its infinitely diverse aspects and results. An awareness of Simmel's concept of 'cultural levels', which acknowledges the existence of combinations and degrees of cultural involvement in any analysis of imperialism, is therefore sensible.18 It lessens any tendency to over-simplification. We are dealing with a complex and changing set of endeavours in continually evolving circumstances. Furthermore, as Maunier implies, there is also the often neglected matter of reciprocity of cultural influence.19 And yet a further point to note is that in the process of political socialisation, while [3]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

induction during childhood is crucial, adulthood also has its own systems and processes. This latter phenomenon has been called resocialisation: the discarding of old values and the acquiring of new ones.20 In the history of the British Empire it is much in evidence. One way of viewing schooling over the past century and a half in the West is 'as a generally successful struggle waged by the centralised states against church, family, locality, and class interests for control of the institutions, particularly the schools, that initiate children into the life of the society'.21 To what extent might this claim be made for the forces of imperialism in colonial societies and cultures? This is a large question and such a question leads directly to sensible qualification. It is no easy matter, given that political socialisation is a hugely complex phenomenon, to locate all the mechanisms, consider all the efforts and assess precisely the relative influence of the various imperial socialising agents and agencies. The contributions to this volume, therefore, consider merely some of the purposes and consequences of imperial socialisation: as a system of morality, as a means of righteous cultural infiltration, displacement and replacement, as a stimulus to resistance on the part of cultures pressured sometimes to the point of extinction, as an aesthetic and emotional celebration of superiority, as a source of gender ambiguity, as an affective agent of hegemonic influence, as a lasting manifestation of cultural imperialism. After this early effort there remains much still to explore and analyse. Re-socialisation is the first issue to be considered. Patricia Rooke deals with the re-socialisation of adults through religion in the West Indies in the nineteenth century. She explores the nature of Protestant missionary evangelisation in the period of slavery and early freedom, and reflects on the fissures created by Christianity in the structure of West Indian society, the dichotomously evolving role of the non-conformist missionary and the painful compromises inherent in attempted black allegiance to a white Christian moral order. 'Christian missions,' asserts T. O. Beidelman, 'represent the most naive and ethnocentric, and therefore the most thorough-going facet of colonial life-colonisation of heart and mind as well as body.'22 Whether or not this self-confident claim is true, 'soul' should certainly have been added to the latter part of the assertion. Control of an individual's spiritual identity is a potent means of achieving the wider 'colonisation' of emotions, mind and body. In this context, Christianity, Rooke argues, lent itself especially well to the ideology of imperialism with its polarised notions of superiority and inferiority. Pelagian optimism, at least as far as the colonised are concerned, was in short supply. Subjugation of self, she maintains, is the essence of the Christian sense of [4]

INTRODUCTION

mission. In consequence, it has been a 'cultural and emotional currency readily appropriated and manipulated'23 in imperial settings. However, in the West Indies Christianity for the slave, she decides, proved 'more a matter of seduction than subjugation'. Protestant missionaries of religious sects such as Methodism, in contrast to the clergy of the Church of England, served as alternative mediators to the slaveowner between black slave and imperial society, and in this role influenced relationships at all levels of the West Indian community. These missionaries, with their stress on the basic equality of the slave in a Christian world, diminished the absolute authority of the slaveholders and interfered with the rigid 'natural order of slave society'. Their reward was spasmodic persecution by the planters and, in time, social challenge by freed-slave preachers. For the slaves, Christianity, as interpreted by non-conformist clergy, offered emotional catharsis through its symbolism of redemption, social improvement through missionary schooling, some measure of social equality through missionary contact and a prospect of political freedom through an awareness of Christian philanthropic effort on their behalf in Britain. Christianity, in fact, served contradictory purposes in offering the slave opportunities for acceptance (through social assimilation) and denial (through social protest). But Christian altruism only went so far. Ethnocentricism ensured that it was, in fact, a careful blend of inclusion and exclusion. Missionaries did not fail to promote the Christian message of humility and subscribed to the belief that slave conduct should remain within 'the boundaries of discretion in which subordinate classes kept their place'.24 In time this orthodoxy was to reap its reward. With the arrival of emancipation the role and image of the nonconformist missionaries changed significantly with repercussions for the whole society. Ironically they came to be wooed by the former slaveowners, who valued them as putative agents of social order, while at the same time they were parochialised and insulated from the wider Christian community, whose members, now the slaves were free, 'increasingly turned their attention to the needs of the "real heathens" of Africa and Asia'.25 The attitude of the missionaries, as a result, towards their freed blacks changed. The concept of missionary work as a 'caretaking operation' had scant reality in a looming situation of diminished image. Christian native leaders, once neophytes sympathetically encouraged, were now seen as challengers to their status to be kept in their place. These indigenous leaders, for their part, became increasingly frustrated by unrealised aspiration. A tense set of relationships resulted. Some native Christian leaders set up their own Churches but the majority accepted [5]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

continued subordination to sustain their careers. In consequence, after the abolition of slavery an imperial social order remained in place buttressed by a new non-conformist insular conformity to the traditional social order and endorsed by freed slave leaders accepting subordinate security in the reformed society. In the imperial setting of West Indian society, therefore, Rooke is concerned with a range of issues: generally with the theme of adult resocialisation, specifically with the problems of discarding dated values and adopting fresh ones, with the processes inherent in adjustment to changed circumstances, and, perhaps most interesting of all, with continuing corporate and individual stability associated with political, social and theological instability. She also deals with Christian ideals in confrontation with secular realities, with certain fashionable nineteenth-century Christian priorities and their consequences, with the fundamental inability of sectarian missionaries to move outside the framework of accepted beliefs of social order and hierarchy, with Christianity as idiosyncratically interpreted and utilised by an imperial black slave population, and with its contradictory functions for this population of acceptance and rejection. Rooke points up by means of paradox the frequently complex nature of cultural evolution. Subsequent to emancipation non-conformist missionary and freed slave in their newly adopted roles ensured the maintenance of both an imperial set of values and an imperial social order, yet at the same time both found their circumstances, in at least some respects, greatly changed. Beidelman's claim that the raison d'etre of mission work is the undermining of the traditional way of life, and thus that the missionary symbolises 'the most extreme, thorough-going and self-conscious protagonist of cultural innovation and change',26 seems badly served by Rooke's case study. She adds pale shades to this bold generalisation. In his Foreword to Caroline Oliver's Western Women in Colonial Africa, Robin Winks noted that imperial historians have focused unduly on administrative, constitutional and military issues with the result that women 'have been relegated to the interstices of social history'.27 Janice Brownfoot promotes them to a more central position and makes the point that the effects of colonisation on women (both coloniser and colonised) cannot be disassociated from its effects on the wider society.28 She is of the opinion that in colonial Malaya between 1891 and 1941 white professional women, from diverse backgrounds and embracing a variety of beliefs, contributed to the demise of imperialism. If not the ruin of the Empire, these women certainly assisted in its collapse. They played ambivalent parts on the imperial stage. They were agents of both cultural transmission and resistance: imperialists and internationalists. In short, they were engaged in contradictory and [6]

INTRODUCTION

ambiguous processes of socialisation. As women born into Victorian or Edwardian society their 'proper sphere' was neither political nor public but domestic and conjugal. Consequently, in the fields of 'women's work', domestic life, material welfare and girls' education, their influence on Asian womanhood was marked.29 And as a further consequence of period expectations of femininity, within their superior imperial roles, Brownfoot suggests, they may well have proved more flexible, adaptable and sympathetic to the colonised than men; a state of affairs in all probability reinforced by the fact that they came not from a homogeneous metropolitan ruling 'caste', but from diverse social and national backgrounds, in some instances from beyond imperial Europe, and by the fact that in larger measure they refused to subscribe to the principle of social distance, which (as Callaway has remarked) was 'a central concept in the exercise of imperial power and authority'.30 As a group, Brownfoot insists, they failed to possess 'any strong tradition of socialisation to the British imperial ethos'.31 And they certainly seemed to fail, by virtue of their principles, aspirations and responsibilities, to meet with the male imperialist's definition of 'ultra-femininity'.32 Nevertheless and paradoxically, after the Great War their role in the maintenance of Empire, through programmes of social welfare, was increasingly recognised by authority through the formal acknowledgement of a role they had long adopted. They had long been an elite cadre of social workers which had won the goodwill of the subject races. With altruism closer to their hearts than imperialism, and emancipation a continuing aspiration, it was as educationalists that they had probably their greatest success as agents of change. As teachers, they were reformers pledged to emancipate their students from restrictive tradition. Their purposes were moral, technical and intellectual; to make good wives, mothers and community servants. Interestingly, they viewed physical fitness as a prerequisite of assertive independence of thought and action with the result that, as in the West, sport played a far from significant role in Malayan female emancipation.33 Change was gradual and involved only a minority of well-off and well-placed Asian women. Nevertheless, argues Brownfoot, the seeds of a social revolution were sown. The instruments of change were both formal – the education system, and informal – bodies such as the Girl Guides and the Young Women's Christian Association. The emphasis was on the young, who were carefully socialised into new attitudes, values and behaviour. Guiding, in particular, notes Brownfoot, was less an instrument for the propagation of imperial ideology than one for emancipatory beliefs; a state of affairs that finds echoes in Allen Warren's chapter on the Girl Guide movement in Britain. And in due course, as adults, the pupils in [7]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

turn became agents of change through indigenous and influential women's groups such as Kaum Ibu, the women's section of the United Malay National Organisation. In Malaya, Brownfoot concludes, an elite of professional white women reduced in their colonial sisters the awe of both men and imperialism and created a basis for enduring social change. Like Callaway, Brownfoot rejects the negative stereotypes of colonial women in literature, films and 'oral tradition'34 and, like Rooke, she deals with the paradoxes, contradictions and complexities of imperial socialisation and alerts us, inter alia, to the unintended consequences of official intention in the colonies, to the deliberately subversive role played by some white women in positions of imperial influence, to the important matter of a social-class dimension to imperial authority, responsibility and power, and to the fact, although she does not make much of this, that as a consequence of their place in the imperial order even these critics of imperial purpose were instruments, albeit reluctantly and even unconsciously, of imperial ideology. In other words they had a complicated relationship with imperialism which wittingly stimulated change, and perhaps unwittingly maintained continuity. They were a curious mixture of imperial social pathologist and cultural relativist. Anne Bloomfield, for her part, deals with the intended consequences of officialdom. In late nineteenth and early twentieth-century Britain dance and drill were a widespread means of celebrating patriotism and disseminating the image and message of imperialism. The most common ritual was the flag-raising ceremony in which the Union Jack was the symbol of imperial unity, while the most common ceremonial occasion was Empire Day, first celebrated in 1904 and symbolising for its part imperial loyalty, obedience and solidarity. Bloomfield offers Empire Day celebrations in Nottingham as a local case study of the successful indoctrination of the metropolitan young into imperialism enthusiasm. In Nottingham, the Empire Movement was pioneered with energy and enthusiasm by J. T. Spalding, a city dignitary who became mayor in 1908, and who ensured that each school had its own flagstaff around which occurred annual patriotic ceremonies at which the children sang, danced, enacted pageants and formed tableaux vivants. Nottingham was not unique. Bloomfield also describes events in other parts of Britain in which large numbers of children dressed in red, white and blue, forming living Union Jacks, and at which they were exhorted to be brave, loyal imperialists, proud of city, country and Empire. Some of these celebrations were huge. In 1911 the Church of England Temperance Society, for example, organised an event at the [8]

INTRODUCTION

Crystal Palace in London in which 20,000 children took part. And, while the focus of attention was substantially on children, such gestures of allegiance were enacted not only by school pupils but by whole communities. The purpose of these occasions was to cement unity between citizens of the Empire, young and old. Events such as the Crystal Palace celebrations were disciplined, organised and stylish, in large measure because drill had become compulsory in elementary schools in 1895. It was believed to serve a number of useful purposes: the promotion of fitness, the development of correct posture and, in time, ritualistic training for imperial celebration. As physical training developed in the early twentieth century, imperial celebrations increasingly included dance, a form of exercise 'conveying and displaying qualities that lay deeper than mere physical activity'.35 One of these qualities, it was thought at the time, was patriotism, and folk dancing in particular became a medium for patriotic expression. Traditional May Day festivities gradually merged into Empire Day celebrations, and dance also became a representation of imperial unity promoted with special enthusiasm by the English Folk Dance Society founded in 1911. Its manuals and classes spread to even the remotest corner of the Empire, and its activities, in turn, because joint symbols of Home and Unity, celebrating 'a Utopian as well as a Jingoistic dream'. Its approach was frequently both pious and precious. The image was of Merrie England – 'lithe young men and graceful sunburnt girls footing it upon the turf: the reality was more frequently the proletarian child footing it upon 'the asphalt school playground'. Perhaps 'the most colourful celebrations of Empire Day' occurred as late as 1937, the centenary of Queen Victoria's coronation. Throughout the country 'services, songs, tableaux, sports, country dancing, maypole dancing, concerts, games, hoisting of flags and planting of trees'36 took place. It was very much a last fling. After the Second World War, of course, major international change saw the demise of the Empire and its associated celebrations. Indoctrination through drill and dance became redundant. It had been for the most part, concludes Bloomfield, a pleasant and innocuous harnessing of children's and adults' emotions through popular cultural expression, and a restrained form of aesthetic indoctrination into imperial allegiance and uniformity. Studies of socialisation of girls and women in modern society are in short supply, a fact all the more surprising in the light of the recent rise of women's studies. Allen Warren's chapter is an attempt to make amends, and deals with ambiguities of attitudes to femininity in early twentieth-century Britain as revealed in the evolving aims and methods of the Girl Guide Movement. He reviews the Movement against 'a kaleidoscopic pattern of values' which increasingly offered greater [9]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

opportunities for women as citizens, workers and mothers. Between 1909 and 1914, the Girl Guide Movement grew slowly and unevenly from 6,000 to 40,000, but by 1921 it had 164,000 members, and by 1932, 195,000. In its early days the Movement was concerned with creating imperial 'womanliness'. Nursing, cooking, ambulance work and patriotism were emphasised to ensure that women could assume practical responsibilities in the colonies, take advantage of increasing work opportunities (without sacrificing their femininity) and play their part, if necessary, in home defence. Despite a seeming certainty of conviction these early years of the Movement were characterised by an ambiguity of role. While it was considered that the Scout Movement had its dangers for girls (for example, violent exercise, it was believed, could endanger their health) many precepts and practices were lifted directly from Scouting for Boys.37 Officialdom had one view of Guiding, suggests Warren, local groups often had another: on the ground it was more vigorous than official policy required. The Great War and the post-war enthusiasm for the outdoors resulted in even more liberal attitudes at the grass roots towards girls and activity, and between the wars Guiding became expansive rather than defensive. It came to symbolise, as Brownfoot had shown earlier, the unity of a multi-national Empire, a process stimulated in part by extensive emigration and in part by the self-imposed responsibilities of cultural imperialists. At the same time, as Brownfoot has also indicated, it became increasingly international as well as imperial. A too narrow association with imperialism had increasingly to be avoided and by the 1930s 'the anxious pre-war ideology of imperial motherhood'38 was far less in evidence. By the 1930s changing attitudes to women's responsibilities and rights and increased leisure resulted in the greater attractiveness of Guiding; an essentially middle-class, suburban movement subscribing to a 'liberal imperialism' now a coexisted with 'a multi-racial internationalism'. The roles of both women and Guiding were now broader and freer; the anxious and defensive imperialism characteristic of the early years of the Movement was now a thing of the past. Emphasis had shifted from socialisation into attitudes and skills appropriate to militant 'imperial motherhood' to attention to preparation for careers (still appropriately feminine), community and family. If Beidelman was not well served by Rooke, he is better served by T.V. Sathyamurthy, who concentrates, as Beidelman has requested, on the influence of the defunct institutions of imperialism on post-imperial communities. Post-Imperial India, in Sathyamurthy's view, has been characterised by an increasing alienation between the masses and the governing classes: the direct inheritance of the colonial era. Modern India has a Westernised ruling elite, a lasting effect of the British [10]

INTRODUCTION

imperial policy of the limited assimilation of a small minority of selected Indians into Western values. And in post-imperial India one fact remains important: the preference by the few for an English education in a private school. Sathyamurthy lays bare the origins of this 'anglophilia'. A segment of the Indian elite, he suggests, supported and took advantage of British ethnocentricity – the use of the English language as the medium of instruction – and used their influence gradually to advance their own position within government and society in the period after 1857, emerging as a social layer through which contact was maintained between British ruler and the bulk of the Indian population. However, restricted opportunities in government service in conjunction with the availability of an advanced English education produced Westernised Indians discontented with both British rule and personal opportunity. Demands for greater assumption of responsibility together with opposition to colonialism resulted in the emergence of reformers and revivalists who wished to give predominance to traditional Indian culture but who also set great store by modern education. British education had produced a deracinated Indian elite, 'a poor imitation of its metropolitan opposite', distanced from its traditional culture, and had thus ensured the additional irony that education introduced to further the ends of the colonialist by linking ruler and ruled served to provoke opposition to colonial purpose and loosen the bonds of allegiance. After independence, in the hands of the Indian elite English became the national medium of communication since, as Sathyamurthy states, English remained the language of education, a state of affairs consolidated by a post-independence proliferation of both public and private schools modelled along British lines, and by the fact that in state education after the regional language emphasis was placed on English not Hindi. The English language became the passport to preferment. India had become two nations, irreconcilably divided: a privileged minority with uninterrupted access to English and the majority with access mostly to the regional languages. This is graphically illustrated by the State of West Bengal in the period of Left Front control from 1977-1982, where attempted changes in educational policy associated with the abolition of English in primary schools were defeated by the urban middle class to the disadvantage of the rural masses. A process of socialisation begun in the imperial era had been carried over into postimperial India with divisive consequences for Indian society which remain to this day. In the effort by the British to socialise India into Western values and behaviour, religion was a far from insignificant factor. Gerald Studdert-

[11]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

Kennedy suggests that, in the period immediately prior to the demise of the Indian Empire, a Christian core to imperial civilisation in India was the 'informing presence' of imperial trusteeship; a fact, he argues, too often overlooked. It was a belief held, both consciously and unconsciously, across the political spectrum by the imperial class in Britain and India. Studdert-Kennedy views colonisation in India in large measure as a moral enterprise infused with Christian principles. Throughout the whole period of imperial domination, he claims, there were providential visions of a multi-racial state of Empire under a universal religion, emerging as a moral totality in the fullness of time. By way of an example, if India was to thrive, concluded the Commission on Higher Education in India in its report of 1931, it has to accept 'the faith of the incarnation'. By this action, in its opinion, imperialism would deny local gods of social destruction and ensure protection from catastrophes of India's own making. The chairman of the Commission was A. D. Lindsay, initially Master of Balliol and later the first Vice-Chancellor of Keele University, who was also active in the Industrial Christian Fellowship, which significantly, as Studdert-Kennedy writes, 'had a sacramental interpretation of the meaning of history as the working out of the divine purpose through practical service in a truly corporate society'.39 To Lindsay, and others of like mind, there was a strong similarity in the unsettled post-war condition of Britain caused by irreligiosity and the imperial convulsions of the Raj caused by Hinduism. For such Christian corporatists, the Hindu was incapable of appreciating that the world is 'the theatre of reality' and that the doctrine of incarnation commits mankind to struggle with this reality 'to realise the divine purpose of history'.40 This purpose comprised an imperial mandate. Christianity was the exclusive source of truth offering the only prospect of 'the idea of the state as an enclosing moral order'. While the Lindsay Commission sought to procure a moral basis to imperial control in India, Lionel Curtis, Fellow of All Souls, for his part sought in his magnum opus, the three-volume Civitas Dei, to erect the 'institutions and structures through which Britain was to tempt India to graduate into political maturity'. His institutional proposals for India were also based on the premise that history is interpreted in terms of Christ's incarnation. These forceful and certain views of Lindsay and Curtis were propagated and sustained in Britain and India by influential charismatic agents of socialisation from India, such as the Reverend W. E. S. Holland and Canon C. E. Tyndale-Biscoe.41 Studdert-Kennedy acknowledges that there was a 'spectrum of debate' on India in religious circles. Hinduism had its protagonists as well [12]

INTRODUCTION

as its antagonists. Ambivalence characterised responses to the Hindu religion: contempt for its 'immorality', respect for its spirituality. The strong-willed C. F. Andrews, for one, saw both vice and virtue in traditional Indian religion, finding much to respect in Gandhi's 'spiritual force' and considering that it offered the opportunity for a 'religious tradition revitalised by the spirit of Christianity'.42 Others such as Lord Irwin took up a more central position on the continuum of 'Christian imperial perspectives' and viewed Gandhi more ambivalently, recognising his influence on Indian society at all levels but harbouring uncertainties about the consequences for Christianity. At the far right of the continuum men such as Sir Henry Page Croft strongly endorsed the righteousness of the Christian purpose in India, echoing Kipling's Recessional with firm conviction. The debate between men of divine religious convictions, concludes Studdert-Kennedy, 'shaped and informed the reactions and expectations of many of those who were concerned with India',43 not merely simplifying judgements, obscuring complexities and dictating perceptions but also producing ideal images of the Indian informed and improved by Christian ideals, which some tried hard to realise. Expressing astonishment at the fact that so little analysis of textbooks had been undertaken in modern America, Michael Apple in Teachers and Texts considered this state of affairs wholly unsatisfactory, since it was the text-book, he argued, which often defined for schoolchildren the legitimate culture to be assimilated.44 Little attention has been paid to the role of school text-books in dominion and colony in the making of imperial mentalities.45 This too is a substantial oversight. The presentation to impressionable and undeveloped minds of carefully selected images of superiority, the constant and righteous repetition of cliches of imperial beneficence, the confident and unchallenged depictions of 'native' inadequacy certainly played a part in establishing lasting notions of superiority and inferiority in the minds of the young recipients. It both nourished the roots and watered the blooms of prejudice. Timothy Stanley offers one illustration of the process of text-book indoctrination into appropriate imperial attitudes. He describes British Columbia, 'a white man's province', in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the role of the state school in the creation of a supremacist ideology and hegemony, Within the schools, he argues, text-books were especially important in transmitting a nexus of ideas about patriotism, citizenship and character which gave supremacist notions a powerful legitimacy, and made them virtually impossible to challenge. Above all, text-books reinforced the concept of 'distance' between whites and non-whites; at the time educationists in British [13]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

Columbia considered this a proper and logical process born of the moral superiority of the former. The function of text-books for the white schoolchild, Stanley asserts, was to present the world-view of the dominant and to establish the legitimacy of imperialisation. Text-books deviating, even slightly, from this perspective were proscribed, while the use of prescribed school texts within British Columbia was mandatory and such texts were consistent, throughout the period, in their repetition of continuing imperial racist themes: first, the British Empire as a moral enterprise; secondly, an imperial ethic constructed around the notion of 'character'; thirdly, an emphasis on the moral deficiency of subject peoples; fourthly, the categorisation of superior and inferior into a 'hierarchy of "race"'.46 And the process of establishing psychological and moral supremacy through the written word was reinforced by state laws which enforced physical segregation of white and non-white schools. Imperialism was at the heart of this state of affairs, and imperialism and racism, argues Stanley, went hand in hand. Stanley covers merely one small section of the British imperial world and there is clearly much more work to be done on the text-books of imperialism and their role in peddling metaphors and similes of imperial confidence, in order to grasp the full extent of their influence in promoting stereotypical images, endorsing uncomplicated notions of imperial altruism and establishing and perpetrating lasting concepts of adequacy and inadequacy.47 The Maori no less than the Indian experienced the arrogant altruism of the Christian educationalist. Early Christian ambitions for the Maori in eighteenth-century New Zealand society, suggest John Barrington and T. H. Beaglehole, were as 'noble' as they were for the Indian on the sub-continent. The native New Zealanders were to be civilised. Schooling was to play a large part in this civilising process and, laudably and optimistically, by the late nineteenth century it was hoped to have established 'a pattern of race relations . . . which differed markedly from that in other areas of British settlement such as Southern Africa'.48 In short, the early Christian missionary aimed to create a community in which the Maori was shown the path to salvation. The Bible was central to this aspiration. Education and religion were one; one learned to read in order to read the Bible, and the Bible was the tool of instruction. Apart from religious proselytism, Westernisation involved initially only as much as was necessary to ensure self-supporting missions. So, for the most part, the Maoris learned to read and write in their own language, and the intention prior to formal British rule was a Maori people with its own culture in its own homeland in harmony with Christian values. Such pure idealism was not to last. The establishment of British rule resulted in a shift in educational principles and practices. Both became [14]

INTRODUCTION

more Europeanised and secular. By the late 1830s two sets of colonial ideologies prevailed – evangelical humanitarianism and colonial reformation. The civilising of the 'native' was to proceed with due respect for those aspects of indigenous culture which did not offend Western morality. Ambition remained decent if ethnocentric. Maoris were to be protected and colonialists were to be supported. These policies, sadly, were to prove 'far from mutually compatible'. From the late 1830s missionary education became more Europeanised in response to Maori rejection due apparently to disillusion with the prospects offered by Christianisation in the face of increasing numbers of colonists. With the appointment of George Grey as Governor in 1845 possessed of 'a faith in education so characteristic of early Victorian liberalism',49 rapid amalgamation became the goal and Western education was to be the means of its realisation. As a policy it failed wholly to take account of imperial self-centredness, the strength of the indigenous culture and the difficulties of adaptation. Nevertheless optimism prevailed: Maori and Pakeha (Europeans) were to enjoy one national system of schooling under Church control. So much again for idealism; the reality was something else: 'assimilation into an idealised English pattern'. Sustained efforts were made to rescue the natives from 'the degradation of being brought up a Maori', to raise them in 'the scale of civilisation' and to give them a 'taste for the diet, clothing, comforts and habits of Europeans'.50 Schools became 'moral garrisons' positioned at strategic points in a sustained cultural assault. The Maori response was subtle – the use of European ideas and skills to sustain Maori culture. Adaptation not assimilation was their objective. Conflict between native and settler in the 1860s brought an end to the missionary school system, and the Native School Act of 1867 saw the creation of a national system of unsegregated village schools and by the Education Act of 1877 a national system of state primary schools had been established. Their ambience was British – text-books, games and songs. Assimilation was still the official aim. Hopes for assimilation ran high not least because the Maori population, despite early altruistic intentions, had dropped from 200,000 in 1769 to 39,000 in 1896. The Maori response was mixed: some embraced European education and some resisted it. By 1900, whatever the nature of earlier idealism, the reality was an arrogant imposition of a 'superior' culture. Nevertheless while white assimilation stood for European legal, educational and cultural domination, it stood also, it should be added, for multi-racial schools, limited social integration and some racial intermarriage. After the First World War, in response to wider imperial policy official emphasis shifted from assimilation to adaptation and, as elsewhere in [15]

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the Empire, native indigenous values, cultures and traditions found favour. Assimilation was deemed to have failed, at least as measured by academic performance. Nevertheless, by the 1930s official policy had once more become assimilation, but limited assimilation. The 1940s reinforced its relevance and the irrelevance of adaptation as the urban migrant of the Maori increased steadily. In the 1960s and after, approaches to the Maori became more flexible, with the appearance of multiculturism and subsequently biculturism. In essence, New Zealand provides a case study of sustained cultural arrogance posing as cultural benevolence. In this, it followed general imperial practice, yet at the same time and to a degree it possessed its own idiosyncratic altruism. Only for brief periods, however, did the dominant section of society tolerate alternatives to assimilation, in the 1930s and in the 1980s. For most of New Zealand's modern history the dominant leitmotif has been a sustained attempt at Maori socialisation into not merely a European but a British set of values, attitudes and actions. It has not been a pronounced success. With regard to imperialism in general the weaknesses of such an assured ethnocentricity, it is suggested, have been threefold: the imperialist's perception of the process of cultural change as a unilinear and inevitable progress along a cultural continuum with poles labelled 'uncivilised' and 'civilised', the failure on the part of the colonialist to appreciate the adaptive social skills of the colonised – especially evident in the case of the New Zealand Maori – and his further inability to recognise the possibility of a subtle and complex indigenous response to cultural and social change that involves selection, acceptance and denial in varying degrees over time, depending on force of circumstances and strength of inclination. All of which points to the considerable complexity of the task of making imperial mentalities. Sustained cultural arrogance allied to religious intolerance wholly without benevolence are the characteristics of officialdom in Robert Berard's chapter. He provides a complex case study of the interplay of racism, religious bigotry, cultural imperialism and the local, ecclesiastic and international politics of education. His subject is the official systematic exclusion of Catholic education in Bermuda under British colonial rule, an illustration at one and the same time of 'a continuing spirit of intolerance' and a successful use of a set of official colonial instruments and mechanisms of control to maintain a system of enculturation into inferiority. It is a story of challenge and denial by Catholic and Protestant respectively. The Catholic school question in Bermuda, at one time or another over a period of some fifty years in the twentieth century, set white against non-white, Catholic against non-Catholic, local cleric against imported cleric, and exposed 'the repressive charac[16]

INTRODUCTION

ter of Bermuda's local ruling oligarchy'. From 1815 to 1953 Bermuda was part of the Archdiocese of Halifax, Nova Scotia. Throughout the nineteenth century the Catholic population in Bermuda was too small to cause any offence to the ruling Protestant elite. However in the twentieth century it grew steadily; by the 1930s it constituted about 10 per cent of the total population and 'began to assume its rightful place as an important part of colonial life'.51 It was composed mostly of coloured West Indian, Bermudans, Portuguese agricultural labourers and poor whites denied political representation 'by a franchise based on the substantial ownership of real property',52 who were discriminated against in housing, education and employment and almost wholly segregated. Against this background attempts were made by the Catholic hierarchy to establish Catholic schools to cater for the expanded Catholic population. In 1926, however, a School Act had been passed by the colonial authorities which forbade the opening of schools without the consent of the Colony's Board of Education. Early Catholic plans for a school system were opposed by the Board whose members, according to Berard, were motivated by racism, anti-Catholicism and fear of the consequences of an increasingly educated subject population. Despite repeated efforts and appeals the Board firmly opposed the creation of sectarian schooling throughout the 1930s. The Second World War brought about a momentary suspension of agitation for reform. Then after the war Catholic pressure was again exerted on the authorities and again met firm official opposition to the creation of private Catholic schools. The struggle to win official consent continued into the 1950s. It was unsuccessful and remained so throughout the remaining period of colonial rule. The reasons, suggest Berard, lay not in the public official arguments of the authorities – concern over creating a divided community through encouraging denominational schooling, a reluctance to encourage small, ineffectual private schools and an unwillingness to weaken the public system of schooling by diverting resources – but in the racial and religious intolerance successfully buttressed by formal mechanisms of control which permeated Bermudan society. The arguments of officialdom, claims Berard, were specious: the colony's elite were already educated in private schools, segregation by race and religion was already a commonplace and the public system of education was neglected. Behind rejection of Catholic demands lay a mistrust of the Catholic Church in its wider allegiance beyond the island, antagonism towards coloureds and Portuguese and a desire to maintain the racial and social status quo. The issue was one of control. The colony possessed a siege mentality which dictated 'that public institutions in such sensitive areas as education, should, as far as possible, be controlled [17]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

by the government, which remained firmly in the hands of the elite'. In British imperial society, and in the world of its post-imperial successors, formal examinations constituted one of the most effective means of both enculturation and acculturation, and the history of socialisation through such instruments of hegemonic control deserves close scrutiny. At the same time, of course, the sensible words of Musgrove should not be ignored: It is not educational certificates but testimonials and referees' reports which get you into Boodle's and Brookes's, the Foreign Service, a merchant bank or the Household Cavalry. And testimonials tell the other story, of one's showing in the extra curriculum: which is bloody, not-literate, concrete, pragmatic, corporate and even convivial, bloody and applied.53

This state of affairs applied as readily in Empire as in Britain. As a mechanism of cultural transmission, diffusion and assimilation within the British Empire between 1857 and 1957, the University of Cambridge Local Examination Syndicate (UCLES) was a far from negligible force. As A. J. Stockwell points out, its leaving certificates became 'the passport to local employment in government, commerce and the professions';54 a state of affairs that actually increased in significance as decolonisation approached. The Syndicate is an important though seldom considered element of cultural imperialism. In the colonial period it became 'the most prominent body awarding school certificates in the colonies'55 and in the post-imperial period it became engaged in partnerships, consultancies and training services throughout the Commonwealth. During its imperial existence it had the active support of the colonial administration. It leaned on colonial departments of education throughout the Empire extensively seeking their advice and assistance. They were an essential element in the Syndicate's success. Colonial governments for their part thought highly of the Cambridge Local Examinations and these became the qualifications which determined local access to careers in both commerce and the civil service. Officialdom, in short, was the Syndicate's prop, partner and client. Apart from problems associated mostly with nature, 'the tyranny of distance and the turbulent frontier',56 between 1857 and 1957 the Syndicate faced major problems of adjustment to evolving colonial policy and to the demands of competitors. Adaptation to local cultures in the 1930s, an official fashion of the time, had to be achieved, for example with 'an objective, consistent and constant method of assessment', a problem not unknown in more parochial circumstances in Britain in the 1980s. Increasingly subscription to local involvement, and relevance too, demanded syllabus change and the appointment of local examiners. The 1930s also brought, as Stockwell recounts, a period of [18]

INTRODUCTION

internecine conflict between four major British examining boards over 'the partition of the examinable English-education world'57: the Syndicate, the Oxford Delegacy, the Oxford and Cambridge Board and the London University Examinations Council. This scramble for the assessment of Empire was resolved eventually by adherence to the principle of 'one Dependency, one examining board'. The period 1940 to 1957 brought two major changes which affected greatly the work of the Syndicate: the laying of the groundwork for the establishment of post-war university colleges, vital for (among other things) the establishment of local examination boards, and the Education Act of 1944, with its tripartite structural reform of education which provided models for overseas imitation. Increasingly in the post-war period the stress was on examinations best suited to local needs. Decolonisation witnessed not a reduction but an increase in the Syndicate's work. In 1983, states Stockwell, '6,000,000 copies of 1,200 question papers were despatched to examination centres in more than 100 countries'. In the long and complex process of socialisation into Western values, skills and perceptions, the UCLES must take its place as an extraordinary successful and still welcomed instrument of cultural imperialism and it has not been without wider political consequence. Hegemony is certainly the power to shape consciousness and, within education is the power to define what is valued knowledge.58 One significant consequence, of course, has been that in many post-imperial nations present elites remain to some extent, often to a large extent, the products of British educational values, systems and processes. If it is true that the social universe of the Third World today resembles the former colonial world to the extent that an educated and privileged minority' as different from the masses as the earlier Europeans' dictates to those masses the lifestyle they must follow,59 then the Syndicate, however indirectly, has helped bring this situation about. In passing, perhaps a more general point might be made: if it is also true that colonialism is far from dead in the former British Empire, if by colonialism is meant this domination of the masses by these elites 'affected by the same prejudices and biases as their schoolmaster', who welcome scrutiny of their colonial predecessors but resent inspection of themselves, then (as Beidelman suggests) in part they may be understood indirectly by retrospective analysis.60 In short, consideration of the defunct institutions of imperialism may offer insights into post-imperial societies. The contributions to this volume point up clearly the certainties, contradictions, complexities, dilemmas and paradoxes of the processes and practices of socialisation associated with British imperialism. They [19]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

reveal inter alia both the intentional and unintentional consequences of calculated action, the strenuous efforts continually to adjust to new realities by both coloniser and colonised, resistance and capitulation by indigenous cultures in the face of a righteous and forceful imperialism, crises of identity created in the culturally dispossessed by imperial confidence, the sensitive and insensitive altruism underpinning the actions of the dominant, the capacity and incapacity of the dominated to adjust to new cultural demands, and finally the range of motives which characterised the imperial agents and agencies of socialisation. The reflections in this volume on British imperialism and its attempts to influence the minds and emotions of its captive audience, however, not only illustrate the complexity of both effort and response but reveal how much remains to be done before the full process and its consequences for the imperial and post-imperial world are documented and analysed. We are only at the beginning of a long and important analytical journey. Mentalities created by yesterday's certainties survive more frequently than some would like to believe. These mentalities still extensively influence those of today. The effort to collate and interpret such mentalities created in the past may well constitute in the present and the future, therefore, a moral prophylactic.

Notes 1 Audrey I. Richard, 'Socialization and contemporary British anthropology', in Phillip Mayer (ed.), Socialization: The Approach from Social Anthropology, London, Tavistock Publications, 1970, pp. 8–9. 2 Ibid. 3 For an interesting discussion of these respective terms, see Kieran Egan, 'Education and socializing', in Teachers' College Record, Vol. 85, No. 1, Fall 1983, pp. 27–42. 4 Of course, cultural transmission is not to be interpreted narrowly as occurring exclusively within a culture (see Brownfoot's chapter below, p. 46). It occurs across cultures. Formal education in an imperial setting was substantially concerned more often that not with the latter process. 5 J. A. Mangan (ed.), 'BenefitsBestowed'?Education and British Imperialism,Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1988. 6 Ibid., p. 5. 7 Barrie Stacey, Political Socialization in Western Society, London, Edward Arnold, 1978, p. 3. 8 Ibid., p. 3. 9 See D. Parkin (ed.), Semantic Anthropology, London, Academic Press, 1972, p. XVI, quoted in Helen Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire: European Women in Colonial Nigeria, London, Macmillan, 1987. 10 Joan I. Roberts, Introduction to Part 1, 'Cultural patternings of education', in Joan I. Roberts and Sherrie K. Akinsanya, Schooling in the Cultural Context: Anthropological Studies in Education, New York, D. McKay, 1976, p. 1. 11 T. O. Beidelman, Colonial Evangelism: A Socio-Historical Study of an East African Mission at the Grassroots, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1982, p. 2. 12 Ibid., p. 29.

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INTRODUCTION 13 Phillip Mason, Patterns of Dominance, London, Oxford University Press, 1970, p. 326. 14 Of course, it is as frequently asserted that what is learned and internalised in infancy and early childhood tends to be most resistant to change in contact situations'. This is the so-called 'early-learning hypothesis'. See Edward M. Bruner, Cultural transmission and cultural change', Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, Vol. 12, 1956, pp. 191–9. 15 Beidelman, Colonial Evangelism, p. 7. 16 Ibid., pp. 3–4. 17 Rene Maunier, The Sociology of Colonies: An Introduction to the Study of Race Contact (ed. and trans. E.O. Lorimer), Vol. 2, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1949, p. 425. 18 See Thomas K. Fitzgerald, 'Education and identity: a reconsideration of some models of acculturation and identity', New Zealand Journal of Educational Studies, Vol. 7, No. 1, p. 49. 19 Maunier, The Sociology of Colonies, pp. 425 ff. 20 Egan, 'Education and socializing', p. 29. 21 See Stacey, Political Socialization, p. 2. 22 Beidelman , Colonial Evangelism, p. 5. 23 Below, p. 24. 24 Below, p. 35. 25 Below, p. 46. 26 Beidelman, Colonial Evangelism, p. 212. 27 Robin W. Winks, series foreword to Caroline Oliver, Western Women in Colonial Africa, Westport, Conn., Greenwood Press, 1982, p. viii, in the series Contributions in Comparative Colonial Studies. 28 A claim made forcefully by Mona Etienne and Eleanor Leacock (eds.), Women and Colonization: Anthropological Perspectives, Bergin, Praeger, 1980, Introduction, p. 17. 29 Below, p. 48. 30 Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire, p. 235. 31 Below, p. 48. 32 For a discussion of this failure within the narrower context of Nigeria, see Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire, p. 232. 33 For an excellent discussion of this issue, see in particular Kathleen E. McCrone, Sport and the Physical Emancipation of English Women, 1870–1914,London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1988; also J. A. Mangan and Roberta J. Park, From Fair Sex to Feminism: Sport and the Socialization of Women in the Industrial and Post-Industrial Eras, London, Cass, 1987. 34 Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire, p. 227. 35 Below, p. 84. 36 Below, p. 92. 37 Below, p. 101. 38 Below, p. 107. 39 Below, p. 131. 40 Below, p. 132. 41 For a recent consideration of the work of C. E. Tyndale-Biscoe, see J. A. Mangan, The Games Ethic and Imperialism, London, Penguin/Viking, 1987, Ch. 7. 42 Below, p. 137. 43 Below, p. 141. 44 Michael W. Apple, Teachers and Texts: A Political Economy of Class and Gender, Relations in Education, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986, pp. 12 and 81. 45 The editor of this volume is at present collating a set of essays on the topic - to be published in due course in a volume entitled 'A Diet of Racist Mythology'? Textbook, Curriculum and Imperialism. 46 Below, Ch. 7. 47 See note 45. 48 Below, p. 163.

[21]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Below, p. 167. Below, p. 171. Below, p. 184. Below, p. 186. Frank Musgrove, 'Curriculum, culture and ideology', Curriculum Studies, Vol. 10, No. 2, 1978, p. 103. Below, p. 203. Below, p. 204. Below, p. 207. Below, p. 214. Musgrove, 'Curriculum, culture and ideology', p. 102. Beidelman, Colonial Evangelism, pp. 212, ff. Beidelman, Colonial Evangelism, pp. 3 and 214.

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CHAPTER ONE

Slavery, social death and imperialism: the formation of a Christian black élite in the West Indies, 1800–1845 Patricia Rooke

Slavery constitutes an original imperialism whose roots grew, twisted and warped, long before the pious and patriotic clamouring heard at Exeter Hall, before the map was painted red, and before the jingoism, anthems and flag-waving that accompanied the late Victorian age. If imperialism is, as A. P. Thornton states, 'the image of dominance, of power asserted' – an attitude towards the world founded on a moral relationship of power and powerlessness – slavery is the archetype for all subsequent forms of imperialism.1 Slavery, the ultimate colonisation of individuals, is the most potent means by which the powerless are kept subordinate. Christianity presented imperialism's most humane face to British West Indian slaves and emancipees.2 At one level its symbolic power enriched the psychic lives of slaves, while at another level it seemingly offered a legitimate entry into the dominant white culture: first by assimilating a large social structure, Christianity itself, and second by broadening that world to include imperialist sentiments. Unexpectedly, the world of the master seemed accessible, a possibility that caused a serious disjuncture in the ordering of West Indian slave society. This chapter examines three aspects of Protestant evangelisation and missionary education in the Caribbean slave colonies and during the first years of freedom.3 The first part analyses the significance of Christianity as synonymous with 'civilisation', that is, as a support system intrinsic to British imperialism. The second draws out the relationship of Christianisation to 'slavery as social death', elaborated in Orlando Patterson's comparative study of that name. The third part concludes with a discussion of the ambiguities involved in slaves and former slaves transferring their allegiances and orienting themselves to a social group and moral order other than their own – a moral order which demanded conformity as the price of admission but provided [23]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

little real opportunity to realise these aspirations.

Christianising slaves, 1800–1834 As a cultural and emotional currency which is readily appropriated and manipulated, religion has always accompanied imperialistic expansion. It often resulted in a successful transplantation of values, because it is seen as the epitome of the moral culture of a given society. Normally it adapts in part to the 'inferior' culture even as it modifies and intrudes upon it. Islam and hellenism have been no less thorough in this respect than Christianity. However, the norms, precepts and axioms of Christianity are peculiarly suited to imperial ideology in that it is a religion comprised of dichotomous notions of superiority and inferiority, for example, the elect/heathen, redeemed/damned, saints/sinners, and so on, and all of this premised on a command to go forth and preach the gospel to all nations. In this sense, and perhaps in this sense alone, it is a paternalistic belief system that has justified its role in the subjugation of other peoples 'for their own good'. Moreover non-Christians in the European colonies found the distinctions between religious and secular attitudes blurred, as indeed did Europeans themselves. Nevertheless, if imperialists, as the trustees of civilisation – a future controlled by themselves and their own kind – insisted on their sense of mission, then missionaries became accomplices merely by perpetuating the idea of Christianisation as synonymous with that of civilisation. This is evident in that a 'superior attitude towards the alien culture was an intrinsic part of the missionary's equipment; he could hardly have claimed a vocation had he not possessed this'. 4 However, it will be seen that for slaves Christianity was a matter more of seduction than of subjugation, more of volition than of indoctrination. Herein lay the secret of the successful transplantation of imperial values. The conversion of the West Indies by Protestant missionaries in the nineteenth century was premised on the firm conviction that Christianisation and civilisation were synonymous and that religious instruction could not fail to improve the civil and social life of the colonies. The General Objectives of the Church Missionary Society (CMS) as early as 1812 stated that Christianity infused a 'mild and equitable spirit' into 'legislation and government' and that 'rulers [became] the fathers of their people' while 'subjects cheerfully yield[ed] obedience'.5 All evangelical missionaries agreed that Christianity could not be taught 'without imparting the grand regulations of social life' and that it 'effectually, though incidentally, produces civilisation by reducing [24]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

the heart to the operation of benevolent and holy principles'.6 For example, the Reverend John Hampden in 1824 put forward the view that if slaves were released from their bondage without knowing first the restraints of religion they would become more 'licentious' and 'intractable' than savages, while John Wray of the London Missionary Society (LMS) in Demerara argued that only a religious education would prepare the negroes for freedom and that this in turn would 'encourage industry'.7 In short, religious instruction exercised an 'irresistible influence' on those who appeared to be 'incapable of culture' by bringing with it incalculable blessings of civilisation, morality and piety.8 Missionaries, immediately before and after emancipation, reiterated in various forms the sentiments of a Methodist on circuit in Tortola: 'Yes, Christianity is THE means of civilisation. The man who is taught his duty to God is being made acquainted with the duties which he owes to himself ... and to his neighbour.'9 However, what was obvious to missionaries and their British patrons during slavery was far less so to colonists and planters. Initially, they did not appreciate the usefulness of Christianisation as a tool for controlling slaves in its inculcation of virtues such as sobriety, industry, loyalty, obedience and submission. Indeed this was beyond their presumptive mentality given that slavery, as a system, guaranteed absolute power and the tantalising possibilities of manumission (freedom for oneself or another legally bought, given or bequeathed) no matter how remote, proved a more potent tool for social control than baptism. Moreover West Indian colonists – planters, managers, attorneys, overseers and clergymen alike – saw the processes, or morphology of 'seasoning' into slavery, as a perfectly adequate form of socialising slaves into their condition. Under these circumstances nothing could be further from their minds than the idea of 'civilising' bondsmen. There was no surer way of creating 'upstarts', and as West Indian colonial society clearly differentiated between whites and free coloureds, there was no reason to believe that slaves would be encouraged to enjoy any of the cultural advantages of civilisation usually denied otherwise free persons. Tyranny was necessary though not always sufficient in maintaining a slave economy. John Smith, a missionary who later died in a Demerara prison after the 1823 insurrection, concluded: Generally speaking the colonists do not publicly declare themselves enemies of religion (though some of them do not scruple at that) but, say they, The colony is in danger – to teach slaves is an impolitic measure. The missionaries will, if not checked, prove subversive to good order and due subordination. The slaves will be made too wise.'10

At the same time as the planters came to concede the value of Christianising slaves (that is, when emancipation was perceived as [25]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

inevitable) the clergymen of the Established Church – always favoured by the planters – became more involved in instruction and conversion. Previously they had been conspicuously uninterested in evangelisation until the mandate of the 1824 Melioration Act specifically provided for the practice. They were often content with catechising and, with few exceptions, left the field wide open to their more zealous evangelical brethren from other denominations. In Trinidad one Methodist remarked in 1818 that not a single congregation of slaves could be found on the island; while this was exceptional, a missionary from St Vincent's nevertheless observed that nothing was 'more foreign to his mind' than the likelihood of 'a clergyman propagating the Gospel to a negro congregation'. Yet another in Berbice observed only that planters preferred to meet clergymen in the billiard room rather than in the estate chapel.11 While planters and clergy of the Established Church generally agreed that Christianity was appropriate only for whites and free people, other missionaries responded rather more generously to the evangelical imperatives of their religion. In 1821 a Wesley an in St John's, Antigua, proposed an auxiliary missionary society in support of the Methodist Society in London, while boasting that 'the map of the habitable globe' was spotted by Methodist missions alone. It seems that Daniel Garling saw no more irony than any of his evangelical brethren in the fact that Christian slaves would contribute to the conversion of 'the uncultivated Hottentot, the savage New Zealander, and the abandoned convict', and for that matter 'the native Irish'.12 Christianity provided a compelling logic for slaves to be good servants just as it provided the foundation for their becoming good citizens and British subjects within a colonial framework.13 Because proprietors, absentee planters, colonists and free coloureds and even manumitted slaves (who frequently held and hired slaves themselves) had actively opposed emancipation, the slave population readily identified with Britain's role in freeing them and providing some of the benefits of civilisation such as schooling. A missionary from Tobago reported that when apprenticeship ended in 1838 slaves attending his mission chapel cried, 'God bless de Missus [Queen Victoria]' and 'if we know where the Buckra [European masters] woman live we make he eat fowl eggs till he weary'.14 That is, the emancipated slaves would give their former owner and royal mistress a grand feast to demonstrate their gratitude. All proclamations at the conclusion of slavery and apprenticeship capitalised on this sentiment by requesting good conduct and industrious habits from former slaves as evidence of such gratitude for Britain's 'gift' of emancipation. [26]

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Missionaries as mediators, 1800–1838 Initially in slave societies 'the master was the only mediator' between the viable community to which he belonged and the socially marginal milieu of the slave.15 However, a startling disjuncture occurs in West Indian slave society with the introduction of evangelical missionaries into this environment. While marginal to the dominant society, missionaries, outside its collective interests and norms, were concrete representations of the colonial and imperial belief system at its most profound and symbolic level. Thus the master no longer had the monopoly over his slave's sensibility and identity as the 'only mediator' in the society. The dynamics of the master–slave relationship changed subtly. And not only did the dynamics between slaveowner and bondsmen alter but the new situation filtered down and affected relationships between slaves and non-slaves, free coloureds and the manumitted. Therefore we observe two striking ambiguities. First, the presence of missionaries neutralised the absolute power of slaveholders as sole mediators per se; and second, they interfered with the 'natural' order of slave society by asserting the spiritual equality of slaves (which is in no way to be confused with political or economic equality) with masters and freedmen, with slaveowners and non-slaveowners, with whites and coloureds. Not surprisingly, a threatened dominant social class persecuted and ostracised the missionaries, who were frequently ridiculed and resented by the free coloureds and manumitted slaves for eroding their hard-won and precarious social identification with the planter class.16 As coloureds and former slaves, who were also marginal to the dominant white culture, sought solidarity and identity with slaveholders, 'vis à vis the dishonoured slave',17 it is not difficult to imagine the reaction to criticisms such as John Wray's that slaves 'could be flogged by an ignorant illiterate manager hardly raised a degree above the slaves in intellectual improvement and perhaps can only be distinguished by their colour'.18 Neither was it uncommon for slaves themselves to adopt the presumptions of colour and superiority based on Creole or African parentage and sexual connection with whites or free coloureds. A journal entry in 1829 written by a Wesley an in St Kitts notes this exercise of prejudice and contempt. A creole slave invariably thinks himself superior to those born in Africa and it is not uncommon to hear them in disputes with another say 'You! Who You! You African Neger' accompanied with all the proud and disdainful gestures for which they are so celebrated in showing to each other.

He continues: 'There can be little doubt but the present race is far superior to those who have preceded them. Their association with [27]

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Europeans in some way or other whom they rigidly copy after from their infancy is insufficient of itself to account for this.'19 Creole and coloured slaves were presumed superior to Africans, domestic slaves superior to predials (field hands), skilled and hired-out slaves superior to domestics, free coloureds superior to manumitted blacks, and so on. During the three decades preceding emancipation, from 1800 to 1834, there can be observed a rhythm of political and social tension which was manifested in intermittent slave revolts, an increased oppression of slaves, and suppression of missionary activity. Missionaries were uniformly blamed for contributing to revolt and unrest among slaves. In between these eruptions there existed only an ominous lull before the storm. Such hostilities were exacerbated immediately preceding and following important political shifts which were the forerunners to emancipation: abolition in 1809, various imperial slave registration acts in between, the Melioration Act of 1824, emancipation in 1833 and the end of the apprenticeship period in 1838.20 The missionaries came to dread and anticipate persecutions. For example, after ten years in 'this fiery furnace' John Wray wearily contended that 'Whenever the British Parliament adopts any measures in favour of the slaves the wrath of the West Indies is poured upon the missionaries.' Those words were written in 1823 during the debates on the Melioration Act, and he was to endure a further fifteen years of 'contentions and persecutions', before his death in Berbice.21 Missionaries and Christian slaves became the major scapegoats for persecutions: missionaries because they not only converted slaves and socialised with them but dared to teach literacy in their schoolrooms and chapels; Christianised slaves because they dared imagine that they were spiritual equals to the most powerful slaveowners and the meanest ranks of free citizens. As John Davies of British Guiana wrote to the London Missionary Society directors in 1820, 'You have no idea of the ever living fear of West Indians. The slightest thing that can possibly be constructed into any tendency of rousing the negroes throws them into undescribable consternation. Nor is this to be wondered at – their lives and fortunes are at stake.'22 His colleague John Wray, who had been among the first of the LMS missionaries in British Guiana and whose family remained for over thirty years, observed: He who chooses to be served by slaves or by illtreated slaves must know that he holds both his property and his life [in their h a n d s ] . . . he who would listen to the music of groaning sufferers must not in the moment of insurrection complain that his daughters are ravished and his sons' throats are cut. When such evils happen they surely are more impitiable [sic] to the tyranny of the master than the cruelty of the servant.23

[28]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

Some years previously a Demerara colonist had said much the same in the Royal Gazette: It is dangerous to make slaves Christians without giving them their liberty...What will be the consequences when that class of men is given the title of beloved brethren as is actually done? Will not the negro conceive that by baptism, being made a Christian, he is as creditable as his Christian white brethren?24

Christianity, as a relatively attractive form of cultural chauvinism, proved to be both seductive and functional, and as mediators of the imperial presence and its most oppressive form – slavery – missionaries provided one of the few means of incorporating marginal and alienated members of society into the mainstream. While unlettered slaves might not have fully appreciated the economics of mercantilism or the imperial/colonial repercussions of unprofitable sugar and coffee production they did apprehend the transcendental and concrete significances of Christianity in relation to their own individual and collective experience. First, it was Christianity that surprised them at the profoundest subliminal and emotional level. While African religion – obeah and myalism25 – continued to attract some slaves, many others found themselves divided and conquered religiously as well as ethnically, and sought symbolic substitutes for their spiritual alienation. It is mistaken to suppose that Christianity routed a uniform African religious culture,that had been done during the trans-Atlantic slave trade, if such uniformity could be claimed at all. It was Christianity which transfigured that universal longing for manumission in its use of metaphors and images of redemption, of being spiritually bought and liberated through the symbolic rituals of conversion and baptism. Second, Christian missionaries were the sole teachers of literacy and numeracy, often in defiance of colonial custom and laws. Most taught these clandestinely. At the same time missionary education opened up opportunities for leadership roles. Religion provided the avenue to social mobility as well as to personal satisfaction, offering the slaves roles as local exhorters, preachers, catechists, class leaders and teachers. Sometimes these opportunities went against specific laws which prohibited any but licensed preachers to exercise any ministry, as happened at Morant Bay where John Wiggins in 1817 wrote that Jamaica's new law effectively forbade preaching from class leaders and exhorters who were uniformly coloured or enslaved, therefore 'we are thrown completely within the grasp of prejudice'.26 To prevent Christianisation and formal education local authorities made it difficult for evangelicals to obtain licences to preach. [29]

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Third, missionaries spoke of equality and appeared to practise some measure of it. In British Guiana, James Howe observed that Christian confidence in the 'educability' of slaves was a deathblow to the belief that negroes were the connecting link between the irrational and rational creation of God. Negroes were 'human beings capable of being governed by reason and ready and willing to labour without being compelled like the horse or the mule at the constant fear of the whip'.27 To our ears this sounds tautological; in nineteenth-century West Indian society it was radical. Fourth, the rhetoric of abolition and emancipation from the turn of the century until 1833 did not escape the average slave's notice. Slaves knew from those who were able to read newspapers, from overheard conversations in the big houses if they were domestics or concubines, or in the towns if they were hired out, and from the pulpits of evangelical missionaries, that the British abolition party consisted largely of philanthropists who were also well-placed Christians. A missionary from St Vincent's comments in 1836 that the negroes retained a considerable dislike for the West Indian whites, being aware that they were in no degree indebted to them for their emancipation, whereas Queen Adelaide and King William were perceived as being responsible and were the subject of popular songs.28 Imperial intervention in colonial slavery was expressed in the language of a moral indignation and humanitarianism which resounded with Christian sentiment and became a Christian 'cause'. None were more sincere and vociferous than members of the Clapham Sect.29 Although it was not the sole reason for emancipation noisy humanitarian rhetoric remained more persuasive than dry economic argument as to why slavery should cease altogether. It seems then that Christianity provided psychological release, social opportunity and the promise of political freedom. Ideologically Christianity mediated the psycho-spiritual realities of bondsmen while concretely it provided functional literacy and leadership training for a small élite among the slave population who could avail themselves of missionary education. The popularity of missionary mediation is best understood in the context of the slave's socio-psychological deprivation, and nowhere has this been more ably stated than in Slavery and Social Death (1982).30 Patterson argues that slavery is based more on power than on notions of property, in that the slave is rendered powerless by the perpetuity and almost absolute character of his 'not belonging' to a community which exercises tyranny over his person. Slavery is 'the permanent, violent diminution of naturally alienated and generally dishonoured persons'.31 Only slaves involuntarily enter into such a power relationship as a substitute for death, while the rites of passage to his servitude ensure [30]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

total alienation from his natal ties. The slave, if you will, lives a 'commuted' death. Thus what is a philosophical absurdity for existentialists becomes a pragmatic, physical and psychological reality for slaves, whether born or bought into their condition. However, social death as a phenomenon represents a 'liminal incorporation', that is, an institutionalised marginality, because the socially dead person remains in an ambiguous situation. As the crucial element of society he is both central and marginal at the same time. Deprived of natality, honour and power, it is through the master alone that the slave exists in a relationship that is at once intimate, vicarious and degraded. Likewise, if he has an identity only in relation to his master, his master's own identity is dependent and parasitic on him.32 The slave's loss of social self is reinforced by the heartbreak and helplessness of family separation, the auction block and naming practices intended to demean them, such as Strumpet, Virgin, Cato, Liverpool, Coffee, Caesar and Napoleon. The element that makes an unbearable condition functional is the possibility, no matter how remote, of freedom – manumission given, bought or gained. It is the ubiquitous longing for manumission that offers hope, and its absence that offers despair. Indeed manumission for those in perpetual servitude sometimes meant physical death itself. One missionary reported suicides on the estates as well as self-induced abortions so that children would not be born into slavery. Other slaves told of those who had jumped overboard during the trans-Atlantic crossing rather than remain enslaved, while still others admitted to a dreadful yearning for death with heaven a place in which they were free, or a return to the land from which they had been so violently wrested. Therefore the dialectic between master and bondsman is the same as that which exists between a slavery and freedom. As Patterson observes, slavery was a 'self-correcting system' with manumission the keyword. Perhaps this is best summed up in a well-known axiom, 'Give him a bad master and he aspires to a good master; give him a good master and he wishes to become his own master.'33 In comprehending the desire for manumission and freedom the theological implications of Christianity as a religion of salvation become clearer. Nor can the role played by symbol appropriation through 'ceremony and ritual in the confirmation of status' (conversion, baptism and admission to the Lord's table) be underestimated. 34 A nobody becomes somebody, an outsider an insider. Conversion was a revolt against invisibility and marginality; the Christian slave was in revolt against his fate, engaged in an adventure into a new symbolic system, enveloped in images and metaphors which bore the imprimatur of imperialistic discourse. The multi-layered composites of the slave's [31]

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experience, usually hidden and complex, were tapped at their deepest source of universal longing for social identity and personal meaning. Not surprisingly then, conversions, baptisms and love-feasts were highly charged emotional affairs, fraught with an ecstasy and tension proportionate to the violence done to a slave's person and integrity, whether he had been uprooted from African culture or socially negated by his experiences as a Creole. Patterson notes that at the levels of preaching and conversion those who embraced Christianity (often at personal and communal cost) created an institutional base 'that provided release and relief from the agonies of thralldom, and even offered some room for a sense of dignity before God and before each other'.35 The risks involved in becoming a Christian – actual physical risk if forbidden the chapel or the classroom by owners or managers, and psychological risk with respect to relations with one's peers – might be interpreted as a form of social protest, an assertion of dignity, a negation of ultimate objectification. Nevertheless it must not be overlooked that, even as Christianity satisfied personal needs and enhanced self-esteem it accommodated slaves to a culturally chauvinistic moral order. In the case of West Indian slavery Patterson overlooks a crucial variable – not only were preaching and conversion part of the processes of christianisation, so also was formal education. Teaching slaves to read may have occurred in slave societies but it was intermittent and irregular, being neither formalised nor legitimised (for example, a mistress with her favoured domestics or a female relative with several 'pickaninnies'). Missionary education operated under the sanction of the British authorities, if not colonial legislatures, although even then a few Houses of Assembly gave small grants. Reading material and instructional aids used in British charity schools were commonplace, as was infant-school apparatus and the monitorial methods of Bell and Lancaster. Where schoolhouses were not available chapels were converted into classrooms during school hours. Evening and sabbath schools provided instruction to field hands and artisans and day schools for the young and elderly. There was nothing haphazard about teaching a score and more slaves simultaneously, and missionary wives and daughters frequently obtained infant teacher training before leaving for the sugar colonies. Patterson may also be mistaken in arguing that black theology responded best to 'the silence of [slaves'] own souls, among themselves, and with their own preachers'.36 It may be disappointing to some, or even cause others cynically to dismiss converts as cultural quislings and/or imperial dupes, but the evidence suggests that many West Indian slaves identified with white missionary preachers despite the realisation of some that 'Buckra's god [in this case Buckra is Christ, [32]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

or Master] is white man's god', or, as a seventy-year-old Muslim slave remarked, 'No negro god but Buckra's [European master's] god.'37 The missionary records are replete with examples of those slaves who were seduced by Christianity's practical manifestations as well as by its message. Deprived of cultural terms of reference, it can be assumed that by being incorporated into the official religious framework of white society a major psychological transformation took place. Bought by a new master [Christ], the slave was redeemed by that same master in a psychologically powerful compensation for the loss of social self. The introduction into another mythic system whose authorship was European was not the imposition of a foreign ideology on to historical victims. Instead converts transformed their experiences. Conversion became the language of individual protest against a cultural racial hegemony that had hitherto excluded them. They participated in creating their own histories out of a borrowed millennialism. The loss of social self was the more intense in the case of the plantation slave whose owner was an absentee landlord, with whom he thus had no personal relationship. His anonymity and depersonalisation were all the greater if he lived on an estate that had several hundred field hands or if he was a Crown slave in the colonies of Berbice, where many hundreds worked the Crown lands. And his brutalisation was the greater if his dignity and life were in the hands of a careless and callous manager. In contrast with the American South, paternalism and concern for the slave even if only as property were missing in the overall West Indian situation, especially on the sugar plantations. At the risk of quantifying degrees of slavery, that of the British West Indies must stand as among the most brutal and indifferent in modern times.38 No longer reconciled to the status to which they were ordinarily assigned, the more ambitious and able of converts aspired to higher status as leaders of other Christian slaves and initiates. Their formal training into competency – through discussion, class organisation, catechising, methodistical disputation, reading, preaching, leading in prayer – carried over into secular activities with these same slaves gaining the respect of their respective slave communities. By possessing white man's skills and language they took upon themselves some of the mystique of the dominant culture. The reference group of this aspiring élite – missionaries – while members of the dominant culture, were peripheral to the specific colonial power group. Nevertheless they were able to exact conformity in behaviour, not through promises of manumission (although sympathetic to this), but through indirect assurances of increased status. Such possibilities for mobility, the learning of new attitudes and the practising of new skills have been described as 'anticipatory socialisation' by [33]

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social psychologists and scholars of reference-group theory and represent a crucial phase between present condition and prospective circumstances. The morphology of conversion, like that of seasoning, became a form of initiation into the broader culture, and while formal learning experiences increased expectations for a mobility that was not possible in the slave economy, various forms of mobility and status existed within the Churches. What is more, with intimations of emancipation, the future looked promising for his emerging élite. Herbert H. Hyman, in T h e psychology of status', expresses this succinctly: An individual chooses a normative reference group so that in fantasy, or ultimately in fact, he can feel himself part of a more favoured group. On facing rapid change the individual latches onto a reference group. Thus anchored, he has a ready-made perspective to order the distressing complexities of the environment. For social comparison he chooses a group so as to enhance his selfregard and protect his ego.39

This statement seems tailor-made for the situation during those last decades of slavery and the period of transition from slavery to freedom. Christianity provided the shorthand with which the slave could decipher the uncertainty of the times, the shifting social conditions and their anomalous status. It would be mistaken to dismiss missionaries solely as proselytisers, for their mediation was more interventionist, tangible and positive. Indeed they were criticised because of their 'dreadful familiarity with slaves' and because conversion 'filled them [slaves] with pride'.40 They visited sick huts and consoled the dying and bereaved. They encouraged desegregated congregations and were persecuted for it. They wrote surprisingly frank letters whose critical contents were extracted in British missionary publications and came to the notice of the colonists. Missionaries mediated with governors and colonial assemblies in order to obtain permission to instruct slaves just as during the apprenticeship period they protested against the abuses of a system which, without exception, they deplored and which had taken the place of unconditional freedom in 1834. Baptists in particular assisted in setting up 'free villages' for the emancipated slaves in Jamaica during this period.41 Missionary wives organised kindergartens and engaged in teaching, often by taking the younger children away from the fields where they were expected to perform those small menial tasks deemed appropriate to their socialisation. Rebecca Wray, of the London Missionary Society in British Guiana, clandestinely practised midwifery, which was disapproved of by colonists and missionaries alike. And finally, missionaries intervened in the lives of female slaves who wanted a reason to reject the [34]

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sexual advances of white masters, managers and fellow slaves, or who found the common practices of concubinage repellent. Christianity provided these women with justification for their reluctance.42 All of the above occurred alongside encouragement that slave conduct should remain within the boundaries of discretion in a society in which subordinate classes kept their place. Christianity's message of humility and forbearance, in this instance, fitted the mores of slave societies rather too prettily. A Christian proprietor from Grenada in 1820 proved to be a forerunner of an opinion that after emancipation became more generalised among his social class, namely that 'the more the [negroes] are instructed in religious truths the better they will behave',43 which brings us to the ambiguity of a religion based on a broader ideology that presupposed cultural chauvinism. There had been sporadic intimations during slavery of this eventual attitude even while missionaries were demonstrating an uncharacteristic sympathy for the slave population – uncharacteristic, that is, for Europeans. Two particular cases, though by no means typical of this period, are telling. In 1822 William Shrewsbury, who fled missionary persecution in Barbados, wrote that he was afraid to promote a coloured catechist lest as a consequence he be 'lifted up with pride'. 'Young men of colour when possessing talent are in great danger of falling into this snare. As a local preacher I have no doubt that he will become useful if he be not thrust forward [to the ministry] too soon.'44 Shrewsbury was among the more radical and progressive of his fellow Methodists. Two years later, this time in Anguilla, John Hodge, a coloured catechist who wanted his $8 a week raised to $10, admitted that a great stress was laid on colour in the West Indies, but he accused his Wesley an brethren of not being free of these prejudices either. He reported to the London Methodist Society that they thought him to be 'proud, insulting, overbearing, seeking my own glory and desiring to equal them'. Angrily he said, 'It is true that I am not only punished for my own sins but also for the sins of coloured people.'45 In response to the above complaint William Gilgrass, the district secretary, protested that the brethren did not despise the native agents for their colour but that in a country where colour was 'a species of caste' they could not promote them too rapidly without offending the planters. He confessed, 'Some of them are prejudiced we admit – after all we came out here at a time of life with strong impressions already formed – the miracle is when we transcend them which we often do.'46 The evidence shows that most missionaries did transcend the crudest forms of racial prejudice and custom, but this was during a time when they found themselves in a state of siege which challenged them to champion the negro cause. Besides which, they had the full might of the [35]

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British abolitionist campaigns behind them and a British sentiment growing in favour of the slaves.

Christianity constrained, 1834–1845 Previous to 1834 missionaries operated on the periphery of a slave economy yet were visible opponents of it. They took their norms and values from a broader imperial framework which was increasingly uninterested in its West Indian possessions. Because missionaries were in opposition to local colonial society they were able to direct their limitless capacity for moral rectitude at slaveholders and colonists and the racist mores they perpetuated. By contrast, missionary views were more cosmopolitan than parochial, as the missionaries acted as surrogates for a more humane imperial group (the Christian British public and abolitionist sympathisers) who were happily distanced from the 'rapid changes' and 'distressing complexities' of a socio-political order in transition. Nor had their opposition to slavery threatened the missionaries' reputation vis-à-vis the slave population or the British public; rather it had enhanced it. However, with the conclusion of slavery the missionaries were forced to shift their reference group and transfer their identification from a cosmopolitan to a local frame of reference – the white colonial society. In turn their former enemies now found them invaluable as teachers of those Christian tenets and precepts appropriate to the ideal of an 'industrious peasantry'. This ironical situation was reinforced by their alienation from the original imperial reference group whose interests and monies were being poured into China, Africa and India, in keeping with Britain's more recent expansionist efforts and a sentimental enthusiasm for converting real heathens! Although the term 'native' customarily means native-born (white and coloured Creoles), in the correspondence of the period 'native' was used on a synonym for black or coloured in the context of social mobility within the mission. Inevitably those perceived deficiencies in 'native' leaders and teachers were implicitly related to colour, or to a lack of education, which was most apparent in blacks and coloureds. The cultural deprivations which had been glaring in slave society became confounded with racial overtones. These were manifested less in overt language about colour than in actions towards 'native' aspirants to positions of leadership within the mission context. As missionaries sought a redefinition of their role in a changing colonial structure, they were uncertain of what the status would be of the native leaders and how or by whom it would be determined. [36]

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Perceiving them as a threat to their own hard-won sense of status in a non-slaveholding society where they – on account of their colour even more than their education – were on an equal footing now with other white colonists, they found themselves found themselves on the horns of a dilemma. Their situation was made the more invidious by the insistence from London that missionaries should train up a 'native agency' (teachers, catechists, ministers) to replace them. Native leaders were seen as rivals and, as we know, there is little love lost among competitors. Moreover, few people wish to work themselves out of employment and position, not even missionaries. Obviously such a situation was fraught with ambiguity for missionaries and negroes alike. Both groups had been forced to shift those former frames of reference which had defined their identities during slavery. In the case of the missionaries these were their imperial patrons and in the case of former slaves, their masters. Freedom, now won, proved to be unsettling with regard to the shifting dynamics of missionary–slave relations. Nevertheless as leaders of their respective Christian communities, and with their authority consolidated by a generous financial compensation to the emancipated colonies under the ten-year Negro Education Grant,47 evangelical missionaries increased their influence over the negro population after emancipation. No longer the sole providers of education now that the Established Church and some private agencies were also enjoying the advantages of the education grant, their educational base was nevertheless considerably expanded and required more native teachers and catechists. Provision of such opportunities for social mobility combined with the real power of the missionary leadership meant that conformity could be exacted without either coercion or prolonged doses of socialisation. It was, after all, the white missionaries who could confer status, approve salaries and make appointments and promotions. In brief, their opinion mattered and this social and psychological reality proved powerful – as a form of social control, it was as potent as the whip. Imperialism succeeded not only by coercion but also because of its system of rewards for its colonial élites of all colours.48 Conformity was the price of admission into the Churches and into the emerging élite but it was also the price exacted to remain and be promoted in that élite. For example, at a time when other native agents were being refused ordination on grounds of social presumption, Thomas Lewis of British Guiana was recommended for a promotion because his ideas were not 'lofty'. Even then his supplement was to be raised 'gradually' because if he was ordained it was believed that he would become restless and undependable.49 At the same time as native leaders seized their new social opportuni[37]

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ties, the appeal to the wider norms of Christianity remained constant and effective, with native leaders accepting the scriptural authority for such norms – obedience, humility and a hierarchical order of social standing. Initially they did not see these as unusual; slavery had taught them well. But freedom has a way with it and free people quickly assimilate its values: equity if not equality, rewards for merit, personal dignity and social justice. When these were not forthcoming, native leaders not unnaturally resented the objective reality that favoured whites over coloureds and ex-slaves. Despite overwhelming feelings of relative deprivation, social control was indirectly maintained by the prevailing anxiety about maintaining their precarious positions. In short, the threat of status-loss regulated behaviour and moderated expectations. Harry Stack Sullivan, who coined the term 'significant others', explains such processes in the following manner: 'Socialization is a product of a gradual accumulation of experiences with certain people, particularly those with whom we stand in primary relations, and significant others are those who are actively involved in the cultivation of abilities, values and outlook .'50 As part of the imperialistic dynamic the missionaries stood in the role of 'significant others' to their congregations, catechists, native leaders and chapel elders. The imperial mentality is one that turns 'them' into 'us' (through civilisation and Christianisation), and those that most approximate 'us' at the outset, who conform best, are those who are rewarded. A great deal of caution is required to test the parameters of approval or disapproval. It is not difficult to recognise the poignancy of the dilemma which both missionaries and their clients confronted: for the ties that bind people to each other – loyalty, affection, like mindedness and mutual sacrifice – are psychologically fragile at the best of times. As with conversion during slavery, the issue of 'identity' framed the dilemma during apprenticeship and freedom. If during slavery the possibility of manumission proved to be a mechanism for social control and conformity, the same purpose was served later in the threat to status or by the promise of improved status. There remained, however, a common denominator. Although the power shifted from slaveholders to missionaries, other groups were European (read 'white'), and racist presumptions and cultural chauvinism legitimated their dominant position just as it assured the negroes a subordinate one. As long as the sense of relative deprivation remained unexpressed (as previously the longing for manumission had remained unexpressed) native leaders were not penalised. But this situation was anxiety-ridden, a situation that compelled them to articulate their grievances: salary differentials between white and black or coloured teachers and catechists for doing the same work; living conditions that [38]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

enabled whites to enjoy higher social status; the inability to marry and raise a family on lower salaries; the wish to be ordained and have one's own congregation; the dissatisfaction with itinerant or temporary status. In short, during the decade after emancipation native leaders became 'the victims of aspirations they could not achieve and hopes they could not satisfy'.51 Not all native agents were content with silence. Neither were they content with remaining members of Churches that refused them higher salaries and/or ordination. Denied both access and mobility they resorted to several alternatives. Some bypassed local structures by writing to the directors of London-based missionary societies, thus assuring the wrath of the missionaries. Even when gaining the directors' sympathies and support they were eventually expelled, demoted or punished, and the missionaries invented reasons for doing so. Others joined rival denominations, as in the case of the slaves Bristol and Jacob of Ebenezer Chapel, on the west coast of Berbice. Instead of 'being humbled' as was expected of them, they joined the Church of England, a defection gloated upon by anti-missionary elements in the Royal Gazette. Others, like John Hodge, started their own Churches and proved popular with the coloured population, who generously supported them, morally and financially. The majority, however, were constrained by the objective circumstances and limited opportunities of their race. Forced into acquiescence they supported their white missionary patrons even if such support was undeserved. Others, after chastisements and admonitions, wrote deferential apologies for their insubordination, although there is some doubt about the genuineness of these expressions, as with four catechists who thanked the LMS directors for reminding them of 'the various orders of men' in which each had his separate department.52 The following situation included the commonest elements of status protest. It also supports the claim that anxiety about status-loss combined with the leadership power of a newly acquired reference group is an effective tool of socialisation, at least in the short term. After emancipation in British Guiana several catechists and teachers – Henry Rose, William Henery, Alex Jansen and Christian Farrell – initially objected on a local level and then to London about inequitable treatment. Henry Rose, a mulatto who had been freed for two years, was described as having 'too aspiring a disposition to be left so much in charge of a station', although he seemed to handle this responsibility quite well, and his Creole was excellent. His salary didn't allow for marriage despite the concession that it was hazardous for a single man to live solitary in a sexually permissive society. Likewise, William Henery, who knew Dutch, English and Creole, directly accused the missionaries of racial prejudice but was intimidated by them for several years afterwards [39]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES

because he was afraid his licence would be revoked. Samuel Haywood, a missionary, wrote of these two men that they had 'extreme ignorance of themselves. And because of their knowing much more than the people to whom they are sent they naturally consider themselves superior beings assuming all the airs of dignified individuals.53 Haywood further insisted that these catechists should be assistants to white ministers for then 'they'd be reminded of their own inferiority'. A letter written by them to the directors in London in 1839 declared 'we must do everything in our power to improve our minds, read useful books (as well as pray). Within a year William Henery was dismissed because his talents 'were over-rated' (although he successfully organised a 'party' in his support and attracted many followers) and he had his licence suspended after being discovered in an illicit connection with a woman. He had been accused of leading the way 'in things that [were] unbecoming' so that the other teachers followed his example. These unbecoming ways included asking for an increase in salary and for ordination. Christian Farrell's probation period was extended on two occasions before he was replaced by a white teacher and told he must choose to remain a catechist or leave the service of the LMS. Alex Jansen wrote a pathetic apology, obviously terrified of losing his position.54 A missionary, Joseph Waddington, contemptuously dismissed the claims of those catechists by attributing their popularity among the blacks solely to their literacy and to their ability to teach many adults and children – 'poor creatures'–to read and write, as William Henery had done. He had been useful to his people 'notwithstanding his lamentable failings'. Astonishingly, these comments were taking place at a time when three white LMS missionaries had died suddenly, two had returned to Britain for failing health, two others had gone to the islands to recover their strength, and a whole family of useful but unemployable members of a tragically depleted missionary community – being female –were compelled to return to England to make a living. At the same time remaining missionaries were appealing to London for replacements!55 The Methodists had similar problems as late as 1844. In Bridgetown, Barbados, William Fidler was alarmed that two disaffected leaders and circuit stewards, Thomas and Hamilton, had formed a 'junta', while Austin, a local preacher, was proving to be 'a troublesome upstart... an inconsequential man of great self importance'. Defection in this instance had led to the three men concerned organising an Oddfellows Society in opposition to the Methodist Society.56 The above demonstrations of status-protest occurred at the same time as missionaries were consolidating their positions in an uncertain political and economic climate, with several attempting to establish themselves as permanent ministers rather than missionaries. Conse[40]

SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES

quently characteristics emerged in the missionary group similar to those identified among the native leaders, but for different reasons: restlessness about status; defiance about London-defined regulations which bore no relationship whatsoever to changing societal conditions; anxiety about the native agents they were training but keeping in inferior positions; uncertainty about the possibilities of their own removal from their hard-won missions; and disillusionment with a fickle British public no longer prepared to support missions in a nominally Christian area purportedly enjoying the privileges of freedom. As a result the financial support from the London societies was becoming increasingly parsimonious and the directors were impatient with the missionary failure to establish a native agency or to raise sufficient funds to maintain the mission without outside help. An interesting example of missionary response to these vicissitudes is that of Joseph Ketley of Georgetown, Demerara, who ministered to a few town whites and many coloureds rather than slaves or apprentices on the estates, built up a comfortable living, and broke away from his brethren, taking with him property rightfully belonging to the LMS.57 Moreover, potential for discontent among Jamaican CMS agents was magnified because that society's European catechists were refused ordination just as the ordinations of its ministers, although valid, were seen as inferior to those of ministers in England.58 Consequently the clashes that occurred among missionaries themselves and with their native agents were acrimonious and scandalous in the decade after slavery.

Conclusion Imperialism, too often, is discussed as a concept which is applied at either an abstract level or assumed to be universally understood. Consequently there is a temptation to use it as an ideological umbrella term. In fact, imperialism becomes concrete only by empirical testing through case studies which demonstrate that it consists of a whole set of dynamics, 'a wide range, if you will, of 'imperialisms'.59 Because the structures and values of Christianity readily transmitted and reflected ideas of seductive 'civilisation', missionaries consciously served as 'role models' and 'significant others' to their slave clients. As interpreters of the new symbolic system they became relatively attractive examples of British imperialism in practice. Moreover, if we appreciate the reasons for slave conversion, for adopting the beliefs and conduct of a reference group other than one's own, we see that slaves and apprentices should not be seen naively as imperial dupes or cultural [41]

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quislings but as actors in a social drama that offered them the opportunity to exist outside servitude and racism. The West Indian adoption of Western religion and the orientation towards British structures and values can be understood in several ways. A religion of redemption, a system of dramatic ritualism and symbol appropriation combined with the trappings of equality and opportunities for learning, literacy and leadership, proved powerful incentives for those deprived of any real power, yet even as the missionaries neutralised the psychic destruction which occurred in the lives of slaves the void was filled by a subjective status that remained incongruent with any objective status. The situation was controlled by the dominant reference group (the white clergy), who established the codes of conduct and invigilated the rules for full membership, thus reinforcing their clients' sense of dependence, subordination and relative deprivation. As a consequence an uneasy and niggling conformity was maintained among native leaders, and those whose conduct and values approximated the dominant group and culture were those most rewarded. Through this case study it is hoped that the 'bridge between individual dynamics and social behaviour' which remains 'a tantalizing enigma' to scholars is no longer quite as elusive.60 The dynamics of dependence considered in this chapter reflect the psychological dilemmas that faced the colonised West Indians in relation to their colonisers. The chapter constitutes, therefore, an analysis of processes and ambiguities that in the mid-nineteenth century transformed 'them' into 'us' – at least for a while – until the chain of dependence was broken by demands for West Indian independence over a century later.

Notes The author acknowledges an SSHRC Fellowship (1986-7) and a Canada Research Fellowship (1988–9) which enabled her to conduct the research for this paper. 1 A. P. Thornton, Doctrines of Imperialism, New York, Wiley, 1965, p. 2. 2 Ibid., pp. 167–9. 3 The four-year apprenticeship period after formal emancipation in 1834 is included as part of slavery for the purposes of this chapter. Apprenticeship has been universally described by its contemporaries, historians and the missionaries as oppressive, in that legally manumitted slaves were obliged to work for their former masters for minimal or no wages. James Cox, a missionary in St Kitts, listed its abuses and reflects the general opinion that 'the new system has been arranged in such a hideous and forbidding aspect that many people have almost feared it is worse than slavery', 13/4/ 34, Box 1833-40 Methodist Missionary Society Archives, University of London. Hereafter cited as MMS. See W. L. Burn, Emancipation and Apprenticeship in the British West Indies, London, Cape, 1957; William Law Mathieson, British Slavery and its Abolition, 1823–8, New York, Octagon Press, 1967; and Ragatz Lowell, The Fall of the Planter in

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SLAVERY AND CHRISTIANITY IN THE WEST INDIES the British Caribbean, 1763–1833, New York, Octagon Books, 1963. 4 Thornton, Doctrines of Imperialism, p. 167. 5 Summary View of the Designs and Proceedings of the Society for Missions to Africa and the East London, 1812, pp. 9–13. 6 Sermon Preached for the Missionary Society at Tottenham Court Chapel. . . by the Reverend William Harris, London, 1817, p. 25. 7 John Hampden, A Commentary on Mr. Clarkson 's Pamphlet, London, 1824, p. 46, and Wray to Burder, 9 March 1827, Box 2, British Guiana Berbice (BG/B) (1827–34) London Missionary Society, University of London. Hereafter cited as LMS. 8 Observations on the Motives and Encouragements to Active Missionary Exertions..., Edinburgh, 1827. 9 B. Tregaskis, 19/3/39, Box 1833-40, MMS. 10 John Smith, 18/3/18, Box 2, British Guiana/Demerara (BG/D), LMS. 11 Abraham Whitehouse, 2/5/1818, File May–August 1818, Box 110; Mr Keane, 28/12/12, WI1803-13 (Odd Letters), Box 116. MMS; and John Wray, 29/4/24, Box IB, BG/D, LMS. There were exceptions, of course, such as the Reverend Warren Austin of Berbice of whom Wray said 'was as much persecuted as any missionary', and was compelled to leave the colony in disgust. 12 Daniel Garling, 11/4/21, Box 116 (1820-1), MMS. 13 Wray's catechism, which was published in the press, is a case in point, emphasising respect, obedience, diligence, faithfulness and submission under correction and using scriptures to support his position, such as Col. 3:22, Eph. 6:5,6, II Thess. 3:10,12, Peter 2:18-20. See 'The duties of slaves to their masters and managers', Box IB, BG/B, LMS. 14 John Wood, 7/6/38, Box 140 (1838–42), MMS. 15 Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1982, p. 8. 16 The Barbadian situation was even more volatile than that of the other colonies because it had a much larger free coloured population and severer laws. See Jerome S. Handler, The Unappropriated People: Freedom in the Slave Society of Barbados, Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974. 17 Patterson, Slavery and Social Death, p. 34. Elsewhere he observes, 'The poorest free person was proud he was not a slave. He shared in the collective honour of the master class' (p. 99). 18 Wray, 1/11/16, Box 1A, BG/B, LMS. 19 E. Woods, Journal entry, n.d. 1829, Box 127 (1828–9), MMS. 20 The Anti-Slavery Society pressured Britain to pass registration acts after the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade. Slaves were registered and statistics compiled concerning births, deaths, numbers, occupations, slaves, purchases, illnesses, medical treatment, etc., in order to prepare slaves for freedom and attempt to ameliorate the worst abuses by managers. This policy of gradualism is discussed in J.R. Ward, British West Indian Slavery, 1750–1834:The Process of Amelioration, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1988. 21 Wray, 4/9/23, Box IB, BG/B, LMS. 22 John Davies, 28/10/20, Box 2, BG/D, LMS. 23 Wray, 26/9/1817, Box 2, BG/B, LMS. 24 Essequibo and Demerara Royal Gazette (Dec. 1803), extracts, Box 2, BG/B, LMS. 25 These are the terms which described the various forms of indigenous religion and practices which were brought across from Africa. Though forbidden by law, superstitions and 'primitivism' were practised clandestinely and surfaced as strong beliefs during times of societal stress. See M. Schuler, 'Myalism and African religious tradition in Jamaica', in M.E. Crahan and F. W. Knight (eds), Africa and the Caribbean: The Legacies of a link, Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979). 26 John Wiggins, 7/1/17, Box 113 (1816–18), MMS. 27 James Howe, 20/3/34, Box 2 BG/B, LMS. 28 Brother Rathbone, 27/8/36, Box 138 (1836), MMS. 29 See Michael Hennel, John Venn and the Clapham Sect, London, Lutterworth Press, 1958; Edith F. Hurwitz, Politics and the Public Conscience, London, Aldine Press, 1973; and Ernest Marshall Howse, Saints in Politics: The Clapham Sect and the

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30

31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46 47

Growth of Freedom, London, Allen & Unwin, 1953. These are only three of an impressive literature on the British abolitionists. It is not possible to list the voluminous literature on slave history which contributes to this chapter. The following are select examples. Eugene Genevose, Roll, fordon, Roll: The World the Slaves Made, New York, Pantheon Books, 1974; Orlando Patteron, The Sociology of Slavery, London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1967; David Brion Davis, The Problem of Slavery in Western Culture, Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1966; Stanley M. Elkins, Slavery: A Problem in American Institutional and Intellectual Life, 2nd ed., Chicago University Press, 1968; Kenneth M. Stampp, The Peculiar Institution, New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1956; and Eric Williams, Capitalism and Slavery London, Andre Deutsch, 1963. Patterson, Slavery and Social Death, pp. 13, 18. Stanley M. Elkins says, 'Much of his past had been annihilated, nearly every prior connection had been severed.' Those customs he retained, even cherished, 'no longer carried any meaning'. He took his cues from the planter class as well as his food, shelter, security, sexual connections and whatever success was possible under the system, 'in short, everything'. Slavery, pp. 101–2. Patterson, Slavery and Social Death, p. 191. He says, 'Redemption is the root and core motif of black theology' (p. 75). This quote is attributed to the famous refugee from American slavery, Frederick Douglas. See Stampp, The Peculiar Institution, p. 89. Patterson, Slavery and Social Death, p. 37. See also Meyer Fortes and Raymond Firth, 'Ritual and office in tribal society', in M. Gluckman (ed.), Essays on the Ritual of Social Relations, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1962, p. 86. Patterson, Slavery and Social Death, p. 74. Ibid. William Gilgrass, Basseterre Estate, St Kitts, and Shrewsbury, St George's, Grenada, 24/1/20, Box 115 (1820), MMS. J. R. Ward's quantitative analysis of the sugar economy, absenteeism, the regime of work, demographic factors, mortality, reproduction and morbidity supports this. Throughout his work he makes similar claims. Herbert H. Hyman, 'The psychology of status', Archives of Psychology, No. 269,1942, p. 13. George Johnston, Nevis, 3/2/1811, Box 111 (1803–13), MMS. For an interesting account of the Baptist Missionary Society in Jamaica see Philip Wright, Knibb 'the Notorious': Slaves' Missionary, 1803–45, London, Sidgwick & Jackson, 1973. This aspect still requires greater study. As a term, 'slave' seems to have male connotations and must be read to include females, who indeed were probably in a far more invidious and arduous situation than their male peers. Two recent studies of female slaves in the American South are Deborah Gray White, Ar'n't I a Womanl Female Slaves in the Plantation South, New York, Norton, 1985, and Jacqueline Jones, Labor of Love, Labor of Sorrow, New York, Vintage Books, 1986. John Ross, 29/7/20, Box 115 (1820), MMS. Shrewsbury, 24/10/22, Box 118 (1822–3), MMS. John Hodge, 27/10/24, Box 121 (1824–5), MMS. Gilgrass, Antigua, 10/2/25, Box 121 (1824–5), MMS. As part of the terms of compensation to former slaveholders who were now anxious to have a labouring population schooled into 'co-operative' attitudes and who saw education, especially for the young, as a means of keeping their employees on or near their estates, the British Parliament poured considerable funds into school buildings. These were partly financed by the missionary societies with a vested interest in West Indian education. The final grants were given after a ten-year programme, in 1845. Articles on West Indian education include: James Latimer, 'The foundation of religious education in the British West Indies', Journal of Negro Education, Vol. 39, Winter 1970, pp. 70–5; Charles H. Wesley, 'The rise of Negro education in the British empire – II', Journal of Negro Education, Vol. 2, January 1933, pp. 68–82; Olwyn M. Blouet, 'To make society safe for freedom: slave education in Barbados, 1823–33'

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48

49 50

51 52

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Journal of Negro History, Vol. 65, No.2, Spring 1980, pp. 126–34; and Hilary McD. Beckles, The literate few: an historical sketch of the slavery origins of black élite in the English West Indies', Caribbean Journal of Education, Vol. 10, Nos. 2 and 3, April–September 1983, pp. 19–35. Also see Shirley Gordon, A Century of West Indian Education, London, Longmans, 1963. See S. N. Eisenstadt, 'Studies in reference group behaviour', in Herbert H. Hyman and Eleanor Singer (eds), Readings in Reference Group Theory and Research, New York, The Free Press, 1968, pp. 413–29, esp. 417. Eisenstadt says: As it is well known that the maintenance of common ultimate values is an important prerequisite of any society, it can be postulated that the reference to wider norms constitutes a mechanism of social control, through which proper ways of behaviour and attitudes are maintained, whether in simple, unambiguous situations or in potentially conflict ridden situations.' (p. 419). James Howe, 24/2/1837, Box 4 BG/B, LMS. Harry Stack Sullivan, Conceptions of Modern Psychiatry, Washington DC, W.A. White Psychiatric Foundations, 1947, p. 112. Stanley M. Elkins, Sla very examines how the masters during slavery became 'significant others' as he applies Harry Stack Sullivan's interpersonal theory to the trauma, detachment and psychic gap that constituted the slave's loss of identity. Hyman and Singer, Readings, p. 11. James Scott, 8/3/1833, Box 4 BG/D, LMS; J. Raynor, St Martin's, 2/5/1819, 8/3/1819, and Petition (Jan.–April 1819), MMS. This charge was made two years after Quamina, Bristol, Satin and Asaar had written an apology to London: 14/12/1817, Box 2 (1815–22), MMS. See also Rose, Jansen, Farrell, and Christian Headecker, 1/1/39, Box 4, BG/D, LMS. Also see C.F. Haensel, 27/3/35, CW/044/1, Church Missionary Society Archives, University of Birmingham. Hereafter cited as CMS. Phillippo to Governor Sligo, 24/10/35, CO 137: 203, 284–35, Public Record Office; Thomas Burchell, Memoirs, London, 1847, p. 325; and Missionary Herald, March 1838, p. 133. Samuel Haywood, 31/5/39, Box 4, LMS. Boxes 3 (1834–6), 4 (1836–9) and 5 (1840–2), LMS contain the substance for this summary. Rose et al, 1/1/39, William Henery, 21/1/37,2/5/39, Minutes District Committee, 14/ 11/37,28/3/39 and 22/12/42, Giles Forward, 1/1/40, Alex Jansen, 9/3/40, John Morris, 14/1/35, 19/11/34 and 12/5/40, Haywood 2/7/41, 7/6/41, and James Roome, 4/8/40. Joseph Waddington, 11/3/40, LMS. William Fidler, Barbados, 19/6/44, Box 141 (1843–7), MMS. See Boxes BG/B and BG/D from 1829–42 for Ketley's career. Rev. Coates, London, to Rev. Panton, 1/8/39, L2 (1834–9), CMS; and Proceedings of the CMS (1837–8). See Thornton, Doctrines of Imperialism, esp. p. vii. See Ruth E. Hartly, 'Personal characteristics and acceptance of secondary groups in reference groups', in Hyman and Singer, Readings, pp. 247–56; and Charles Reynolds, Modes of Imperialisms, Oxford, Martin Robertson, 1981, p. vii. While eloquently arguing that Christianisation led to social control of slaves and that missionaries were part of imperialistic expansionism the following historians ultimately fail to grapple with the interpersonal and psychological dynamics of the situation! Elsa V. Goveia, Slave Society in the British Leeward Islands at the End of the Eighteenth Century, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1965; and William A. Green, British Slave Emancipation: The Sugar Colonies and the Great Experiment, 1830–65, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1976.

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CHAPTER TWO

Sisters under the skin: imperialism and the emancipation of women in Malaya, c. 1891–1941 Janice N. Brownfoot

'White women were the ruin of Empire' is an opinion that has been confidently asserted by various commentators seeking to explain why the sun set on 'the greatest Empire the earth has known'. Charles Allen records that all the worst faults of the British Raj were said to stem from the 'memsahib', including, Ballhatchet suggests, the introduction of racial exclusiveness.1 Yet the British Empire was organised by men for men. It was a masculine world of power, authority and control in which women played little or no formal part. Indeed they were isolated from participation in colonial institutional structures, and were essentially marginal to the ethos and ideology of imperialism. In the colonies white women had their primary rôles as wives and mothers in the traditional, apparently restricted and conservative spheres of home, family and social life. How then could they have caused the collapse of Empire and imperialism? Verifying or denying the claims against them requires extensive research, as most writers of the imperial era and since have seldom given much space to the experiences of white women and the effects of their presence, attitudes and activities. This fundamental omission is only now being redressed.2 Using evidence drawn from research on formal, but especially informal, education established for women and girls in colonial Malaya between the 1890s and the fall of Singapore in 1941, this chapter suggests how some white women helped initiate and promote 'emancipation' for the Asian females, profoundly influenced socio-economic and political change, and thus contributed positively to the end of the imperial era and to the creation of the modern Commonwealth. 3 White women had ambivalent, contradictory and dualistic rôles in the colonial experience. Essential for perpetuating and conserving British imperial society with its myth of white superiority and its need for white separateness, paradoxically they undermined, by their very [46]

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presence and feminine natures, many of the tenets on which imperialism rested.4 While consciously and unconsciously they may have transmitted what to them seemed superior Western (if not British) methods of domestic organisation, infant and maternal welfare, and general lifestyle, at the same time they were modernisers and carriers of change. Their impact in the Malayan colonial situation was perhaps at its most profound in their relationships with Asian women and girls. Their influence and activities brought some socialisation in Western customs but also introduced emancipation and social change, over which they had little control.5 For some the educational experience was two-way. Belief in the 'sisterhood' of women led many white women to learn from, and be positively influenced by, their Asian sisters. This highly complex relationship is far too intricate to be fully explored here. Accordingly, using selected examples, this chapter focuses on white women's educational aims, and on the effects of modern education, especially informal, for Asian women and girls. It also considers whether the examples illustrate deliberate efforts to achieve prescribed socialisation, whether they were factors which simulated processes of social change, or whether perhaps the reality was a mixture of both, in part. First, however, it is necessary to outline the ways in which white women's knowledge and perceptions of imperialism, together with their general education and specific preparation for the colonial experience, differed from those of white men.

Imperialism and white women Fundamentally, imperialism is the assertion of power and dominance, the extension of sovereignty and control of various kinds, by one politico-economic unit over another, or others, together with the ideas justifying or disagreeing with this process. A phenomenon of power and powerlessness, it is also a moral attitude which perceives superior and inferior among the races of the world, and justifies rule by one over the other.6 In Philip Mason's view, while the patterns of colonialism may have varied in different territories of the British Empire, essentially colonialism consisted of paternalistic but dominant white rule based on the aura of white superiority.7 If imperialism, the imperial ethos and the British Empire were in practice the creations of men, it was primarily the British public schools which trained and socialised young men to perpetuate the ideology and the forms of domination and control; British universities continued the preparation. The values taught included toughness, stoicism, a sense of [47]

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mission – 'to elevate inferior races' – endurance, tenacity and team spirit. The imperial culture formulated by men during the Victorian era was solidly founded on athleticism – 'the playing fields of England' tradition – and on an anti-intellectual cult of masculinity.8 The ideology of imperialism, public school teaching and imperial culture also shared very limited Victorian beliefs about the place and rôles of women in both metropolitan and 'native' societies. Victorian ideals of womanhood and femininity stressed the economic and personal dependency of women on men, and the virtues of female self-sacrifice. Woman's proper place was as help-mate, wife and mother. Closely allied to the anti-suffrage, anti-feminist movements, imperialists who subscribed to these views perceived woman's sphere as domestic not public, conjugal not independent, and her acceptable behaviour as submissive not assertive; positions of leadership and authority were not for women. 9 In the context of Empire, white women were further charged with upholding prestige, morals and civilised standards. In Malaya, affirmed a leader in the Straits Times of 4 March 1911, white wives (and mothers) were essential if colonisation of the tropics was to proceed 'without destruction of the superior race characteristics which are supposed to be possessed by the people of temperate climates'. Indeed, the mere presence of wives was thought 'to help keep up the standard of a place'.10 Men required and received education and training to fit them for their imperial roles: what about women and girls? Research into girls' education, even in Britain, is limited; investigation into how education might have prepared girls for possible adult life in the colonies or have imbued them with imperial ideology is virtually non-existent. But some general observations may be made. Overall, until at least the First World War, most white women whether of British or other nationality had neither the same education nor the same training in the imperial ethos as white men. They seldom attended preparatory and public schools, and if they aspired to a career they had few or no networks like the 'old boy' system and club membership to provide benefits and assistance as did men – though in time the organisations and institutions women themselves established came to fulfil somewhat similar functions. As Dyhouse has shown, until about the Edwardian era, middle- and upper-class British girls, unlike boys, typically received their education from governesses in a restricted family environment where their social contacts were policed and controlled. The subjects they learned were linked to perceptions about their assumed future domestic rôles as wives and mothers, and they were trained to be submissive and unambitious.11 Furthermore, not only did such British women and girls not come from the same homogeneous socio-educational backgrounds as men and boys but, given their education and up-bringing, they did not form a single social [48]

THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN IN MALAYA

group united by the same values, beliefs and codes of behaviour. Since they were not subjected to a narrow, standardised public school training, it is also possible that women were more open-minded and adaptable than men to the realities of life in the colonies.12 In Malaya the picture is complicated by other factors. Both British and other white women came from a wide diversity of national, religious, educational and class/status backgrounds. Present as wives, mothers, career women, missionaries and even prostitutes, their reasons for being in the country also differed greatly. Although British women always outnumbered other nationalities, and the married, non- working memsahibs always outnumbered single and married working and career women, it is important to stress the range and diversity of types of white women in Malaya during the period between 1891 and 1941. While detailed comment is not possible, the breadth of cultural and social backgrounds, and the consequent lack of homogeneity, must be recognised.13 'Career' women, particularly prof essional women educators and salaried workers in informal social organisations, provide an appropriate illustration of the diversity. Among their numbers were many Americans (for example, Methodist Girls' Schools–MGS) as well as French,Irish (Roman Catholic Girls' Convent Schools) and Australians (Presbyterian girls' schools and the Young Women's Christian Association, YWCA). Such women came from outside any strong tradition of socialisation into the British imperial ethos or British culture, though in some instances they may have regarded Britain as the 'Mother Country'. Many were active feminists and some were suffragettes. American and Australian missionary women educators came from a different educational experience than did British women – more egalitarian with strong feminist awareness, and lacking any vested interest in the British Empire. Furthermore, American involvement in South-east Asia from the 1890s and Australian federation in 1901 meant Britain could not count on women educators of either nationality necessarily to endorse or promote the British imperial cause. And in Malaya it was the American and Australian women educators – together with the French and Irish – who played the leading rôle in the education of Asian women and girls.14

Women and education Sections of both metropolitan and colonial white societies had long believed that educational and social welfare work among subject races was essential if the duties and obligations of Empire were to be fulfilled. Many observers argued that the British Empire would hold together only if subject peoples felt they had a stake in it, and if colonial governments [49]

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provided responsibly and honourably for their needs. Government recognition of the necessity for this essential work, together with realisation of the important rôle women could play, grew only slowly but intensified after the First World War when discontent among subject peoples had become obvious.15 No longer to be ignored or ridiculed, white women and their professional and social service work were now considered directly relevant to the cause of imperialism. They could help minimise or soften the effects of colonial economic exploitation, and could contribute positively to improving the health, welfare, standards of living and hence lifestyles of subject peoples, especially women and children. During the inter-war period Colonial Office policy favoured limited recruitment of British women into the Colonial Service, notably in education and nursing, the two traditional and primary fields of 'women's work'. This was a belated, and partial, recognition of what numbers of white women in Malaya had been doing for decades, and of what they had long known: that due to cultural and religious factors (as Indian experience had proved) work for local women could best be done by white women (not men), and that only women were really interested in the condition and lifestyles of other women, except when these became issues of political and/or economic significance to men. With the growth of the women's movement in the West, reinforced by the inauguration of the International Council of Women (ICW) in 1888, had come the development of a worldwide movement for uplifting the status of women and girls globally. Many white women were convinced that, as elsewhere, the regeneration and progress of Asian races would occur only when Asian women were able to exert greater influence in the family and in public affairs. The belief grew that educated white women had a responsibility to help free their Asian sisters from the cultural, religious, physical and mental shackles regarded as binding them. Many also believed that the solutions to problems of infant and maternal mortality, as well as to other health and social welfare issues, were similar to those in the West: educate Asian women and girls in domestic arts, hygiene and infant welfare, instruct mothers and train girls for motherhood, and appoint white women workers as Lady Medical Officers (LMOs), health visitors and teachers.16 In Malaya not only did the numbers of white women increase in total from the 1890s, but the numbers of working women arriving to pursue careers expanded too. Of these, most went as single women to whom a career in the Empire offered attractive professional opportunities, with the possibility of finding a marriage partner too.17 Many were teachers whose intentions were to open or work in girls' schools, notably missionary, and as the number of schools expanded in the early twentieth century, so their numbers increased, particularly in the inter-war [50]

THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN IN MALAYA

period. A significant percentage never married but dedicated their lives to teaching and training Asian girls and women. Government-appointed women educators, women missionaries and voluntary workers in organisations such as the Young Women's Christian Association and the Girl Guides all contributed to Empire social service work, usually at little expense to either the metropolitan or colonial governments. Contributing to Empire educational provision for subject races in Malaya as a white woman educator or social activist did not necessarily mean supporting the cause of British colonialism. While it is impossible to know the aims, objectives and motivations of each individual educator and voluntary worker resident between the 1890s and the Second World War, it can be argued that promoting imperialism was commonly of little or no concern. However, altruism and evangelism certainly played their parts. For some gender loyalty and achieving women's emancipation were the spurs.18 Notable among such Western women were members of missionary groups, particularly the American Episcopalian Methodists. Since missionary women were so profoundly influential in the modern education of Asian women and girls, it is necessary to look briefly at their rôle here. Very little has been written about the missionaries in Malaya, and even less about missionary women. Yet early Protestant education work for Asian girls was under way in the Malay Peninsula by the 1820s, and the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG) began its efforts for girls in Borneo in 1847. Despite this, the Anglicans were never as successful in girls' education as the Episcopalian Methodists, who founded their programmes in the 1880s, initially under the Australian Sophia Blackmore in Singapore, and then rapidly established Methodist Girls' Schools (MGS) throughout the Malay Peninsula and in Singapore (though not in Borneo). Motivated, according to the Methodist missionary magazine, the Malaysia Message, of June 1911, by 'woman's love for her sister woman of other hue and speech and faith',19 Methodist women teachers accepted into the MGS any girls who wanted a modern, even a secular education. But by opening schools based on instruction in English and modern subjects, with the avowed intention of gaining Christian conversions where possible, women missionaries 'inevitably introduced European ideas, attitudes and knowledge'.20 Any girl educated in a mission school could not avoid acquiring some aspects of Western culture, whether or not this was the intention. Even so, many who experienced the process came away determined to protect and preserve their own heritage and culture, particularly in language and religion, while selecting the best from the West to enable them to advance and regenerate their own societies.21 Some were actively politicised. 'Ibu Zain', a Malay woman born in 1908, was one. [51]

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She had a father who believed that 'the only way one could fight any oppressor was to learn about them, their language, get right inside them, understand them'. Pledged to fighting for Malayan independence he was, Ibu Zain has pointed out, 'foresighted enough to give me the best kind of education. Therefore I used that very education . . . to help my people... I had to fight for their freedom, their independence, especially women.'22 For Asian females the modern education which the missionaries offered thus provided a means of social mobility and opportunities for personal development and socio-economic advance which were otherwise unlikely to have been available. It consequently helped alter the socio-political makeup of the ethnic groups in which the missionaries operated. Perhaps most importantly this education contributed significantly to undermining for Asian women the myth of white prestige and superiority. As other research into mission educational activities has illustrated: the naive Marxian view – that missionaries were agents of commercial and political [and cultural] imperialism – is shown simply to be wrong. The missionaries, so often misguided and short-sighted, were in fact pioneers of modernization, of science and of freedom.23

Yet it was not by women missionary efforts alone that the improvements in the conditions and quality of life they sought for their Asian sisters came about. All kinds of white women educators, salaried and voluntary, were effectively contributing from the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Some examples of their underlying philosophies, specific activities and the reactions of some Asian women (even if somewhat impressionistic) will illustrate the trends and indicate some typical results and developments. Convinced that the welfare of a community depended on the equal and combined contributions of both men and women, and on properly inculcating youth with the 'right attitudes' for solving national and international problems, white women educators placed a high priority on both the formal academic and informal social education of Malayan girls and women. They defined education in its widest possible sense as the intellectual and moral training, and the character development, of the individual, but not as socialisation, which Mangan defines as 'the total process by which the culture of a community, or section of a community, is passed on from one generation and assimilated, in whole or part, by the next'.24 Education for life, they argued, began in the home; consequently all females must be taught that the rôles of housewife and mother were not humiliating, subservient positions, but ones which were of essential and pre-eminent importance to society. In short, these educators were seeking to instruct Asian women and girls in the [52]

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realisation that woman's traditional sphere and interests were at both the centre and the periphery of society, and thus of everything political.25 Some argue that this type of education only reinforced conservative ideas and theories about woman's place and the rôles of women.26 Their interpretation may be relevant to the circumstances of British society: the situation in colonial Malaya was quite different. The Asian girls who received a modern education in similar subjects, values and perceptions as their metropolitan contemporaries were either only just beginning to leave considerably more restricted and controlled home environments for the wider world, or had been rescued from female infanticide, prostitution, the Mui Tsai system or similar social evils,27 in what were highly conservative Asian societies themselves only just starting to experience the winds of modern economic, technological and social changes. Of necessity women educators had to proceed cautiously, establishing their credibility with traditionalist Asian parents and other adults, persuading them that the girls would become better wives and mothers through modern education, and taking care not to offend or antagonise conservative Asian norms and values through too rapid introduction of too radical educational principles and methods. But their fundamental twofold aims in educating Asian girls were in the circumstances still quite revolutionary: 'to make them many sided, fitting them for home life' and for careers through vocational training.28 Women educators aimed to emancipate local girls within a 'traditional' framework by schooling them to be competent, healthy future wives and mothers, able to run hygienic homes, bear healthy children and be real companions for the increasing numbers of educated Malayan men. But they also aimed to imbue the girls with the ambition of acquiring a vocation because, they argued, properly trained professional and other career women were desperately needed in their own local communities.29 As education was thus intended to train Asian girls to contribute to the social structure and fabric of society, and also to the economy and public life, each school needed to provide a learning environment which would achieve these aims as well as developing the individual's character and personality.30 Aware that the colonial Malayan school system also provided a unique opportunity for inter-ethnic, inter-cultural contacts, white women educators believed that harmonious, tolerant community relations could be practically developed through the school environment as Malay, Chinese, Indian, Eurasian and Western girl students mixed together.31 To fulfil the main objectives, school curriculums were designed to include modern subjects (for example, biology, secretarial skills) and the more traditional domestic and home management skills (for example, needlework, cookery, hygiene, infant welfare). As the majority of Asian girls, like their white contemporaries, would [53]

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eventually marry and have a home to run, as well as possibly a job too, both types of training were considered essential for their future lives. Early twentieth-century women educators were also attempting to prepare their girl students to cope with changing conditions and lifestyles by developing in them character, personality, appropriate habits, initiative and independence, so that the girls could effectively direct their own lives.32 Physical fitness was an essential prerequisite for the individual's personal health and welfare, and for her to handle well, if not improve, her domestic and occupational rôles. The provision of sports in Malayan girls7 schools thus became a significant part of the whole eductional process. Through sports Asian girls gained physical emancipation. By the inter-war years they could participate in a wide variety of games, including even swimming. Sport gave them the advantages of improved personal health, physical freedom and dress reform, gains which represented a 'modern miracle'.33 Sport brought other tangible benefits: it created pride in the school name, facilitated better understanding and relations between teachers and pupils, and improved racial harmony. Among the small percentage of Asian girls who received any kind of modern education prior to the 1920s was an even tinier proportion of Malay girls whose enlightened Muslim parents held progressive ideas about the value of educating females. They allowed their daughters to have a liberal education, often in missionary schools, believing it would prove of real benefit to individual families and to Malay society.34 Among such daughters, apart from Ibu Zain, was Cik Tom, the first Malay girl to be a boarder at MGS in Kuala Lumpur (KL), and a representative example of the effects of such an education then. Cik Tom attended MGS during the First World War and, although she found the curriculum highly examination-oriented, she considers that she gained a great deal from her education, as much in social matters as in academic development. To her its main value was in learning how to live and mix with a community of girls from various ethnic groups in dormitory and school life. This, together with receiving a formal education, especially in the English language, enabled her to come out into the wider world equipped with training and skills for a more public life, for community service and in leadership. Through her school career she made enduring friendships with Indian and Eurasian girls, and to a lesser extent was friendly with Chinese, with whom she found it more difficult to mix. She believes her years at MGS taught her to be more tolerant of other communities and of their different attitudes and customs, and so gave her an excellent preparation for local life in a plural society.35 The effects a modern education had on Asian girls like Cik Tom, and the social changes resulting, were more generally apparent by the inter[54]

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war period. The following comments vividly illustrate, and are typical of, the rapid change Western-educated Asian girls experienced during one generation, largely due to the work of missionary women educators. Prior to the First World War most Asian girls lived secluded, restricted lives. Take the Chinese: before the missionaries came Chinese girls were not allowed out. They had to stay at home and were not seen... And they all [had] arranged marriages... And the missionary ladies had to go from house to house persuading the mothers to let their daughters go to school. When they did agree ... [the girls] had to go in carriages with all the curtains drawn. . ,36

By the mid-1930s the situation had changed dramatically, not only for Chinese girls. Commented one missionary teacher: the girls have short, unoiled hair, their school uniforms extend to their knees, and their party dresses are split at least to the knees. Stamp collecting and 'pen friends' in distant lands are like diseases and spread faster than measles or chicken pox. The girl of today plays netball, basket ball, rides a bicycle, sings in the choir, becomes a king or a clown in a play, teaches a Sunday school class, eats Eskimo pie, and nobody dares even to suggest whom she shall marry. In short she is free.37

The conclusion is somewhat exaggerated: many freedoms still remained to be won. But by the 1930s life for many Asian girls was undoubtedly far fuller and wider than was conceivable a quarter of a century earlier.38 Formal schooling was a major contributor to the changes, but informal education , as we shall see shortly, was not without its influence. The obvious positive effects of modern education on Asian girls also stimulated a growing desire among various groups in the different Asian communities for wider and better provision of female education.39 The colonial government did little to meet the expanding demand. Provision between the two wars in both formal and informal areas continued to fall mostly to the private initiative and interest of individual women, missionaries and Church groups. At the same time the progress already achieved in the nature and provision of girls' education was raising the serious question among Asian parents and others concerned about the issue as to what rôles Asian girls were to play in modern Malayan life and what sort of women they should strive to be.40

Informal education The task of informal education was taken up by two voluntary organisations in particular, both founded in Malaya prior to the First World War: the Young Women's Christian Association – commonly called the [55]

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YWCA or just the Y – and the Girl Guides. Of all the informal educational and welfare organisations established by women for women in Malaya, these two were the most important and influential, and had the most far-reaching effects for all women. Moreover each was linked to an international parent body and so formed part of the global women's movement. White women in Malaya set up, worked for or joined such organisations for a variety of reasons, similar to those of women educators. Among them were genuine altruism, a belief in the need to help prepare Asian societies for eventual self-government, the desire to emancipate Asian women and girls from what were believed to be restricted lives and limited lifestyles, and a conviction that reform and regeneration of Asian societies would come primarily through women. For some, Christianity provided a spiritual dynamic to social service: the YWCA and the Girl Guides both owed their origins and much of their early progress and success to missionary women, particularly American Methodists. In a paper on the origins of the Kaum Ibu (the Women's Section of the United Malay National Organisation, UMNO), Lenore Manderson appears to dismiss the pre-Second World War women's associations in Malaya as being of little importance, on the grounds that they were founded by women of the Western élite for themselves and their Malayan contemporaries, and because such organisations simply followed the aims, methods and activities of the parent bodies in the Mother Country.41 Apart from being factually inaccurate, this interpretation does these organisations less than justice. It fails to understand their significance and motivation in the historical context, their real nature and their importance as forerunners to post-Second World War developments like Kaum Ibu, the foundation of which was possible largely because of the earlier activities. Certainly the white women involved came from a limited range of socio-economic backgrounds – though a variety of nationalities – their numbers were relatively few, and the associations were organised on the principles which they had discovered were successful in their countries of origin. Nevertheless, given the circumstances of colonial rule, the restrictions placed on their public and social work by white men, and their own theories concerning sisterhood and similarities between women of all nationalities and races, it is understandable that Western women should have concluded that the most appropriate methods of informal education and social service for Asian women would be the ones which were working for them. Moreover, since women's associations were of recent innovation in the West, by starting them in the East white women were helping the process and progress of their own emancipation at the same time as they were promoting it for Asian [56]

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women. By founding and initially running these organisations white women harnessed their own and Asian women's talents and energies, formulated policies, developed women's interests and community involvement independently of men, gained practical experience and showed men their capabilities.42

The Young Women's Christian Association – the YWCA or the Y The YWCA was the earliest women's organisation to be established in the Malayan area. It was founded in Singapore in 1875, only twenty years after its inception in England, by Anglican missionary Miss Sophia Cook, so that Chinese girls, often rescued from prostitution, and white women could engage in devotional fellowship and garment-making. During 1894/5 the Y was reorganised, it expanded its programme and became far more publicly active. Subsequently it was set up on the Malay Peninsula, where it opened in Kuala Lumpur in 1914, and by 1921, with another four branches in operation, it had formed the YWCA of Malaya. It became increasingly important between the wars when its activities proliferated and membership expanded among both Western and Asian women. In 1934 it was accepted as a member of the world YWCA.43 Part of the international women's movement concerned with improving the status of women and girls, the Y's three fundamental aims were to build up Body, Mind and Spirit. In Malaya, 'concerned with all that affects woman and her welfare', it consistently championed women's rights and status. Non-sectarian, non-denominational and broadly ecumenical, it attempted to develop friendship and peace, and to give all the women it reached self-confidence, dignity and, if necessary, employable skills.44 But in what ways, and how, did the Y succeed in its aims? During the inter-war period, the Association pioneered many activities which were later taken over by other organisations, in some cases by governments after independence. These included initiating a wide variety of classes and training programmes, providing leadership training for Asian women, opening a women's employment bureau, founding youth clubs for girls (such as the Blue Triangle Pioneers), starting women's magazines (such as the Blue Triangle News – BTN) and, after the Second World War, helping to form family-planning centres. Regular social events offering opportunities for inter-ethnic friendships were an important feature of all Y branches. When these were held jointly with the Young Men's Christian Association (YMCA), young Asian women and men were able to meet in an environment approved by their parents [57]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 45

and the public. It has already been suggested that women's participation in sports was an indicator of the progress of female emancipation in Malaya – for both Western and Asian women. The Y founded many sports clubs, and by the mid-1930s mixed-race sports teams flourished, often with Asian women organising matches and events. The emancipating results of sport were numerous. Asian women have confirmed that playing games helped foster friendships with women from the various communities resident in Malaya, and encouraged moral principles such as the sporting spirit of 'fair play' believed to be characteristic of English women but (according to Asian women) generally lacking in Asian cultures. Through membership of sports club committees participants learned how to run meetings, take and deliver minutes, and assert their opinions. 46 The number of members in an organisation is usually taken as a pointer to its importance. Numerically the Y's membership was consistently modest.47 But its significance lay not in numbers, but in the nature of its membership, and in what it did. Most importantly its committees and each local association formed miniature social units which, in a hierarchical, divided colonial society, were deliberately multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, inter-denominational and even of mixed religions (for example Muslims, Buddhists). Moreover, the effects of the Y spread widely and the ramifications of its work were numerous, because it reached many more women and girls than the actual membership figures suggest. Some examples of its significance for Asian women are outlined below. Given the secluded lifestyles and the restrictions placed on even urban Asian women before the 1920s, it was a considerable achievement for the YWCA to have got local women out of their homes and joining a women's organisation at all. By the 1930s significant changes had taken place in such women's outlook and their horizons had been widened: Asian women have themselves indicated how they benefited from YWCA membership or participation. They learned how to formulate policies, plan activities programmes, chair and run meetings, and organise large- and small-scale activities, as well as how to run successful money-raising and financial campaigns and fund projects, especially for social work. Indeed, a distinctive mark of the Y's success was that Asian women not only took part in social work enterprises, but established and ran their own, such as primary schools for poor coolie children.48 By the inter-war period YWCA branches were helping the poor and needy in various ways, were assisting the various Infant Welfare Clinics, and were also involved in local efforts to stop the traffic in women and girls, and gain abolition of legalised prostitution and state-regulated brothels (achieved in 1930). During the 1930s, the Y's [58]

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social work was extended by its own members or under its auspices, often on a quasi-political dimension. The Association was, for example, directly involved with any reports and petitions concerning women and the community – such as the proposed New Marriage Legislation discussions of 1939/40.49 Among the Y's most significant achievements were its influence on Asian – and Western – women's attitudes towards inter-communal and international relations, and its rôle in teaching Asian women civic awareness, and in consciousness-raising about women's place and status. By bringing together Asian and Western women of varied backgrounds, Y activities enabled both sides to perceive that Asian women's fundamental needs were, as one white woman summed up, 'like ours, their desires the same, their opportunities fewer or greater'.50 Those participating discovered that through women's common interests they made friends, could overcome racial and cultural differences, and through sharing welfare work and social activities were 'clearing the ground of fear and prejudice'.51 Asian women have pointed out that they also benefited from acquiring appropriate social graces and Western etiquette which gave them greater confidence when associating with whites. By providing a safe environment in each Y branch for Asian women 'just leaving the shelter of the home for the outside world',52 the Association was, even indirectly, 'able to open their minds and so build up mind, body and spirit'.53 Through Y activities and publications, local women also learned that they could play an essentially constructive and beneficial role in the cause of peace by educating their families and each other in intercommunal harmony and goodwill. In Malaya's unique race-relations environment the Y could test its belief that, because of inherent similarities, the factors which link humans together, especially if female, are far more important than are any differences dividing them. As one Malayan Y leader, the American Mrs Celeste Amstutz, affirmed, 'we members of different races have experience of working together as women on common problems and interests which are big enough to make us forget racial differences'.54 Through the Malayan Y both Asian and Western women contributed practically to improving inter-communal relations, a process assisted also by belonging to a worldwide sisterhood association which itself was playing a bridge-building rôle between women of different nations and working for the cause of better international understanding. By 1931 the Y had over four million women members in fifty-eight different countries: and it was only one among a number of global women's organisations. Pledged to the causes of world peace and disarmament, the Malayan Y also worked regionally to mobilise public support for these ideals, [59]

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particularly from women, and to train women in community work and participatory democracy. In the inter-war period, as the global situation worsened economically and politically, Malayan Y members stressed the need for internationalism rather than nationalism.55 They endorsed the views of the Indian Mrs Sarajini Naidu, who in 1930 had stated bluntly that women should 'not recognise divisions of humanity merely because of race – Men have made wars and created barriers [she had continued] . . . but the purpose of womanhood in the nations and the world's life is to do away with those temporary barriers.'56 The Malayan Y consistently encouraged all its members to work for this revolutionary purpose. It should be pointed out, however, that the Y did not always achieve its aim of developing harmonious inter-racial relations and friendships within its Malayan organisation. Despite its motto 'By Love Serve One Another', both white and Asian women experienced attitudes of racial superiority and typically English arrogance among some Y members.57 While individual failures in fulfilling the Association's aims certainly occurred, Malayan women have nevertheless confirmed in interviews the importance of the YWCA in various ways to many Asian women and girls during the inter-war period, irrespective of the hierarchical and condescending attitudes and behaviour of a proportion of white women. According to these Asian women, by participating in the Y they could lead richer, fuller lives in ways approved by their menfolk (husbands and/or fathers) – an important preliminary to gaining freedom in a conservative society – in an environment where they were not subjected to the temptations of 'Western' vices such as alcohol (understandably no liquor was served at Y functions). Importantly too, their participation was not dependent on their being Christians, nor on their converting to Christianity. Those interviewed have also paid tribute to Western women leaders and members for training local women in community responsibility, citizenship and leadership, for helping them form interracial friendships, and for bringing them into public life. The Y reputedly did 'a fantastic job' in helping to emancipate Asian women, and respondents have given white women full credit for initiating in Malaya much of the social service work that local women have taken over since independence.58 Asian women, said one, owe thanks to Western members of the Malayan Y up to the Second World War 'for giving us an attitude of service for mankind. Voluntary work must come from the heart.'59 Asian women interviewed have all agreed that because the Y consistently worked to 'fill needs' for women and girls which it identified locally, it not only brought women out into the wider community, but as a result came to be composed of 'ordinary people trying to do extraordinary things', such as restructuring society.60 The Y's 'filling [60]

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needs' policy, they say, has also greatly helped in many practical ways local women and girls from a wide variety of socio-economic backgrounds, both before and since the Second World War. Numbers of women, including poor ones, have obtained vocational training and employable skills. Filling needs' also resulted in the provision of extracurricular leisure activities, in the foundation of adult and technical education for women, hostels, creches and kindergartens, and in opening the way for public discussion of birth control, and the eventual establishment of the Family Planning Association (FPA), initially in Singapore in 1949. Although the independent governments of Malaysia and Singapore have now taken over many of these functions, Asian women have shown how the local Y continues to play a vitally important social service rôle, filling the gaps and maintaining a presence where official government involvement cannot or will not reach, while working along the lines of, and on the foundations laid by the Western and Asian pioneers, with adaptations to the local environment and conditions. In both Malaysia and Singapore the Y today also remains an association where women of all ethnic groups meet, mix and make friends.61 By acting as a buffer between conservative Asian communities and the effects of modern socio-economic development in colonial Malaya, the YWCA helped to ensure, wherever possible, that inevitable processes of social change took place with some measure of control, and that the emancipation considered vitally necessary for Asian women and girls to cope with change was introduced in ways which caused the least disruption and dislocation to very disparate indigenous and immigrant cultures.

The Girl Guide Movement The Girl Guide Movement in Malaya, like its sister YWCA, was similarly part of the burgeoning international sisterhood movement of the earlier twentieth century, and was loosely linked to Guiding in Britain, whose expansion and progress it mirrored. Begun in Britain in 1909, Guiding's development was limited until 1916 when the circumstances of the First World War, the involvement of Baden-Powell's wife Olave and the formulation of a new philosophy stimulated rapid expansion.62 In Malaya the first Guide company opened in Singapore in 1914 and thereafter Guiding's growth as a youth movement for girls paralleled much of the British experience, though specific aspects of its organisation and activities were partly adapted to local circumstances and conditions.63 [61]

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Guiding, with Scouting, might appear to reflect the popular face of imperialism prior to 1914 and, according to Dyhouse, as a movement for females Guiding lay within an essentially conservative Social Darwinian mould.64 Such views are too narrow. As Warren shows, both Guiding and Scouting were genuinely international and popular movements whose purposes and philosophies changed through time. He rightly argues that their underpinnings were based on more than just the imperial beliefs of the day and were far more complex than what has generally been assumed to be the case by historians and others. According to Warren, although Baden-Powell's own perceptions about the two movements adapted with events, they were underlaid by certain consistent beliefs and trends.65 Vociferously opposed to colour and class prejudice, Baden-Powell saw both Guiding and Scouting as means of achieving social and racial harmony, as vehicles for cementing domestic unity in multi-ethnic, plural societies, and as a way of linking the disparate parts of the British Empire into a united, international Commonwealth. In 1916 the new philosophy of Guiding expounded by the Baden-Powells contained many more of his basic beliefs, including those regarding women and girls. Accepting a separate sphere for women which incorporated distinctive rôles and responsibilities as wives and mothers, the philosophy nevertheless promulgated a basic equality of status between women and men everywhere. 66 Such views must have been very appealing to the missionary, and to other Western women founders of Guiding in Malaya, and to their perceptions of certain cultural characteristics and customs among the country's Asian communities concerning the unequal place and status of women. Hence, the white women who got involved with the Movement did so not for reasons of imperialism or imperial ideology, but because Guiding seemed a legitimate and acceptable means of stimulating the emancipation of Asian girls through informal educational methods adapted to local needs, which would both promote the individual's personal development and contribute practically to improving inter-ethnic relations in the divided and plural society of colonial Malaya.67 However, detailed historical analysis of the Malayan Guiding Movement in order to establish white women's aims and Asian women's responses has proved difficult. Little has been written about Guiding anywhere, and finding relevant source materials is a major problem,68 particularly for Malaya. Accordingly some of the observations which follow may be somewhat impressionistic, but I believe they are significant and illustrate the main trends. In Malaya, Guiding's objectives were broadly similar to those of both the metropolitan Movement and the local YWCA. They included developing qualities of comradeship, leadership, self-help, tolerance and [62]

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community service, which combined would serve as a preparation for citizenship. Guiding also sought to develop individual character in Asian girls, especially by imbuing ideals of truthfulness, courage, courtesy and duty, using practical, adventurous and flexible methods.69 As a voluntary, multi-ethnic and global movement, 'founded on genuine friendship, love and understanding',70 its supporters felt sure it would promote among Malayan girls perceptions of international sisterhood. The emphasis laid on making 'efficient citizens, good homemakers and mothers', combined with its intensely practical outlook, made Guiding acceptable to a percentage of parents of all nationalities, white and Asian, in the conservative world of early twentieth-century Malaya.71 Based on the belief that the interests and educational needs of women and girls everywhere are much the same, Guiding in Malaya sought to equip Asian girls for their future rôles in life, whatever these might be, by developing in them skills and abilities similar to those believed beneficial to their Western contemporaries. As Mrs B.Thomas, Commissioner for Malaya, affirmed in 1935: 'what appeals to and helps girls in the West has much the same effect on the eastern girl'.72 Evidence from Asian women that the story of Guiding in Malaya 'is closely inter-woven with the history of women's emancipation in this part of the world',73 endorses these perceptions of similarities and sisterhood. But these views, and Guiding's actual achievements, require further consideration since the Movement's foundation and expansion were not easy. When the first Guide companies began unofficially in Singapore in 1914 and KL in 1916, it was in conjunction with Anglican and Methodist educational institutions; by 1921 there were already sufficient companies to form the Malayan Headquarters Council. Between the wars the movement expanded to incorporate Brownies and Rangers, grew steadily though modestly in numbers, and spread on the west coast of the Malay Peninsula, on Penang and Malacca, and in parts of Borneo including Brunei, with girls' schools in each area being the main recruiting centres.74 Although the founding companies were multi-racial, it was not until the 1930s that Malay membership really became noticeable – a significant achievement. The first Malay vernacular Brownie pack was started in KL in 1931 by Commissioner Mrs B. Thomas, with the endorsement of His Highness (HH) the Sultan of Selangor, who 'sympathetically supported the inauguration of the Movement among the Malays'.75 It began a trend. Malay vernacular companies opened throughout the country during the 1930s, often in conjunction with Malay girls' schools, or through the efforts of individual educated Malay women such as Cik Tom in Kedah and Ibu Zain in Johore. Ibu Zain, the first Malay woman to become a guide, was convinced that the movement could help emancipate Malay girls appropriately since 'its prin[63]

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ciples were, and are, in accordance with Islamic teachings'.76 As in other parts of the British Empire, Guiding did not make real progress in Malaya until the 1920s. In its early years it faced many difficulties. There was frequently an acute shortage of helpers (all voluntary), and often only the tireless efforts of individuals kept it going.77 Many Asian grandmothers, and parents, were commonly opposed to young girls having greater independence than they had enjoyed themselves, despite 'the old sheltered life being no longer possible'.78 Opposition also came from certain Western and Asian men, while some convent school nuns thought Guiding unnecessary for their girls.79 But slowly the Malayan Movement overcame the barriers, and when, in the late 1920s, some of the Malay sultans and their wives and consorts gave Guiding their patronage and enrolled their own daughters, hostility declined.80 Guiding then increasingly gained support from Western and Asian men too. The colonial government began giving annual grants from 1928, various Asian men assisted financially, and the local press wrote favourable reports.81 The colonial government's change of heart was linked to a similar reassessment in India where attitudes had reversed from open antagonism to Guiding and Scouting to seeing them as movements beneficial to subject peoples and to the new policy emphasis on the development of social service and welfare work among indigenous and immigrant races throughout the Empire. In Malaya and India the colonial governments had initially regarded both movements as subversive, out of line with their 'divide and rule' policies.82 By the late 1920s achieving the objectives of such movements seemed essential to honouring the 'white man's burden' and to the continuation of Empire. In Malaya Guiding would have continued anyway, with or without official support, since by the early 1930s its benefits to girls and adults, Asian and Western alike, were obvious. So what had it achieved, and how can it be assessed? First, Guiding established a multi-ethnic youth movement for Malayan and expatriate girls, with rôles for women too, which provided opportunities for personal development, self-expression, leadership and community service. As early as 1935 it was reported that, within the Girl Guide Movement, 'gradually the girls of the country are undertaking posts of responsibility'.83 Significantly, Guiding was not only an urban movement; it reached girls in rural areas too, partly because it was overtly non-sectarian and ecumenical, which attracted Muslims, and partly because of its healthy, useful, outdoor, practical activities.84 The results were soon noticeable: by 1922, for example, the Pinang Gazette could remark on 'the trim smart appearance and the alert efficient manner' and on the skilfulness and enthusiasm of seventy girls attending a Guide rally.85 [64]

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Guiding in Malaya also successfully achieved one of the Movement's primary objectives: practical multi-racialism, within the context of the pre-Second World War colonial environment. Guides and guiders came from many different races and nationalities, and the Movement's activities encouraged and helped them to cross ethnic, cultural and linguistic barriers, and to develop mutual respect and tolerance. The camps, which were held regularly, were practical examples of these aims and ideals. At the highly successful all-Malayan camp of 1931, the mixed-nationalities patrols included Malays, Chinese, Eurasians, Japanese, Sri Lankans, Indians, British, mainland Europeans, Americans and Australians. Concern that the differences between the girls might cause problems proved groundless for, as the then Commissioner Mrs Cavendish pointed out, they 'were all sisters regardless of. . . nationality, creeds or customs' and if they 'could not live happily together Guiding was useless'.86 In assessing the significance and effects of Guiding it is essential to remember the restricted lives Asian women and girls had lived in Malaya prior to the First World War. Like the YWCA, Guiding stimulated social change and the practical emancipation of many Asian girls and women, helped to upgrade the status and quality of home life by giving training in new techniques, technology and methods, and introduced new principles and attitudes. On such factors has been based, at least partly, the considerable progress in widening their spheres of activity that Asian women and girls have experienced in the twentieth century. Even if the numbers who joined Guiding were small,87 those who participated acted as rôle models for others, while the Movement's activities offered useful examples of appropriate programmes for future school curriculums and youth organisations in independent Malaya. Asian women have themselves given positive evidence of Guiding's achievements. They remember Guiding teaching them the spirit of 'Be Prepared', fair play and gamesmanship, a range of basic practical skills, and a sense of community, citizenship and comradeship with girls of other races.88 It also helped them cope relatively painlessly with modernisation.

Conclusion For both white and Asian women in colonial Malaya the imperial experience was in part a positive one with certain liberating and beneficial effects. Assessing attitudes and motivations is difficult but, in their formal and informal educational work for Asian women and girls, it is clear that white women were not simply attempting to reinforce [65]

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colonial domination or establish subtle methods of socialisation. Certain-ly they wielded power in their own educational institutions, but they did not use it primarily 'to train the colonized for roles that suited the colonizer'.89 Nor did wielding power mean initiating educational policies designed to perpetuate imperial rule or to impose Western cultural values. Undoubtedly there were some conservative women educators in colonial Malaya who accepted and endorsed imperialism and 'male' imperial attitudes and values, including white superiority. They may also have genuinely believed that imperial rule brought real benefits to the Asian subject races. If any were missionaries they certainly hoped to gain Christian converts. But whatever their philosophical attitudes and beliefs, the educational work in which white women were involved challenged imperialism and its assumptions in both direct and subtle ways. Colonised themselves by white men, white women were able to go outside the boundaries to which men and imperialism assign-ed them by initiating education for Asian females. Thus they indirectly challenged male power and undermined the foundations of white male dominance. A disparate group in their origins, women educators could not be relied on to conform to the accepted norms of white (British) colonial society in Malaya. They were primarily interested not in the rhetoric of imperialism, nor in transposing imperial culture, but in providing through practical means what they believed would be beneficial education for Asian females. Hierarchical though their relationships with Asian women may often have been, yet many fashioned close, individual, equal friendships that endured the test of time. With their varied nationalities and backgrounds, many women educators proved to be rôle models for women's emancipation and for humanitarianism, rather than agents of Western socialisation and imperialism. Among them were many missionary teachers who dedicated themselves to community service based on Christian principles. Though not highly qualified, but nevertheless educated, independent and 'very Christian' women, these missionary wives and 'missies' 'mothered, loved and cared for' 'countless thankful' Asian girls to whom they were 'the only mothers on earth they know'.90 To portray their actions and attitudes as 'colonial maternalism' would be to misrepresent completely their idealism and intentions. Filled with perceptions of a common humanity, many missionary women educators gave the best years of their lives for their Asian girl students. One who remembers them well has commented: 'they were very loved... by the people. ... [And] they were very interested in helping the people... really loving the people and wanting to help.'91 Regrettably only limited evidence is available to illustrate what [66]

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Asian women thought about white women educators and their aims and motivations. This paper has suggested some of their views. For many Asian females in colonial Malaya a modern education based on ideals of Christianity and humanitarianism, and on concepts of public service and citizenship for women, had both creative and disruptive effects. Although such education did not make Asian women in general either vociferously anti-imperial or anti-British, it did act as a catalyst to political activity and public service for many. It also undermined the myths of white prestige and superiority. Ibu Zain knew that 'the basis of the Malays' awe of the British was not because they were WHITE, but that they were better educated'.92 Sadly for the Malays far fewer of their women and girls obtained a modern education during the colonial period than did Chinese and Indian females. Both the Chinese and Indian communities in general, and individual women in each, responded far more positively than did the Malays to the opportunities for female education which white women created within the colonial situation. Thus they also reaped any benefits to a far greater extent. By comparison the Malays, protected by the colonial government, and provided mostly with vernacular schools and traditional curriculums, had neither the opportunities nor the incentives to gain a modern education, particularly for their women. But for those women and girls from any of the Asian communities who did receive one, a modern education negated the 'awe', emancipated them and enabled them to contribute to the development of their own country and communities. Education mobilised Asian women and helped to change the status quo in colonial Malaya. Women missionaries in particular must bear responsibility for stimulating these developments. As Lim Ming Te, who in the mid-1930s (after studying at the University of London) became one of the first women barristers to practise in Malaya, affirms: 'Whatever the charges against Christianity, the emancipation of women, directly or indirectly... owed it a great deal.'93 Although much research remains to be done into the rôles, activities and effects which white women had throughout the British Empire, undoubtedly they helped to bring about the end of that Empire, particularly through their educational work by women for women. Paradoxically, if there has been any value in imperialism at all, much of it could be said to lie in what white women educators founded, achieved and left behind. Certainly in colonial Malaya, through the medium of formal and informal education, both white and Asian women discovered positively that they were indeed 'sisters under the skin'.

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Notes In this chapter the term 'Malaya' is used to cover former British colonial possessions in the geographical areas previously known as the Straits Settlements (Malacca, Penang and Singapore) and the Malay Peninsula – now divided into West Malaysia and Singapore – as well as the Borneo States of British North Borneo (now Sabah) and Sarawak. 1 Charles A\len,Raj: A Scrapbook of British India, 1877–1947, London, Andre Deutsch, 1977, p. 18; Kenneth Ballhatchet, Race, Sex and Class under the Raj, London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1980, esp. Introduction, pp. 1–9. For further discussion on whether white women were the 'ruin of Empire' see Janice N. Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs in colonial Malaya: a study of European wives in a British colony and protectorate, 1900–1940', in Hilary Callan and Shirley Ardener (eds), The Incorporated Wife, London, Croom Helm, 1984, pp. 186–210; Claudia Knapman, White Women in Fiji, 1835–1930: The Ruin of Empire! . . . , Sydney, Allen & Unwin, 1986; and Helen Callway, Gender, Culture and Empire: European Women in Colonial Nigeria, London, Macmillan, 1987. In this chapter the terms European, white and Western are used interchangeably. The title 'Memsahib' was the usual term for a married European woman. 2 For discussion of the importance of women's presence and activities, and examples of recent research see: Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs'; Knapman, White Women in Fiji; and Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire. John MacKenzie also affirms that the rôles of girls and women in Empire, including in youth organisations and imperial ideologies, have been 'too little studied' – see his Imperialism and Popular Culture, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1986, p. 12. 3 The argument that white women's paricular attributes as women contributed positively to the loss of the Empire and the gain of the Commonwealth is convincingly put by Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire, pp. 243–4. 4 Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs', passim. That women do not fit into men's models of society, and that women's reality confronts and challenges men's in many ways and at various levels, has been considered by both anthropologists and psychoanalysts – see, for example, Edwin Ardener, 'Belief and the problem of women', in Shirley Ardener (ed.), Perceiving Women, London, Dent & Sons, 1977 (first published 1975), pp. 1–17, and Jean Baker Miller, Toward a New Pyschology of Women, Boston, Beacon Press, 1976. 5 Space does not permit discussion about the process of social change through culture contact, on which there is a growing body of literature. In the South-east Asian context historians disagree about the extent to which Western cultural and social norms have been either imposed or absorbed. 6 George H. Nadel and Perry Curtis, Imperialism and Colonialism, London, Macmillan, 1966, and discussion of their definition and those of others in J. A. Mangan, Introduction: imperialism, history and education, in J. A. Mangan (ed.), 'Benefits Bestowed'? Education and British Imperialism, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1988, pp. 1–22, esp. Part I, pp. 1–3. 7 Philip Mason, Patterns of Dominance, London, Oxford University Press, 1970, esp. pp. 10–12. 8 On the importance of the public schools and universities, and on the values taught, including the rôle of games, see: J. A. Mangan, Athleticism in the Victorian and Edwardian Public School: The Emergence and Consolidation of an Educational Ideology, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1981; E. C. Mack, Public Schools and British Opinion since 1860, New York, Columbia University Press, 1941; H. B. Gray, The Public Schools and the Empire, London, Williams & Norgate, 1913; and MacKenzie, Imperialism, p. 11. 9 Calaway, Gender, Culture and Empire, chs. 2 and 10. 10 Dorothy Cator, Everyday Life Among the Headhunters and Other Experiences from East to West, London, Longmans, Green, 1905, p. 15. The presumed civilising influence of white women in the Empire is argued or discussed in various sources, e.g. Mrs Ellice Hopkins, The Power of Womanhood or Mothers and Sons, London, Wells, Gardner, Drayton, 1899; Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs', pp. 189–91; and Callaway, Gender,

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THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN IN MALAYA Culture and Empire, passim. 11 Carol Dyhouse, Girls Growing Up in Late Victorian and Edwardian England, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981, esp. ch. 2. 12 On boys' education, and the failure of public schools to prepare boys appropriately for Empire, see: Gray, The Public Schools, e.g. pp. viii, 19, 23, 27, 39, 73,371,373; Mack, Public Schools, pp. 459 ff.; and Mangan, Introduction, 'Benefits Bestowed'!, Part I, p. 4, and Part II, p. 7, and compare MacKenzie's arguments on the pervasiveness of popular culture and propaganda for the cause of imperialism in John M. MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1984. 13 Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs', pp. 201–6. in this chapter I have deliberately not addressed the phenomenon of class. This is partly because it is not generally appropriate to my particular set of examples of women educators and their national origins (see text). But also, given the limitations of length, a class analysis would give undue emphasis to English women teachers, while taking valuable space away from the main issues for discussion. However, the class origins and/or social backgrounds of the English and other British women teachers are discussed in my forthcoming thesis 'White female society in colonial Malaya, 1890–1941'. 14 The argument that the balance in world power was changing, with the movement of its centre towards the Pacific at this time, is forcefully put by Geoffrey Barraclough, An Introduction to Contemporary History, London, Pelican, 1981 (first published, Pelican edition, 1967), passim. Concern that the English had played a very small part in English teaching schools in Malaya, compared with the Americans and the French, was expressed by Mrs (Dr) C. E. Ferguson-Davie, In Rubber Lands, London, Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, 1921, pp. 77–8. 15 Apart from independence movements in India, there was political unrest among certain Chinese groups in Malaya, and the disgrace of the Amritsar Massacre in 1919. 16 For general discussion of the arguments and the rôles white women might play see: Dora Ibberson, 'Women's work in the tropical colonies: breaking new ground in many directions', reprinted from ]ournal of Careers, 1932, held in Fawcett Library, London, no page numbers; Professor Ernest Barker and Miss Freya Stark, 'Women in the British Empire', Contemporary Review, January 1932, pp. 54–61 ; and Anna Davin, 'Imperialism and motherhood', History Workshop Journal, Issue 5, Spring 1978, pp. 9–65. 17 Brownfoot, 'Memsahibs', pp. 189, 204. 18 Evidence on women educators' motivations can be found in articles written for the various mission journals and Annual Reports of Missions, not necessarily by missionaries. Sources include the Malaysia Message (the Methodists' monthly magazine), St Andrews Outlook (Presbyterian) and the Annual Reports of the Singapore Diocesan Association (Anglican), from the 1890s to the 1940s. See also Brian Holmes (ed.), Educational Policy and the Mission Schools, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1967, esp. Preface, and Holmes, 'British imperial policy and the mission schools', pp. 5–44; Stephen Neill, Colonialism and Christian Missions, London, Lutterworth Press, 1966, pp 412–25; Keith Watson, 'Contribution of mission schools to educational development in South East Asia', in Keith Watson (ed.), Education in the Third World, London, Croom Helm, 1982, pp. 75–81; and John Skrine, Foreword, in J. M. Gullick, Josephine Foss and the Pudu English School, Petaling Jay a, Pelanduk Publications, 1988, p. vii. 19 Malaysia Message, Vol. 20, No. 9, June 1911, p. 66. 20 Holmes, 'British imperial policy', p. 22. Holmes provides a balanced discussion of the effects of Western education. For a more recent analysis for Malaya see Watson, 'Contribution of mission schools', pp. 71–87. 21 Holmes, 'British imperial policy', p. 22, comes to a similar conclusion, while Barraclough, Contemporary History, passim, discusses the catalytic effects of such education in a global context. 22 Ibu Zain, Interview, October–November 1982 (interviewed on behalf of the writer by Ms Jenifah Dadameah of Muar, Johore, Malaysia). All interviews cited in this chapter are in the writer's possession. 23 J. A. Lauwerys, Preface, in Holmes, Educational Policy, p. x. 24 This definition is provided by Mangan, Introduction, 'Benefits Bestowed'!, Part II, p. 5.

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 25 Conclusion drawn from evidence in numerous articles by women educators in missionary journals, magazines and annual reports, see note 18. 26 See, for example, Dyhouse, Girls Growing Up; and Davin, Imperialism and motherhood'. 27 Unwanted Chinese girl babies, and girl babies resulting from relationships between white men and Asian women (e.g. mistresses, prostitutes) were often left on the doorsteps of Catholic convents in Malaya, while headmistresses of Methodist and Anglican girls' schools would take in unwanted older girls. See, for example, Gullick, Josephine Foss, pp. 84–92. Mui Tsai (meaning literally 'little younger sister') was a traditional Chinese social system whereby a young girl was transferred from, or sold by, her own family to another (sometimes as security on a loan) in a form of domestic servitude often amounting to slavery. Indicative of the low esteem in which females were held in Chinese society, the girls were given board and lodging but received no regular wages, had no freedom, civil rights or status, and were generally exploited. Many were concubines and some became prostitutes. See Janet Lim, Sold for Silver, London, Fontana, 1976 (first published by Collins, 1958). 28 J. Foss, The education of girls in Malaya', St Andrews Outlook, December 1935, p. 11. Miss Foss was headmistress of the Anglican 'Pudu English School' in Kuala Lumpur. See also Gullick, Josephine Foss, esp. 'Reforming the Curriculum', pp. 62–77. 29 Foss, 'The education of girls', pp. 11, 13; Miss Olson, Miss Olson and a Chinese girls' boarding school', The Roda, Vol. 4, No. 11, May 1935, pp. 725, 727,'729; and Gullick, Josephine Foss, pp. 62–77. 30 Miss Olson lists seven main objectives covering all aspects of the individuals development which school curriculums were to provide. These ranged from the '3Rs' and vocational preparation to training for citizenship, ethical character and leisure: 'Miss Olson', pp. 725, 727, 729. 31 Olson, 'Miss Olson', pp. 727, 729. At least a few Western girls would normally be students in Malayan girls' schools since, unlike boys, not all would be sent 'Home' to boarding school, particularly if a choice had to be made due to available funds. The education of Western boys always came first. 32 Information in this paragraph is based on evidence in the mission magazines and journals listed above, and in Foss, 'The education of girls', and Olson, 'Miss Olson', as well as in various collections of letters, including those of women missionaries held in United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (USPG) files, and in Mary Hodgkin's letters to her family during the 1930s, photocopies in the writer's possession. The memoirs of Methodist Girls' School (MGS) Kuala Lumpur Headmistress, Miss Mabel Marsh, are also very informative, e.g. A Wagon that was Hitched to a Star, Singapore, privately published, c.1927. See also Gullick, Josephine Foss, pp. 62–77. 33 Mabel Marsh, 'The new freedom and athletics in girls' schools', Malaysia Message, Vol. 40, No. 11, November 1930, pp. 7, 22. 34 Ibu Zain, Interview, 1982; Cik Tom, Interview, September 1976; and A. M. Yusuff Izzudin, 'Moslems and education of women', The Roda, Vol. 12, No. 98, October 1939, p. 135. 35 Cik Tom, Interview, 1976. 36 Miss Ruth Ho, Interview, July 1976. Miss Ho was educated at the Methodist Girls' School in Malacca, and in England and the USA. She became a teacher, taught in various Methodist girls' schools and latterly was Principal. Ruth Ho, Rainbow Round My Shoulder, Singapore, Eastern Universities Press, 1975. 37 Miss E. Bunce, 'After Twenty Five years', St Andrews Outlook, 84, April 1936, p. 41. 38 Gertrude Owen, then General Secretary of the Malayan YWCA, discusses the limitations Asian girls were still suffering and outlines the range of freedoms they were said to be demanding. Gertrude Owen, MBE, 'Aspirations of the Malayan girl', St Andrews Outlook, 84, April 1936, pp. 36–7. 39 Most of the girls' schools in Malaya were developed with active support, together with practical financial and physical assistance, from Asians and Eurasians. Very little help came from whites, apart from limited government provision. 40 See, for example, the comments of two Chinese girls writing in Malaysia Message, Vol.

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THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN IN MALAYA 34, No. 7, April 1924, p. 48. 41 Lenore Manderson, The shaping of the Kaum Ibu (women's section) of the United Malays National Organisation', Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, Vol. 3, No. 1, Fall 1977, p. 212. 42 Barker and Stark, 'Women in the British Empire', pp. 54–61. 43 Information on the early YWCA is fragmentary, see: Anonymous, 'YWCA–Singapore', typescript, dated 30 November 1970; YWCA: 'History, Constitution and Structure', typed sheet, dated 10 May 1973, issued by YWCA, Singapore; and This Is the YWCA, 1875–1975, pamphlet. Copies of all three are in the writer's possession. See also Malaysia Message, Vol. 38, No. 10, June 1925, p. 71, and vol. 40, No. 12, December 1930, p. 15. 44 Sources include: Anonymous, 'YWCA–Singapore'; 'YWCA: History'; and This Is the YWCA; plus information in Mrs Rasma Bhupalan, text of a speech broadcast on 8 June 1975, filed at Siaran Akbar, Hen 6/65/96 (Best), Straits Times files, Kuala Lumpur; Mrs Celeste Amstutz, 'Farewell Talk' at Singapore YWCA on 18 September 1964, reported in Blue Triangle News, Vol. 26, No. 3, December 1964, p. 2, and Straits Times, 1 April 1930. 45 Apart from sources already quoted, detailed information on YWCA activities and events can be found in extant copies of the Blue Triangle News (henceforth BIN), the magazine of the Malayan YWCA, for 1930, 1931 and 1938-41, held in the British Library, London. 46 Details on sporting activities appeared regularly in the BTN. On the significance of sport see in particular Lilla Parcell, 'Athletic activities of women in Malaya', BTN, Vol. 12, No. 6, June 1938, pp. 4–6, and interviews with Asian women, such as Mrs Ho, Interview, July 1976, and her daughter Miss Ruth Ho, 1976. 47 It is difficult to find evidence of exact figures, although there are indications of the membership of individual branches in various issues of the BTN, and in Amstutz, 'Farewell talk', p. 2. 48 Evidence can be found in reports and information scattered throughout the BTN, and in interviews with, for example, Mrs Florence Lim, June 1976; Mrs Goh Kok Kee, June 1976; Mrs Helen Tan, August 1976; Mrs Goh Keng Swee, August 1976 and Mrs Ruby Norris, August 1976. Details of Chinese and Indian women's social work appear in issues of the BTN for 1939, 1940 and 1941. 49 BTN, in particular vol. 5, No. 9, September 1931; vol. 5, No. 10, October 1931; and Vol. 13, No. 12, December 1939. On the issue of prostitution in the British Empire – historians of Empire have only recently begun to consider this subject seriously. As a result there has been both debate and controversy concerning the various Contagious Diseases (CD) Acts, the campaigns leading to their repeal, and the importance of the abolition of legalised prostitution and state-regulated brothels. See, for example, Ballhatchet, Race, Sex and Class, passim, for India; John G. Butcher, The British in Malaya 1880–1941, Kuala Lumpur, Oxford University Press, 1979, ch. 8 on Malaya; and Ronald Hyam, 'Empire and sexual opportunity', Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, Vol. 14, No. 2, January 1986, pp. 34–90, on the Empire generally. Concerned women's and/or Christian organisations, such as the YWCA, were opposed to the state control of prostitution for a number of reasons, including the argument that it did not achieve its aims, notably prevention of the spread of venereal diseases (VD). Indeed, according to Butcher, in the Federated Malay States (FMS) in the 1930s, following the legislation in 1930/1 which made brothels illegal, there was actually a marked reduction in the incidence of VD – see British in Malaya, p. 219, figure 4, and p. 221. Furthermore, state regulation was regarded as infringing women's civil rights, supporting the 'double standard' and according the prostitute second-class status, since it identified her but not her client. In short it was fundamentally at odds with the principles of feminism and women's emancipation, and with the view that, whatever a woman's colour, race or background, her civil and individual rights were of far more importance than was limiting VD among white males. 50 BTN, Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1931, p. 1. 51 BTN,Vol. 5, No. 11, 1931, p. 1.

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 52 BTN, Vol. 4, No. 12, December 1930, no page number. 53 Conclusion of local member Mrs Ruby Norris, Interview, 1976. 54 BTN, Vol. 14, No. 1, January 1940, p. 14. See also Gertrude Owen, MBE, The East and the West shall meet', St Andrews Outlook, 87, December 1936, pp. 12 and 15; and Mrs E. Davies, BTN, Vol. 15, No. 7, July 1941, p. 6. 55 Information in BTN includes vol. 5, No. 11, 1931; and Davies, BTN, Vol. 15, No. 7, 1941, p. 6. 56 BTN, Vol. 5, No. 4, April 1931, no page number. Mrs Naidu, a poet and social reformer who had studied at King's College London and Girton College in the 1890s, was then President of the All India Women's Conference. 57 nterviews with various Asian and white women, some of whom have asked to be anonymous. One American woman remembered hearing an English 'mem' refer to Asian Y members as 'our black beetles'. 58 Interviews include those with Lim, Goh Kok Kee, Tan, Goh Keng Swee and Norris, 1976, and those with other Asian women who wish to remain anonymous. 59 Tan, Interview, 1976. 60 Tan, Interview, 1976, and writer's notes of a talk given by Miss Mary Tan at YWCA Meeting, Kuala Lumpur, 25 August 1976. 61 Tan, Interview, 1976; Tan, Talk, 1976; Norris, Interview, 1976 and Mrs Hodge, Inteview, August 1976. 62 See Allan Warren, 'Citizens of the Empire: Baden-Powell, Scouts and Guides and an imperial ideal, 1900–1940', in MacKenzie, Imperialism, pp. 235,244–7; Rose Kerr, The Story of the Girl Guides, London, The Girl Guides Association, 1960 (first published 1932). 63 For example the Guide uniform was modified for Muslim girls to suit the requirement that they cover their arms and legs. Ibu Zain helped design their uniform, which was khaki-coloured. 64 See Warren's discussion of this interpretation, 'Citizens of the Empire', pp. 235–6; Dyhouse, Girls Growing Up, pp. 104, 110–14. 65 Warren, 'Citizens of the Empire', pp. 235–42. 66 Ibid., p. 244–6. 67 Guiding must also have offered a useful way of challenging certain practices which, even in Malaya, limited the physical independence of some women, e.g. purdah, foot binding. 68 Warren confirms how little research has been undertaken on Guiding, whether in Britain or elsewhere, and comments that resources are 'expensively scattered' – 'Citizens of Empire', p. 236. For Malaya the difficulties are exacerbated as so many records were lost or destroyed during the Japanese occupation. 69 Mrs Jean Cavendish, Report (on Guiding in Malaya), British Association of Malaya (BAM) Collection, Box 4/2, No. 10, n.d. (held in the Royal Commonwealth Society (RCS) library, London); Golden Jubilee Magazine (of Guiding), Singapore, 1967, pp. 22, 29, 49. 70 Mrs F. S. Muthu, 'Pioneer work in Guiding', in Cavendish, BAM, Box 4/2, second page. 71 Golden Jubilee Magazine, 1967, p. 29. 72 [Mrs] B. H.Thomas, 'Guiding in Malaya', St Andrews Outlook, Vol. 83, December 1935, p. 45. 73 Golden Jubilee Magazine, 1967, p. 29. 74 On the early history and spread of Guiding see: Cavendish, Report; 'History of Guiding', pp. 12–15, in Cavendish; Thomas, 'Guiding', pp. 45-7; Cathedral Monthly Paper (of St Andrew's Cathedral, Singapore–later called the Courier), December 1914, p. 2; and Marsh, A Wagon, passim. 75 Mrs Jean Cavendish, 'Early days of Guiding in Malaya', BAM Collection, Box 4/2, pp. 2,25. 76 Ibu Zain, Interview, 1982. On increasing Malay involvement see also 'History of Guiding', pp. 15, 16; Cavendish, 'Early days', p. 16; 'From the Commissioner for Malaya' sheet, n.d., p. 37, and 'Important dates in the history of Guiding', p. 40, in BAM Collection, Box 4/2; and report in the Straits Times, 1 May 1933.

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89

90 91 92 93

Thomas, 'Guiding', pp. 45–7; and 'Important dates', pp. 39, 40. Thomas, 'Guiding', pp. 45–7. Cavendish, 'Early days', pp. 14-15, 21; 'Important dates', pp. 39, 40. See sources in note 76. 'History of Guiding', pp. 15,19 and conclusion, and various press reports in the Straits Times and the Malay Mail during the late 1920s and the 1930s. On India see Warren/Citizens of Empire', pp. 248–9. Thomas, 'Guiding', p. 46. Ibid., passim; and Muthu, 'Pioneer work', p. 1. Pinang Gazette, 15 July 1922. Cavendish/Early days', p. 26. Mrs Mary Hodgkin makes some interesting and positive comments on the 1932 camp in letters written home to her family dated 6,8,21 April and 12 May 1932. Some suggestions as to why there were relatively few Girl Guides in Malaya compared with Boy Scouts are contained in L. Richmond Wheeler, Scouting in the Tropics, London, C. Arthur Pearson, 1926, esp. p. 185. Golden Jubilee Magazine, pp. 14, 22; Mrs Wong, Interview, July 1976; and comments by various other Asian women in interviews. Although the Asian women whose opinions are recorded in this chapter were articulate, educated women from the 'upper' ranks of their respective communities, it must not be thought that the Y and the Girl Guides helped the emancipation of women and girls only from among the 'elite' of these Asian societies. Many poor women and girls gained skills and basic education through Y classes, while some of the girls who attended mission schools and joined their Guide companies came from deprived or socially unacceptable backgrounds (see notes 27 and 48). Those from the 'élite' or educated sectors may have taken leadership positions, but those from much further down the social scale derived definite benefits and emancipation through their participation in the activities. Martin Carnoy, Education as Cultural Imperialism, New York, Longman, 1974, p. 3. Although Carnoy's argument is quite persuasive, his case histories do not include Malaya, and he does not consider women's and girls' education in any depth. For comparison see Clive Whitehead, 'British colonial education policy: a synonym for cultural imperialism?', in Mangan, 'Benefits Bestowed'!, pp. 211–30; and Keith Watson, 'Education and colonialism in peninsular Malaysia', in Watson, Education in the Third World, pp. 88–107. 'An Asiatic', 'Missionary Men and Missies', Malaysia Message, Vol. 36, No. 7, April 1927, p. 8. Ruth Ho, Interview, 1976. See also Skrine, Foreword, pp. vii–viii, in Gullick, Josephine Foss. Ibu Zain, Interview, 1982. Ming Te Baguley (Lim Ming Te), Everything Became a You, Singapore, SPCK Bookshop, 1970, p. 23.

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CHAPTER THREE

Drill and dance as symbols of imperialism Anne Bloomfield

Physical action or embodiment is a powerful means of expressing ideological belief. This method was used effectively in the creation of an imperial mentality through the symbolic and ritualistic use of dances and drills performed as a public spectacle by children. The representative use of this form of expression and the rôle it played in the celebration of patriotism, and in assimilating the image and message of the British Empire, is the theme of this chapter. The main focus of imperial rejoicing in Britain, apart from royal occasions, was Empire Day, held annually on 24 May, the anniversary of Queen Victoria's birthday. The Empire Day Movement, inspired by the Japanese 'bushido' – a code of honour extolling the virtues of loyalty, patriotism and obedience – was started in 1902 by Reginald, twelfth Earl of Meath. The first official celebration was held in 1904, and by 1905, in his address to the Children's Aid Society, Exeter, Lord Meath stated that it had practically become a complete chain as far as the self-governing Crown colonies and the motherland were concerned.1 The message of Empire Day was to convey the importance of British imperialism and to further the cause of Empire through the veneration and perpetuation of honourable British traditions and privileges. This message was conveyed at each celebration and was delivered in short addresses by clergymen, politicians or local civic dignitaries amid flag-waving, cheering, the singing of patriotic songs and the performances of dances and drills. The links between folk at home and the sons and daughters of Britain living abroad were strengthened through this annual ceremony, which centred on allegiance to the British flag. The Union Jack was considered to be the representative birthright of all classes of people, the visual symbol of Empire. In what developed into a recurring ritual, flag-raising ceremonies were used to inculcate the qualities of responsibility, duty, sympathy [74]

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and self-sacrifice – the watchwords of this patriotic movement through which the schools taught children their duty to their country and their God. The zealous advocacy of the ideals of Empire Day meant that it commended itself to those people throughout the Empire who were anxious to achieve imperial unity. Previous studies of the Empire Day Movement have examined its organisation and philosophy in relation to other youth and Empire movements, its links with militarism and conscription and its relationship to the curriculum.2 More recent works have focused on the origin of Lord Meath's ideology and have identified links with the public school 'tradition' of character training, which emphasised duty, discipline and self-sacrifice. It has been shown how the message and meaning of Empire has been conveyed through various means, each reinforcing the other – sport, stories, poetry and history books that both romanticise and indoctrinate. Music, with patriotic imagery conveyed through song, has also been considered in the context of imperial propaganda.3 Lord Meath's first attempts to introduce 'the teaching of a sane patriotism' into the London schools occurred in 1892, and, although the Movement received a definite impetus during the pre-war years, it was not until 1916 that he secured official recognition and government support. This was largely due to the war rather than a direct result of his personal efforts.4 J. O. Springhall describes the Empire Day Movement as 'an imperial mutual admiration society', founded to generate interest in the promotion of imperial education within schools.5 Springhall's Lord Meath, Youth and Empire describes Meath's wider involvement in youth movements stemming from his Tory imperialistic background.6 Springhall also identifies similarities with Baden-Powell in the sharing of a social–imperialist belief that 'the Darwinian theory of the survival of the fittest applies to nations as well as to individuals'.7 This observation is particularly apt in the context of dance and drills, since the introduction of compulsory physical training in schools and the publication of the syllabuses of 1904,1905 and 1909 by the Board of Education meant that a concerted effort was being made at this time to improve the general health of the nation's children through nutrition and exercise.8 Meath believed that improved physical development was an essential prerequisite for the reception of imperialist indoctrination: 'Beginning with the building up of the material structure by physical education, proceeding with moral development, and thence inculcating the principles that make for good citizenship – discipline, duty, mutual service, and patriotism.'9 Empire Day was essentially a children's festival, and Empire Day celebrations were enthusiastically received first in Canada and then extended to other countries within the Empire. In 1905, for example, the [75]

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history of Great Britain and the breadth and unity of her realm were impressed upon the schoolchildren of Melbourne, Australia, while over a thousand children attended an open-air patriotic concert in Commercial Square, Gibraltar, presided over by the Governor, Sir George White. Parades were also held in Bermuda and Malta. By 1908, fourteen million British subjects and six and a half million children came under Meath's influence, and in 1909 the celebrations were held on a more elaborate scale involving 18,000 schools. By 1913 all but two education authorities in Britain supported the Movement, and schools throughout the country took part in celebrations. The city of Nottingham, at the heart of the country, was part of the vanguard of this movement and we will use it as an exemplar representative of procedures nationally. Many schools were presented with flags, and pupils ceremoniously honoured their unfurling by donors. Councillor J. T. Spalding was the Mayor of Nottingham in 1908 and pioneered the Empire Day Movement there, creating a precedent by personally presenting flags to schools in the area. By 1913 one-third of the city's eighty or so schools possessed flags. The flagstaffs of Norwegian pine were sixty feet high, cost twenty pounds each and required embedding in eight feet of concrete. The Union Jacks were sometimes purchased by the scholars and teachers, or presented by old boys of the school. Music endorsed the solemnity of the flag-raising, when songs like the National Anthem, the 'Empire Hymn' and 'Flag of Britain' were sung.10 The physical formation of the flag by the scholars provided the most memorable and picturesque spectacle. The children were usually attired in the appropriate colours and were taught to build the living Union Jack by establishing the designs of the flags of St George, St Patrick and St Andrew in sequential order, culminating in the colourful representation of the Union Jack. Figure 1 shows the subservient attitude required to achieve this result. The venues for these events were the school playground, adjacent street, nearby park or, as in the example of the Lenton Council Schools in Nottingham in 1909, an open field near the church. Contemporary photographs and eye-witness accounts indicate that on this occasion a platform for local civic and ecclesiastical dignitaries had been erected beneath the tower of the parish church.11 Smartly dressed Edwardian schoolmasters, wearing fashionable straw boaters, and schoolmistresses in their light-coloured long summer skirts, and sporting decorative hairstyles, had ushered scores of children into neat rows on the grass in front of the platform. The children, ranging in age from the infants and children of standard I to the adolescents of standard VIII, appeared clean and smartly dressed. The school's senior assistant, Mr Randle, dressed in a frock coat, is photographed standing on a table, [76]

1 Empire Day 1913, Nottingham The Wilford Suspension Bridge crossing the river Trent suggests that this photograph is of pupils attending Mundella School, which was situated in the Meadows area of the city.

2 Empire Day celebrations at Southwark Senior and Elementary School, Basford, Nottingham, 1913

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beneath which he had placed his bowler hat. From this vantage point he was able to conduct the massed choir of children as they sang their patriotic songs. The children can be observed standing smartly to attention, with heads held proudly erect and shoulders drawn neatly back. Four hundred pupils took an active part in the proceedings, the highlight of which was the forming of the living Union Jack. The children had been taught to march into their positions, and at a given signal to bend over, so that the colours of their jerseys and dresses formed the design of the flag. The girls – one section in blue and a second in white with paper caps to match – and the boys – in red jerseys and similar coloured caps – formed the living Union Jack very smartly, and the Mayor having unfurled and formerly presented the flag, the children saluted it in song. The Mayoress was presented with a bouquet, and Major Ashworth delivered a short address.12

Major Ashworth then proceeded to congratulate the children and the staff, and in his speech stressed the three qualities that the flag symbolised – Unity, Loyalty and Obedience. He told his listeners that they could seek protection wherever they saw the British flag, but as good citizens they should be willing 'to make self-sacrifice, regard the rights of others, obey the law, and do their duty to the city and the country'.13 The notion of self-sacrifice through military engagement occurred in several of the Empire Day speeches. In the same year Councillor J. T. Spalding addressed over 800 pupils of Huntingdon Street School.14 The former Mayor and zealous advocator of the Empire Day Movement impressed on the children that the flag, wherever it flew, stood for liberty, justice and Christianity, and for purity, honesty and truth: 'many of the boys might be soldiers and fight for the Empire and for the honour of that flag'.15 He then presented a flag to the school. The children had been smartly drilled by Mr W. Brodbeck, a physical training expert who regularly inspected the drill lessons at the school, and in order to reach an acceptable standard of display they had received six rehearsal sessions between 28 April and 18 May. On 24 May16 the children assembled at the school and promptly at 9.30 a.m. the celebrations commenced. The event was recorded in the school logbook by the headmaster: 'the occasion was one of great rejoicing – a living Union Jack was formed by 819 children and patriotic songs were sung. The day was beautifully fine and the whole of the proceedings passed off in grand style.'17 This demonstration was repeated on the Forest, a large recreational ground, on the evening of 27 May. Instances of this type of patriotic display occurred throughout the country. They symbolised both the inculcation and the reception of the message of the Empire, and increased in popularity in the years before [78]

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the Great War. Lord Meath attended celebrations throughout the country in order that the rising generation should receive a sense of public duty in their passage through the classroom and playground. Twenty thousand gathered to hear him at Preston on 24 May 1909, and the following day his address was heard by the children of St Saviour's Guild, Southwark, who sang, danced and drilled in the grounds of the chaplain's house. In Liverpool 2,000 children, in red, white and blue, formed the living Union Jack tableau on Everton Football Club's ground, while 1,000 children performed drill exercises. In Hull, 3,000 boys congregated in the Holy Trinity Church and were told by the Archbishop of York to grow into men who were true at heart. Figure 2 shows the Empire Day celebrations at Southwark School, Basford, Nottingham in 1913. Councillor Spalding, unceasing in his endeavours to preach the message of imperialism to children, presented the school with a flag, as was his custom, and in the presence of several thousand spectators watched 650 pupils form a number of living flags – the infants representing the pole! On this occasion over 400 children gave a drill display. The girls were dressed in white and carried red, white or blue flags. As the flag of St George was formed the children sang 'England Expects'; during the formation of the flag of St Andrew they sang 'Scots Wha Hae wi' Wallace Bled'; and the flag of St Patrick appeared to the strains of 'Come Back to Erin'. A special song, 'The Union Flag', had been composed by the headmaster. The Mayor complimented the children on the able manner in which they had accomplished their beautiful task and told them that the Union Jack taught many lessons including the love of home, country, city and Empire and that it stood for freedom, protection and citizenship wherever it unfurled – 'some empires were held together by tyranny, but the British Empire was cemented by love'.18 In addition to the tableaux vivants of the flag, pupils offered tableaux representing Britannia and the colonies. Elaborate costumes, properties and makeup were used. In London, Lord Meath addressed 1,200 schoolchildren at the Guildhall. 'Do you know,' he asked, 'that at this moment there are 9,000,000 boys and girls doing exactly what you are? That is, they are saluting the flag, morally, mentally, and physically.'19 In short, throughout the land, children were united in thought and deed by the imperial motto – 'One King, one Flag, one Fleet and one Empire' – and by symbolic activities denoting purity. The message of Empire was conveyed to parents as well as children, and whole communities participated in colourful displays. At Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire, in 1907, the streets were adorned with flags and bunting and over 1,000 schoolchildren saluted the flag presented by the 'brothers and sisters' of Melton Mowbray, Tasmania. The town band [79]

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accompanied the singing of patriotic songs and gave a concert in the evening, while at a public meeting held in the Corn Exchange the citizens were addressed on the virtues of Empire Day and imperial unity. A major aim of the Empire Day Movement was to strengthen the ties between citizens at home and abroad, and it was felt that the celebrations were an outward sign of inner beliefs: honouring the flag, loving the country and endorsing the Empire. This was emphasised by the Vicar of Newark, 1909, when he addressed the town's elementary schoolchildren as they celebrated with drill and song. He said that many of them taking part in that outward expression that day, would in years to come go overseas. It was required that they should take with them a true kind of character. Whether it was their lot was cast at home or abroad, a strong sense of duty to God and man was imperatively necessary.20 The British Empire, of course, was seen as a means, not only of disseminating British culture, but also of conveying the message of Christianity, and the Vicar added for good measure that 'it was the duty of its rulers to see that true religion and the worship and fear of the one true God be carried wherever the English people went. (Applause.) That was why they had the Empire Day to teach their duty to their country and their God. – (Applause.)'21 To affirm this message the infants performed an action piece entitled 'The Flag I Love', before moving on to the usual drills and songs. And in celebration of this inner belief the Church of England Temperance Society organised a gathering at Crystal Palace in 1911. Twenty thousand children took part in musical drill, singing, reciting, fancy skipping, Maypole dancing and tug-of-war competitions before enjoying an evening concert which concluded with a grand patriotic tableau. A further demonstration of belief in Empire was the custom of exchanging flags and gifts: thus the inhabitants of Shepperton, Victoria (Australia) in 1909 sent sixteen cases of apples to Shepperton Council School, Middlesex: and in 1911 Newport, Isle of Wight exchanged gifts with Newport, New South Wales, and Hughenden, Buckinghamshire with Hughenden, Australia. Many of the proceedings featured the delivery of speeches by provincial dignitaries. As leader of the Empire Day Movement, Lord Meath emphasised the inner significance of these speeches. The following retrospective comments are extracted from an interview given to The Times in 1921. However useful outward demonstrations may be in drawing public attention to subjects of Empire, I should scarcely have laboured, as I have, to promote the Movement had it not contained an inner spiritual meaning. This inner meaning may partially be translated as the subordination of selfish or class interests to those of the State and the community, and the inculcations on the minds of all British subjects of the honourable obligation which rests upon

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them of preparing themselves, each in his or her own sphere, for the due fulfilment of the duties and responsibilities attached to the high privileges of being subjects of the mightiest Empire the world has ever know.22

In this personal quest Lord Meath was backed by a network of support from influential sources, including archbishops, Tory councillors, school governors, military personnel and other dignitaries who as guests of honour delivered speeches focusing on the rôle of the individual in the attainment of imperial rhetoric into the main flow of state education, whose source had surfaced during the mid-nineteenth century in the boys' public schools. The ethos of the Empire Day Movement 'involved the submission of individualism to corporatism, a doctrine consistently endorsed in the pronouncements of several earlier generations of public school masters'.23 Meath's experience of Spartan training at Eton radically influenced his views on the attainment of physical supremacy and subordination to doctrinaire principles.24 His later experiences as a diplomat, when he had observed French prisoners in Berlin (1870) and the growing military clique in Germany, caused him to anticipate subsequent developments: convinced that war with Germany was inevitable, he tried to warn the people of Britain and the Empire.25 Lord Meath founded the Lads' Drill Association in 1899 and became involved with the National Service League after the former affiliated with it in 1906. Springhall considers that commercial and naval rivalry with Germany was a precipitating factor in Meath's advocacy of compulsory military and patriotic training.26 It is also likely that Meath was familiar with German training methods, in which self-defence and conquest were associated with physical prowess and efficiency. During the time of the Franco-Prussian War some 15,000 turners had fought with patriotic fervour.27 As a result vocal marching and drills were included in German physical training programmes and were adopted in British schools.28 Some headmasters may well have felt pressurised into organising these events and may even have shared the sentiments expressed by J. A. Hobson, whose critical commentary of the methods used and the message conveyed is included in Mangan's T h e grit of our forefathers', the title of which is based on Lord Meath's own publication in Essays on Duty and Discipline.19 Hobson strongly deprecated 'the persistent attempt to seize the school system for Imperialism masquerading as patriotism',30 and objected fiercely to the mechanical movements of military drill which formalised and stultified the child's free play, to the onus on combat, and to the creation of false heroes, false values and pseudo-ideals. He also identified clear dangers in teaching racial pride. Nevertheless drill became an accepted and acceptable part of British formal education. Drill was one of the forms of compulsory exercise that had entered the [81]

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curriculum in 1895. A species of physical exercise with an aesthetic element, it provided a nexus between formal gymnastics and dance. It had militaristic roots, but its spectacular nature and rhythmical structure – often to music or even vocal accompaniment – provided it with a strong choreographic element. In children's drill, the steps might be walking ,marching or running, and the pace or tempo varied according to the musical accompaniment. Alongside folk dancing and singing games, it was popular throughout the country. The discipline of drill effectively assembled and dispersed large numbers of children in school playgrounds and buildings; it also afforded a contrast to static classroom activities. Nevertheless drill had an even more important aim: to get civilians as physically fit as soldiers. The additional attraction of using well-trained children in ceremonial display was irresistible, especially when it combined national, popular sentiment and the results of effective teaching. Drill formations were performed to tunes from dance suites, folk music, rustic suites and military-style marches. The school logbook of Eccleshall Mixed and Infants' School, Sheffield, reveals that standard III was capable of a variety of drill forms.31 Large numbers of children throughout the country had attained an acceptable standard of control and performance which the limited vocabulary of movement within drill permitted. The more imaginative teachers used drills to present displays of an exciting and spectacular nature, so children might perform configurations of patriotic emblems – the thistle of Scotland, the shamrock of Ireland or the rose of England. The Christian crucifix and the anchor, emblem of Britain's nautical supremacy, were also incorporated. Figure 3 depicts some of these drill formations. Initially children were taught graded exercises, moving from the rank-and-file formations to more complicated figures such as scrolls, figures of eight, circles, squares and double circles. From a single line of pupils, formations of four could evolve, each child being allocated a number up to twenty-four. Children obeyed the teacher's commands and followed chalk marks on the playground in order to achieve precision. The object of marching was to cultivate uniformity of step, style and rhythmic movement, while maintaining good bodily carriage and discipline. The physical repetition and conformity of design matched a mental frame of mind, since it was believed that as the pupils learned their drill so their faithfulness towards the Empire would develop. Harmony of thought and deed was to culminate in an imperialistic ideal. The mode of expression developed as the range of physical education expanded, and after 1909 this included dance. The Board of Education's The Syllabus of Physical Exercises for Public Elementary Schools, 190932 introduced dance steps into their [82]

3 Patriotic and imperialistic emblems used in drill

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curriculum and stressed the importance of emotional and aesthetic expression embodied in beautiful form and motion. Dancing was regarded as being a stimulus for the imagination, exhilarating to both mind and body. It was natural that dance should extend the custom established by the drill displays, since what could be more appropriate than the happy and healthy performance of dances embodying a national or patriotic sentiment? It was appropriate that need and interest should be satisfied by the emergence of a popular folk-dance movement, which in turn relied for its wide appeal upon its acceptance by educators. This movement was largely, but not exclusively, pioneered by Cecil J. Sharp. Cecil Sharp, strongly patriotic and possessed of a genuinely felt affinity for common people whose arts he grew to value and adore, set about 'making a complete and exhaustive investigation into every fragment of surviving peasant dance in this country'.33 This included a detailed study and notation of the three basic types of folk-dance forms: the morris, the sword and the country dance. He devised a policy for the publication of dancing manuals (The Morris Book, Vols. I-VI, 1909–13, The Country Dance Book, Vols. I–VI, 1909–18) and for the provision of practical dance courses. Referring to the folk-dance revival he wrote: 'The movement has, no doubt, for its chief objective the quickening of the national spirit, and this will most certainly be one of its immediate and most beneficial effects.'34 Sharp and his contemporaries believed that the salvation of these dances rested with the country's youth.35 Sharp further believed that an understanding of the dances would help to kindle a spirit of nationalism and that in order for girls or boys to become good Englishmen or women they would require training in English characteristics through the study of specific nationally orientated subjects and ideals. 'In order that a boy or girl may become a good Englishman, or a good Englishwoman, training in English characteristics must be a prominent feature in education – English History, English games, English ideals are of the utmost importance.'36 To this end, he advocated the wholly national and spontaneous expression of folk dance and song and gave practical form to the lofty sentiments of G. Stanley Hall, who wrote that folk dances were 'moral, social, and aesthetic forces, condensed expressions of ancestral and racial traits'.37 Certainly, within the context of the school curriculum and in organised celebrations reflecting national or imperialistic unity, the folk dances were devices for conveying and displaying qualities that lay deeper than mere physical activity. The folk culture traditionally symptomatic of rural communities was re-established and venerated in urban areas throughout the country – in numerous industrial towns and [84]

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in the vast slumlands of London, children and members of youth groups found new pleasures in the reconstruction and performance of dances that established a cultural link with a former tradition. This came to include May Day festivities, which gradually conjoined with Empire Day when children danced around the maypole. D. G. Teall has written about these events in the Northamptonshire schools and has described the patriotic nature of the children's costumes – sailor suits, nurses' uniforms and quasi-military dress.38 The appropriation or misappropriation of a wholly nationalistic folk form for imperial purposes requires further examination. As John M. MacKenzie has pointed out, T h e Empire's diverse character ensured that imperialism meant different things to different people at different times. Such attempts as there were to develop a grander design were bedevilled by this problem of definition.'39 The children's thoughts understandably became diffused when traditional dances and plaited maypole dancing occurred during imperial festivities, but for the organisers it was a careful manipulation and extension of both feeling and form – a broadening of context that served to consolidate a specific cultural genre. John Stuart Mill saw national identity as a unifying factor achieved through common sympathies when strength was acquired through political antecedents, the possession of national history, community recollections of achievement, pride and humiliation as well as pleasures and regrets connected with past incidents. Dance as an art form is capable of regional, national and historical identity and was used by educators in this context as a means not only of reviving a past tradition, but of disseminating this tradition beyond the geographical confines of Great Britain into the wide arena of Empire. R. Judge has explained the use made of maypole and morris dancing: 'Both were presented as a nostalgic recreation of dances as they were performed in the days of Merrie England, a land of make-believe which was "ancient", "picturesque", "peculiarly English" and "Elizabethan".'40 The notion of 'folk' as the ideological construct of a purely regional/ national dance form is traced by T. Buckland to the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. A dichotomy between town and country was seen to exist in which the inhabitants of the latter were believed to be isolated from modern civilisation, closer to nature, and through oral tradition and geographical stability, closer to the past. These supposed qualifications resulted in the equation of the labouring rural poor with the notion of the essential spirit of a nation.41

The folk-dance revival was enthusiastically received in state schools by teachers and pupils, who found in it an expression and a release of innocent joy. It also became a popular pursuit for youth clubs, recreational groups and play centres. It assisted in establishing national [85]

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identity and permeated all classes of society, although it formed especially strong communal bonds among the working classes. As the seeds of British imperialism had begun to develop throughout the British Empire during the late nineteenth century, so a vision of a paternalistic society, hierarchical and rural, had emerged. Folk culture was a part of this dream, encompassing a traditional idea of history in which dances had been created and passed on through generations. The living history, so engendered, appealed to Englishspeaking settlers throughout the Empire. The English Folk Dance Society, founded in 1911, contributed to the realisation of this dream, since through public demonstration and publication of teaching manuals knowledge and kinsmanship through English folk dancing not only extended into every county in the land, but had 'begun to reach out to much more remote English-speaking communities in America, Africa, Australia and even Asia'.42 The mental image of young men and women performing folk dances out of doors in the gentle warmth of an English summer provided a nostalgic focus for those who had emigrated. This idealistic image of what was sometimes termed 'Merrie England' seemingly inspired a deeply felt, individual response to imperialism and is aptly illustrated in the schoolgirl's novel The New Abbey Girls by Elsie J. Oxenham. In the book, Lady Marchwood's son, referred to as 'the great traveller', is captivated by a group of dancing girls as he gazes through an open window at the school. The folk-dance club are practising on the lawn: 'I have been out of England for some years.' There was a curiously wistful note in the man's voice, as he gazed intently at the moving, coloured lawn, the happy girls, the flowers and trees behind. T h i s seems to crystallise all I've dreamed of, when I have been very far away/ 43

The idyllic vision of England with dancing youth is linked with wider European influences, particularly with Germany. The German awareness of national characteristics came to fruition through the folk arts – song, dance, legend and fairy story – and, through art rooted in the Gothic, the new Romantic movement developed. C. M. Weiland in The History ofAgathon (1773) had depicted an idealised picture of Arcadians performing a circle dance that idealised the rhythmic and visual harmony of man and nature. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries both helped to create the mysticism of the past through the creative powers of the present. Richard Wagner (1813-83) also utilised legends and infused the folk culture into his own works. Theatrical performances on the continent and in England included folk-dance forms and portrayed idealised scenes of peasant life.44 In England the interest in folk culture arose later, [86]

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with publications such as Alice Gomme's Dictionary of British FolkLore, Sabine Baring-Gould's Country Life and Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough all receiving publication towards the end of the nineteenth century. Cecil Sharp, who based his theories on those of Sir James Frazer, an anthropologist and folklorist, advocated folk dancing in schools for its own intrinsic aesthetic and artistic value, but he justified its inclusion in the curriculum on the ground that it was a mode of cultural expression that needed to be restored to the people since it 'is theirs by right of birth, and from the absence of which they have grievously suffered'.45 He was perturbed by the influences of American jazz on popular culture in public and private dance halls and preferred men and women to dance in the tradition of their English forefathers. England, as the centre of the Empire embracing and disseminating its own culture, was a Utopian as well as a jingoistic dream which many strove to realise. Members of the Esperance Guild of National Joy sought to establish a national centre in the capital of the Empire: 'Where all those who have learned the folk dances may meet socially and practise them, and where those who doubt that England possesses her own folk dances may come and see for themselves that the merry morris still lives in the hearts of the English people.'46 Mary Neale (1860–1944) was committed to the folk-dance revival through the work of the Esperance Guild, and her personal endeavours to reconstruct and publish dances provided impetus to work undertaken by school and youth groups, so that England's youth could dance: from pure lightness of heart and in the open air, upon green grass, and beneath the blue sky. The Utopeans, in their vision of a future England, always see lithe young men and graceful sunburnt girls footing it upon the turf, and bands of merry children playing games which are childlike and simple.47

In reality, the urban child never got beyond 'footing it' upon the asphalt school playground, although the vision of rural England was thought to impregnate their very being. Numerous writers had portrayed the character of England as belonging to the past and the countryside as being a psychic refuge for the urban populace; and rural life was considered to be the 'repository of the moral character of the nation'.48 English custom, when once revived and regenerated, was soon incorporated into imperialistic celebration, with morris dancing occurring alongside flag drills and singing as part of Empire Day festivities. This was a way of ensuring the unchanging nature of the countryside and its associate festivals and of strengthening the idyllic image of the homeland. In 1911 the Children's Aid Society organised an event for 1,250 [87]

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children drawn from seventeen industrial schools. Highlights were a choir concert, gymnastic displays and hornpipe dancing by boys from the training ship Arethusa. In Bristol, 2,500 children gathered on the Bedminster cricket ground in costumes of red, white and blue and formed the living Union Jack. Children attending St Andrew's School, Nottingham in 1913 performed 'Old English and Country Dances, physical drill and patriotic songs'.49 The school playground and adjoining homes were decorated with flags and banners, while parents and local spectators looked on from upstairs windows of neighbouring houses. At Carlton, a number of girls 'gave a pretty exhibition of old English Morris dancing', while at Bakewell, Derbyshire all the children repeated the Empire motto.50 A popular spectacle emphasising Great Britain's key position as homeland and centre of a far-reaching empire was the tableau vivant, for which children dressed in costumes representing many of the constituent nations. The central, recurring figure was Britannia, often surrounded by colourful representations of the other colonial nations paying homage. In 1911 Britannia tableaux were formed by, among many others, a group of cadets at Portsmouth, a group of boy scouts in Liverpool and schoolchildren of Clay Cross, Derbyshire. Figure 4 is typical of pageantry of this nature. Often the proceedings were initiated by the teachers, who provided their own individual interpretation for the ceremonies. It was possible to glean ideas from published sources, and Mrs Grace Kimmins, for example, through her work at the Bermondsey University Settlement, provided both inspiration and instruction for such celebrations to take place all over Britain. Kimmins believed that children benefited from a knowledge of their past culture and her work with the Guild of Play reflected her aims of bringing dignity, beauty and health to the lives of deprived children through the performance of songs, dances and plays. Old English games and costumes were restored and folk songs repopularised in an endeavour to recreate Merrie England in London's slumland. Allied to this was the awareness of England's rôle as the centre of Empire, an awareness reflected in her publication Masque of the Children of the Empire,51 whose music, photographs, costume design and descriptive passages enabled others – teachers and youth leaders – to emulate her work. This was a possible source of inspiration for a presentation at Salisbury in 1911, when 4,000 children paraded the streets of the city before marching to Victoria Park for tea and entertainments. The ideals of the Guild of Play followed a moral code derived from Christian chivalry. Emphasis was placed on courtesy, unselfishness and gracefulness in deed and word. Kimmins believed that dancing and playing were among the 'strongest natural instincts of children' and that [88]

4 Empire Day at Victoria Park, Bath Street, Nottingham, 1913

5 Traditional dancing at the patriotic fair held on the Arboretum, Nottingham, 1917 Traditional May Day dancing was often conjoined with Empire Day celebrations. During the First World War dancing and pageants were used as means to raise money for the war effort.

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after 'noble home influences they are the greatest of all factors on true education'.52 She believed that the revival of national and traditional songs and dances helped the child's imaginative powers to develop. Children could celebrate the seasons and festivals of the year with dancing and plays in the manner of the morris men and sword-dancers of previous generations who had welcomed the driving out of winter and the arrival of summer with a ritual of songs, dances and decorative foliage. In Grace Kimmins's first publication these festivals, including Empire Day, formed the material used by teachers for use in celebrations throughout the country. Figure 5 shows children dressed in traditional costume and dancing round a maypole on the occasion of the Patriotic Fair, held at the Arboretum, Nottingham, in 1917. Grace Kimmins was committed to the dissemination of patriotism through dance. In her introduction to The Guild of Play Book of National Dances (1910) she wrote: This subject of National Dances and Folk Dances is one to which we all address ourselves gladly. Instruction in civil government is good, to fire patriotism is good, the flag upon the school house and in the school yard is good; nor do all these, and devices on flag drills, and national rejoicing live only on the surface. The real question involved is ethical, it reaches down to the very foundations of morality, it is illuminated by history; the public education of a great democratic people has other aims to fulfil than mere literary culture, or extension of scientific knowledge; it must prepare for future citizenship. 53

Within the ideology of the Guild of Play it is possible to detect threads of patriotism and nationalism. Written in Gothic script within the emblem of a shield the dedication of The Guild of Play Book of National Dances reads: TO THE RIGHT HON THE EARL OF MEATH, P.C. K.P. in whose world-wide work of fostering and strengthening in the children of today all possible devotion to the Empire, and all that concerns its welfare and advancement, it is hoped the Guild of Play children, by means of their dancing, and the spirit in which they perform, bear their small part, this third Book of festival and Dance is gratefully dedicated by Grace Kimmins. 54

Kimmins observed that it was never difficult 'to rouse the enthusiasm of children, and anything connected with the British flag will always strike a good, imperial, and patriotic note'.55 All the dances published by the Guild were choreographed for large numbers: 'they afford an outlet, an avenue for massed feeling'.56 The national dances represented the principal European countries and Japan. The dances for England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales are the hornpipe, jig, reel and fling respectively, with the Union Jack dance provided for use as finale to an Empire Day Festival, 'where the settings given in this book of the National Dances have been used'.57 The Union Jack dance [90]

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was intended to meet the needs of all who might wish to use it in their own celebrations throughout the United Kingdom: Combining as it does spectacular effect with sound dramatic movement, capable of infinite addition of numbers according to circumstances, this dance cannot fail to make its message of unity, peace, and goodwill clear to all beholders, and will be found of the greatest use upon all patriotic occasions either in the school room or on the playground.58

Grace Kimmins was not alone in providing specialist resource material for teachers to use. H. Cowper cites examples such as the Empire Day Books of Patriotism, published in 1912 and 1919 respectively. The 1912 addition included a musical programme comprising songs, a cantata or musical pageant, drill, morris dancing and a march past which included a salute to the Union Jack. The Dominion Year Book of 1922 included ideas for a school concert 'of national songs and dances and the recitation of poems illustrative of heroic duty and of self-sacrifice on behalf of the nation'.59 The Empire Exhibition of 1924 was preceded by the publication of twenty-four editions of a weekly bulletin and, by the 1930s, pamphlets, films, slide lectures and radio programmes had become teaching aids for the pedagogy of Empire. Lord Meath, who himself took part in the BBC broadcasts, oversaw the content of celebrations to ensure that 'the spiritual burdens of a great heritage are emphasised in every programme recommended for school celebrations'.60 The horrors of the Great War had shattered the dreams of the various Utopian movements which had sought peace and international harmony through the performance of national dances. Tragically, it had also provided the ultimate means of sacrifice – for King and country – for the thousands of men who as boys had been subjected to the patriotic and imperialistic rhetoric of Empire Day celebrations. Pageants, dances and displays were used to raise money for the war effort, and as entertainment for wounded and sick soldiers. When the war ended, dancing and flag-waving and cheering reflected genuine joy. The inter-war years saw a continuation of the celebration of Empire Day, and educational publications of those years contain material for teachers to use. The Practical Infant Teacher (1929) advocated celebrating events of national life 'such as Empire Day', since it was accepted that such festivals were methods of conveying information and 'awakening emotions and impressing ideals'.61 Participation in such events was suitable even for the youngest children since it would impress upon them 'the patriotic fervour and reverence that it is beyond their powers to express'.62 If it is Empire Day, they can learn to salute the flag and realise that it stands for their home as well as their country. The older children cannot celebrate

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES these days without some appreciation of the quality of the men, the high ideals of character, the self-sacrifice and the spirit of pure democracy that moved those who shaped the destiny of our country. 63

Enid Blyton's The Teacher's Treasury included a play entitled The Union Jack in which Jack and Mollie, as contemporary children, met the patron saints, King James I, Queen Anne and King George III, as well as the great men of the empire – Wolfe, Clive, Captain Cooke, David Livingstone and Cecil Rhodes. Through pageantry and spectacle, the two central characters, with whom the child audience would empathise, discover and transmit the message of the Empire. Perhaps the most colourful celebrations of Empire Day occurred in 1937 – centenary of Queen Victoria's coronation and the first celebration in the new reign of George VI. Thousands of children were given impressive talks on the moral lessons attached to this anniversary of the British race. By this time Lord Meath had retired from the Movement's presidency and the organisation had become affiliated to the Royal Colonial Institute. The long-established form of services, songs, tableaux, sports, country dancing, maypole dancing, concerts, games, hoisting of flags and planting of trees was witnessed in numerous towns and cities, as well as rural areas. In London, the King and members of the royal family joined 4,000 people at St Paul's Cathedral for a service of thanksgiving, despite the war clouds overhanging Europe, which seemed 'to give a new intensity to the observances, and the hymns and patriotic songs appeared to take on fresh meaning'.64 In Nottingham, children of St Ann's Well Road School presented an Empire tableau and performed national dances of the United Kingdom – dancers in national costume grouped themselves around Britannia. In Loughborough over 3,500 children gathered at the town's Carillon and sang patriotic songs, the traditional mayday garland on this occasion supplanted by a floral crown – emblem and symbol of monarchy and imperialism. A former pupil and a teacher of Rendall School, Loughborough both recalled with pride these occasions when the town's schools vied with each other to produce the best imperial centrepiece for the procession to the park.65 In London, many representatives from the countries of the Empire attended the coronation – by this time united in a 'bond of loyalty to one crown under what they called the commonwealth of nations'.66 This loyalty was displayed through gallant action in the Second World War and in the post-war years. Ironically, by 1947 food parcels instead of wreaths were placed at the foot of Queen Victoria's statue in Adelaide as a token of the unseen British guest at the table. But the formation of the Commonwealth and the political, economic and defence changes [92]

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that typified the post-war period meant that celebrations were discontinued. The Empire Day Movement, launched by the Earl of Meath, had lasted for some forty years. The creation of a new climate of public opinion unsympathetic to its values ensured that eventually it lost its appeal. It had survived during the first half of the twentieth century because its chivalric and imperialistic element had provided workingclass youth with an opportunity to exhibit their generous efforts and lofty sentiments – even though for many it had meant self-sacrifice through war. The three motivating powers in human life and society – paternal, spiritual and regal – qualities of chivalry were experienced within an imperialistic context.67 Spiritual symbolism and the paternalism which served to unite peoples of a common culture throughout the English-speaking world also bolstered economic and defence strategies that were victorious when threatened by other aggressive powers. One great influence of the Empire Movement was its promotion of a spirit of optimism. The participation in ceremony with colour, rhetoric and dance meant that the ideals of imperialism were experienced bodily and that its fundamental message was absorbed, remembered and often cherished into old age. John MacKenzie suggests that children probably exploited the occasions without actually imbibing the ideology behind the rhetoric,68 but Lord Meath believed that a large proportion of the men who 'rushed to the colours during the bloody years from 1914 must have learnt at school the watchwords of the movement. Would they have answered their country's call so readily if they had not acquired in their early years a knowledge of the obligations of a free citizenship?'69 A. B. Turner, who as a child had attended Luckwell Council School, Bristol, carried both meaning and message to Auckland, New Zealand. In 1975 a poignant letter appeared in the journal This England relating how the children from all over the city had gathered in the Bristol City Football Ground at Ashton Gate on Empire Day circa 1912, and how the children had formed the Union Jack, made by boys and girls wearing red, white and blue clothes. We all sang the Empire Day song, but now all I can remember are these two lines . . . Flag of Britain proudly waving, Over many distant lands.70

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Notes 1 The Times, 25 May 1905. 2 John M. MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1984, p. 231. See also J. O. Springhall, 'Lord Meath, youth and Empire', Journal of Contemporary History, Vol. 5, No. 4, p. 105; and J. A. Mangan, The grit of our forefathers', in John M. MacKenzie, Imperialism and Popular Culture, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1986, pp. 110-27. 3 MacKenzie, Imperialism and Popular Culture. 4 Springhall, 'Lord Meath, youth and Empire', p. 105. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid., p. 97. 7 J. O. Springhall, Youth, Empire and Society, London, Croom Helm, 1977, p. 9. 8 Board of Education, The Syllabus of Physical Exercises for Public Elementary Schools, London, HMSO, 1909. 9 Anthony Guest, 'Social ideals: The Earl of Meath's Court journal, 16 Feb. 1910, p. 212, quoted in Springhall, 'Lord Meath, youth and Empire', p. 99. 10 For example, 'Rule Britannia', 'God Bless the Prince of Wales', 'Land of My Fathers', 'Land of Hope and Glory', 'England Expects', 'Come back to Erin'. 11 A platform guest was young Albert Ball, who became England's premier airman, who won the VC and DSO in the First World War. 12 Nottingham Guardian, 24 May 1909. 13 Ibid. 14 Boys' School founded 1876, Junior Mixed 1892. Nottinghamshire Records Office, School Log Book, LS125/H3/9. 15 Nottingham Guardian, 24 May 1909. 16 Nottingham Records Office, School Log Book, SL125/H3/9, p. 262. 17 Ibid., p. 263. 18 Nottingham Guardian, 24 May 1913. 19 Ibid. 20 Newark and Notts Advertiser, 26 May 1909. 21 Ibid. 22 'Empire Day, seed of a great movement', The Times, 24 May 1921. 23 Mangan, 'The grit of our forefathers', p. 132. 24 Springhall, 'Lord Meath, youth and Empire', p. 98. 25 The Times, 24 May 1921. 26 Springhall, 'Lord Meath, youth and Empire', p. 100. 27 F. U. Leonard, Guide to the History of Physical Education, Philadelphia, Lea & Febiger, 1947, pp. 79, 90, 105. 28 A. Alexander, British Physical Education for Girls, London and Edinburgh, McDougalls, 1910. 29 The Earl of Meath, 'Have we the grit of our forefathers?', Essays on Duty and Discipline, 6th ed., 1912, quoted in MacKenzie, Imperialism and Popular Culture, p. 117. 30 J. A. Hobson, Imperialism: A Study, London, George Allen & Unwin, 1902, p. 217. 31 Sheffield Records Office, School Log Book, CA35/277/278. 32 Board of Education, The Syllabus of Physical Exercises, pp. 152–4. 33 D. Kennedy, 'The folk dance revival in England', English Folk Dance Society Journal, 1935, p. 72. 34 C. J. Sharp, The Country Dance Book, London, Novello, 1909, p. 13. 35 Ibid., p. 13. 36 C. J. Sharp, 'Morris and country dances', Journal of Scientific Physical Training, Vol. 3, 1910, p. 21. 37 S. G. Hall, Educational Problems, London and New York, Appleton, 1911, p. 59. 38 D. G. Teall, 'May festivals in Northampton schools: their origin, signficance, and influence on the primary school curriculum', unpublished MEd thesis, University of

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DRILL AND DANCE AS SYMBOLS OF IMPERIALISM Leicester, 1963, p. 61. 39 MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire, p. 1. 40 R. Judge, Tradition and the plaited maypole dance', Traditional Dance, Vol. 2, 1983, p. 3. 41 T. Buckland, 'Definitions of folk dance: some explorations', Folk Music Journal, Vol. 4, No. 4, 1983, p. 316. 42 Kennedy, 'The folk dance revival in England', p. 73.J. A. Mangan cites examples of English traditional dance forms – country dances, sword dances and morris dance – being taught to African boys at Mapanze, in the former Diocese of Northern Rhodesia: 'Ethics and Ethnocentricity', in W. J. Baker and J. A. Mangan, Sport in Africa, London & New York, Africana Pub. Co., 1987, pp. 138-72. 43 E. J. Oxenham, The New Abbey Girls, London, Collins, n.d., p. 296. 44 W. Sorell, The Dancer's Image, London and New York, Columbia University Press, 1971, p. 351. See also R. H. Tenbrock, A History of Germany, London, Longmans, 1969, p. 225; and R. Wagner, Wagner on Music and Drama, London, Gollancz, 1970, p. 428. 45 C. J. Sharp, 'The English folk-dance revival', The Music Student and Musicians' Magazine, Vol. 11, No. 12, p. 451. 46 M. Neale, The Esperance Morris Book II, London, Curwen, 1912, p. xiii. 47 Ibid., p. xiv. 48 M. J. Wiener, English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1981, p. 56. For further elaboration of this theme, see ibid., ch. 4, 'The "English Way of Life"?' 49 Nottingham Guardian, 24 May 1913. 50 Ibid. 51 G. T. Kimmins, Masque of the Children of the Empire, London, Curwen, c. 1912. 52 G. T. Kimmins, The Guild of Play Book of Festival and Dance, London, Curwen, 1907, p.v. 53 G. T. Kimmins, The Guild of Play Book of Festival and Dance, London, Curwen, 1910, p. 10. 54 Ibid., dedications. 55 Ibid., p. 6. 56 Ibid., p. 7. 57 Ibid., p. 40. 58 Ibid. 59 H. Cowper, 'Education and imperialism', unpublished PhD thesis, Edinburgh University, 1980. 60 The Times, 24 May 1921. 61 P. B. Ballard (ed.), The Practical Infant Teacher, London, New Era, 1926, p. 226. 62 Ibid., p. 222. 63 Ibid., p. 223. 64 Nottingham Evening Post, 24 May 1937. 65 Personal interview. 66 Nottingham Evening Post, 24 May 1937. 67 I. Godefridus quoting F. Schlegel in K. H. Digby, The Broad Stone of Honour, London, Bernard Quaritch, 1877, p. 182. 68 Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire, p. 234. 69 The Times, 24 May 1921. 70 This England, Vol. 18, No. 3, 1975, p. 44.

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CHAPTER FOUR

'Mothers for the Empire'? The Girl Guides Association in Britain, 1909–1939 Allen Warren

In April 1916 the Girl Guide commissioners for London met together in conference. It was not an event immediately significant in itself, but it turned out to be a relaunch of their Movement. Girls had immediately linked themselves to the Boy Scouts on the founding of that organisation in 1908 and had had a separate training provision from the following year. However, growth had been slow before 1914 and numbers had remained relatively small. The outbreak of war had further exposed the structural and ideological weaknesses of the headquarters organisation in London, so much so that in mid-1915 the central executive committee seems to have ceased to function altogether. At this point the movement's founder, Sir Robert Baden-Powell, who had given little time to the training of girls or to his Guiding Movement since 1909, resumed control of its committee and set about its redirection. The London commissioners' meeting was the first public evidence of this and proved to be the start of a rapid restructuring of the organisation, which itself heralded a great expansion in numbers over the next decade and a half. By 1930 the Association had become an equal partner of the Boy Scouts as one of the two largest voluntary uniformed movements for young people in Britain, each having an imperial as well as an international dimension.1 At that 1916 conference Baden-Powell laid down the aims and methods of the Girl Guides and it is worth dwelling on them as they expose clearly some of the ambiguities in attitude towards women in early twentieth-century Britain. As he presented it, the Guides had a twofold aim: to put women in a position of higher standing as citizens, and to train them to be the comrades of men rather than continuing as dependents. This was to be achieved through a programme which concentrated on four main elements – character formation, handicraft, helpfulness to others and health. If successful, many existing social welfare schemes would [96]

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become redundant, especially those for boys and young men. In the first place many of the evils arising from poor home management would disappear with better-trained wives and mothers. Secondly, society would no longer waste women's potential as it had done in the past, with women taking a full and constructive part in the country's business. Finally a better-informed population in matters of health would significantly reduce the levels of infant mortality. The Guides were an attempt to remedy present deficiencies in these areas, but lest his audience conclude that his remarks constituted an attack upon the present attitude of women Baden-Powell added, 'It must be remembered that many of these weak points are the outcome of the false position assigned to women by custom rather than inherent incapacity on their part; they are therefore remediable.'2 Baden-Powell's remarks reveal that he saw the Girl Guides as part of a changing pattern of attitudes about the rôle of women. It is therefore surprising that the expansion of women's studies over the last decade has not increased the amount of attention given to the various agencies concerned with the informal education and socialisation of girls and young women. With the exception of Brian Harrison's article on the Girls' Friendly Society, hardly any scholarly work has been done on the Girls' Brigade, the club movement for girls, the Young Women's Christian Association or the Girl Guides Association. In part the reasons for this are historic – archive material tends to be scattered and unsorted, and official histories (where they have been published) can be largely uncritical. Secondly, the more recent scholarly historians of youth in Britain like Gillis, Springhall and Rosenthal have tended to assume a common explanation for the development of movements for girls especially where they share ideals or methods with parallel organisations for boys, often relegating them to a footnote or appendix. On the other hand historians of the condition of women have tended to pillage one or two of the more obvious sources to make illustrative points of their own. In the case of the Guides, the early pamphlets of BadenPowell and his sister Agnes have provided good copy for discussions of the links between social imperialism and the ideology of motherhood before 1914. There is nothing wrong in this – almost all social historians like to use the picturesque example – but what is also needed is a more systematic treatment of the origins and development of movements like the Girl Guides so that the context can be understood fully and the subsequent success and its limits explained. This chapter will try to highlight some of the interesting questions suggested by the emergence of the Girl Guide Movement in Britain, not only as an encouragement for further work, but also to show how the early ideological assumptions underlying the writings of the two Baden[97]

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Powells and the work of the London committee had reached a dead-end by later 1915, requiring a significant change of direction. This new departure, paradoxically also led by Baden-Powell along with his wife, Olave, seems to have met popular aspirations in new and different ways, which allowed for the expansion in the years that followed.3 Before turning to the Guides themselves it may be worth summarising, however briefly, some of the conclusions of the present generation of historians of the condition of women in this period. Historians such as Jane Lewis, Deborah Gorham, Carol Dyhouse and Anna Davin have clarified considerably our perspective on late Victorian and Edwardian England, showing how the ideal of the Angel in the House was being transformed in a limited way to allow a widening scope for women in terms of education, employment (at least before marriage) and public life. However, these increased opportunities coincided with a continuing pattern of assumptions about domestic and family life (sometimes shared by feminists themselves) along with notions about femininity which would seriously qualify the reality of male and female equality. In addition, even thought the 'new woman' was an acknowledged social being during the 1890s and the idea of companionate marriage was increasingly accepted, there also emerged in the years before 1914 a vigorous ideology of motherhood which had the potential to limit the gains achieved in previous decades. Prompted by the eugenic and imperial anxieties deriving from the Boer War, motherhood came to be an item on the agenda of social pundit, policymaker and politician alike, so that new axioms of equal but different as formulated by Patrick Geddes and J. Arthur Thompson could take on a more domestic gloss. As a result more attention was devoted to maternal training and responsibility than to the hostile social and economic environment in which such qualities had to be deployed, a bias reinforced by the widespread notion that women had a particular rôle as moral guardian and defender of family gentility or respectability. This ideology was reinforced, albeit indirectly, by the facts of social experience, by the almost universal desire among men and women that women should give up paid work upon marriage, if at all possible. These concerns about the social and physical aspects of maternalism and (implicitly) about female sexuality had a considerable impact on the debates surrounding the education and training of women before 1914. In the teaching of science, for instance, grand claims were made for the value of domestic science for girls as against academic science, at the same time as more basic household skills were incorporated within the elementary school curriculum. On the question of female sexuality, much informed and not-so-informed medical attention was devoted to the physical and psychological significance of adolescence for girls, [98]

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which greatly influenced the development of physical education and attitudes to dress and diet within schools. But such debates were kept very much out of the classroom, sexual education in particular being regarded as a maternal responsibility, even though in fact it was almost entirely ignored across all classes, whether through reticence or through embarrassment. The literature for girls contained almost no reference to the facts about women's physical development, and most girls grew up in considerable ignorance. Many of these assumptions were visibly challenged by the experience of war between 1914 and 1918, although historians do not agree about the war's long-term impact. At one level, the admission of some women to the rights of full citizenship marked a significant change in attitudes about rights and responsibilities. At another, the shedding of women from 'male' work after the war and the imposition of a rigid marriage ban on professional women showed that older notions about the place of women remained extremely powerful. Nonetheless, it does seem that the ideology of motherhood was less militant after 1918, even if the actual experience of women reflected this only to a small degree. Similarly, the mobilising and militarising of women, combined with the demographic profile, led larger numbers of women into responsible work, either professionally or within the voluntary sector, although these activities had usually to be within the distinct categories of celibate careerist or companionate wife. Within the field of education less attention was now devoted to exclusively domestic or maternal skills and more to the rôle of girls as future citizens. Other concerns assumed an importance for the first time. The idea of popular leisure and how it should be used became a matter of debate in the 1920s and this had an important impact on how voluntary and later statutory work with young people was understood. Work among girls had previously been seen either from a religious perspective or as part of what Madeleine Rooff later called 'social ambulance' provision. After 1918 it was regarded in a more constructive light, in terms of preparing young women for a rôle as citizen, worker and mother, and the increase in women's leisure, through reduced hours of work and the spread of home appliances, provided new opportunities. Yet the range of leisure facilities for women and girls, particularly those from the working class, remained consistently poorer than those for men throughout the interwar period. It is against this kaleidoscopic pattern of values that the early history of the Girl Guide Movement should be understood.4 Robert Baden-Powell published his handbook Scouting for Boys in early 1908, and the beginning of the Girl Guides is traditionally fixed a year later when at the first major Scout rally at the Crystal Palace a group of Girl Scouts appeared. As a result Baden-Powell decided to make a [99]

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separate provision for girls, over which he asked his sister to preside. In the short term this led them jointly to publish later in 1909 a pamphlet, Girl Guides: A Suggestion for Character Training for Girls, which was followed three years later by The Handbook for Girl Guides or How Girls Can Help Build the Empire. Apart from preparing these two handbooks Baden-Powell seems to have devoted little attention to his Girl Guides before late 1915, leaving the running of the organisation to his sister and a London-based committee. This remained a small and informal group of upper-class women, relating only indirectly to the growth of the Movement outside the metropolis through the tours of Agnes Baden-Powell around the country. There were almost no resources and the committee was divided by sharp clashes of personality, resulting in the resignation of the whole committee in April 1913 and its reconstitution three months later. In February 1914 the total assets of the movement amounted to only £472 Is 1 Id and until the previous month the only regular channel of communication had been a series of Guide jottings contained first in the magazine Home Notes and later transferred to the Golden Rule. The coming of war seems to have put the skeletal headquarters organisation under pressure again but from mid-1915, as the opportunities for civilian war service for women increased, so Baden-Powell himself seems to have become interested in the Movement once more, along with his young wife Olave. He chaired the new committee formed in October 1915 and began a process of applying the administrative model used by the Scouts to the fragmented structure of the Girl Guides. New council members were secured, relations with kindred societies like the Girls' Friendly Society were regularised and a start made in establishing a county network. In all of this Olave, Lady Baden-Powell played an increasingly important part through the model county organisation she set up herself in Sussex and through her recruiting of prominent women in each county to take on the position of commissioner. In addition P.W. Everett, who had done much of the pioneering administrative work in the Scouts in 1909 and 1910 (in particular the drawing up of a model county structure) became the Treasurer of the Guides. Many of these initiatives came together at the first major national conference for commissioners at Matlock in November 1916. So the Guides had a rather uneven early development, experiencing none of the mushroom growth that had overtaken the Scouts between 1908 and 1910. Estimates of membership numbers are inevitably tentative but from a very speculative 6,000 in 1909 they had probably risen to about 40,000 by 1914, whereas the Scouts had achieved double that figure in the first two years. The great expansion in Guide numbers took place after 1916, rising to 164,000 by 1921 and to 495,000 by 1932.5 [100]

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Given the lack of contact between the Baden-Powells, the London committee and the provinces before 1916 any discussion of the values of the Movement has to compare the views of the headquarters with what can be reconstructed of the reality on the ground. Taking first the writings of Baden-Powell and his sister, it is clear that it came as a surprise to them that ideas of a Scout training would be attractive to girls, with a considerable number enrolling as Scouts during 1908 and 1909. Initially Baden-Powell seems to have been unconcerned by this development, quickly changing his mind in 1909 about the need for separate provision for girls. His anxieties about a co-educational movement seem to have been twofold: that the presence of girls in the Scouts would compromise his aim of encouraging a proper manliness in boys, and that any scheme of character-training for girls should concentrate on the cultivation of 'womanliness' and so avoid the accusation that he was turning girls into 'tomboys' with its implied feminist associations. In the 1909 pamphlet, therefore, there is much play on the need to train mothers for home responsibilities in England and within the Empire through the practical skills of nursing, cookery and ambulance work as well the inculcation of an appropriate patriotism for girls. Such training was to have three objectives: enabling women to play their part in home defence in the event of an invasion, preparing women for the practical responsibilities of life in the colonies, and increasing the work opportunities for women without sacrificing their 'womanliness'. Unlike boys, girls were not encouraged to set up their own Guide patrols but to wait for a local ladies' committee to be set up. To this Agnes BadenPowell added some personal advice which reflects many of the contemporary anxieties about masculising women through 'male' activity. Violent exercise was presented as dangerous to health and girls who whistled were said to risk the growth of a moustache. Girls needed to preserve their hands and stay neat, avoiding vulgar slang if they were to retain a true womanliness, which was their right. In the later Handbook, many of these themes were elaborated and girls were advised not to follow the Scouting model slavishly since its aim was the cultivation of manliness. On the other hand there was considerable extension of the sections about preparation for life on the frontier – woodcraft, camping, exploration, self-defence, observation and signalling were all included, directly lifted from Scouting for Boys. 'Home Life' now became one section among six. The overall result is a set of contradictions. Scouting for Boys had been written with the idea that boys would be able to transfer an essentially frontier training into an urban environment at home and thereby counteract its degenerative influences. When applied to girls Baden-Powell was not able to make the same connection, or was too nervous to. So in the early years of Guiding [101]

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it appeared that 'Scout'-like character-building was still only appropriate for girls preparing for the colonial life. The tensions are revealed in an anonymous sheet entitled The Girl Guides: What They Are and What They Are Not: 'The Girl Guides are never to be seen parading in the streets with boys, or loafing about; on the contrary they are encouraged in every way to retain their womanliness, so that they may be good mothers and good Guides to the next generation.'6 In the same way the London committee found itself in difficulties and at odds with local opinion. In May 1912, after receiving complaints about Scouts and Guides marching together in Kensington and Chelsea the committee agreed that this should be discouraged as bringing discredit upon the Movement. The local chairman protested, arguing that the boys provided protection for the girls and that joint marching attracted recruits. In the face of such comment the committee compromised, allowing the combined marches on the doubtless less exciting parades to church on Sundays. In 1913 the committee declared that Guides should not camp out of doors as this constituted 'a positive danger to their health'. Two months later they had to back down in the face of protest and leave the matter to local discretion. A third example presents these cross-currents from another angle. For Scouts the imperial elements in Baden-Powell's original scheme were largely played down after 1910, usually because such connections were seen as too directly linked to the encouraging of militarism. For girls the argument about militarism was much less relevant and so the committee could support the Empire League and other patriotic organisations without embarrassment. The impression of the Guides derived from these headquarters sources before 1916 is therefore of a patriotic organisation largely committed to the encouraging of 'womanly' qualities at home and on the frontier.7 Was the local reality any different? The surviving evidence is scanty and answers suggested inevitably impressionistic, but it would seem that Guiding on the ground was more energetic and vigorous, albeit patchily. In the first place it has to be remembered that the original recruits and their leaders derived their ideas and inspiration from Scouting for Boys, using its frontier training as character-training at home. The later transformation of Girl Scouting into Girl Guiding with its more womanly tone was not always acceded to easily, as Rose Kerr pointed out in her early history; this is supported by later oral and anecdotal evidence. Secondly, it needs to be remembered that Guiding was taken up by many of the same agencies as had adopted Scouting, and for the same reasons. Guiding was innovative in relation to other work with girls because of its outdoor bias and because it was much more interdenominational. Sponsoring authorities could therefore fashion the [102]

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Guides and Scouts very much in their own way. The best example of this is the YWCA, who like their male counterparts were enthusiastic supporters of the Guides from the outset. Thirdly, it is clear that the programme allowed for considerable local variety. A feature in the Golden Rule for 1912 gives some of the flavour. The 1st Dartmoor company had given a demonstration of first aid and of piano playing; they had also made some cakes and had concluded their programme with the national anthem. Meanwhile the 1st Devizes had been training in life-saving, scarf drill, bed-making and singing, while the 1st Jedburgh in the Scottish borders had put on an entertainment, which had prompted the local chairman to recommend Guiding as an excellent training in self-reliance. The Yeovil guides went to camp in 1912 and in the winter months concentrated on first aid, ambulance work, cookery and gardening. The emphasis in all these examples is on a mixture of displays and entertainments, first aid, nursing and domestic subjects with activities outside for the more adventurous. There is little to suggest a vigorous quasi-imperial ideology, nor did the leaders seem to have much to fear from unwomanly activity or from a tension between an outdoor frontier scheme and one which also encouraged the development of domestic skills.8 Even so, this local variety had not attracted many members by 1914, so the historian must look for additional reasons to explain the rapid growth after 1916. Clearly the improvement in the operations of the headquarters played a part. The new county structure was vital, decision-making also became much more crisp, and new rules and guidelines were formulated; provision was made for younger girls (Rosebuds, later Brownies) and for young women (Rangers), Baden-Powell wrote the Girl Guide Handbook in 1918, and a scheme of training for leaders was produced. All of this helped but the fundamental changes were taking place outside the national headquarters. As we have seen, before 1914 there was considerable anxiety about unwomanly activities and about what was acceptable for girls to do, especially among the middle class. While extended schooling had drawn the young girl away from the home, it was still within the home that the overwhelming bulk of the girl's free time was spent. The Girl Guides challenged that assumption, but the experience of the First World War did so to a much greater extent. Guides and their leaders were quickly involved in the range of civilian duties spawned by the war effort, most notably in ambulance and first-aid work, collecting and messenger duties and later land and munitions work. A special War Service badge was instituted, requiring three weeks' hospital work, fifteen knitted garments and three additional weeks of war service. In terms of what it was acceptable for a girl or a young [103]

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woman to do outside the home, the war made a significant difference.9 The war also changed the emphasis in what the movement was attempting to achieve. Before 1914 Baden-Powell and his sister had been primarily concerned to train the future mothers of the nation through the development of 'womanly' character. In 1916, writing his introduction to the first edition of Policy, Organisation and Rules he avoided mentioning motherhood altogether. By contrast Guiding is presented as encouraging a higher standard of citizenship; implicitly the balance had changed, women now being seen first of all as citizens, then as wives and mothers, with ideas about a specific femininity or an exclusive womanliness very much third. But these changes, although allowing a more active programme, were only alterations in tone, something which is best illustrated through some of the publications of the period. In How Shall I Help My Daughter?, Olave Baden-Powell hints at these changing assumptions, given the important war work being undertaken by women. While the schools provided basic literacy and numeracy, it was very difficult to predict what kind of life the present-day girl was being prepared for, whether at home or at work. Home preparation, she continues, along with motherhood, remained very important and many women may not feel competent as they have often grown up to think they 'may have a lower capacity than a man'. The aim of Guiding, therefore, through its training programme, was to make 'a successful woman and citizen'. Or again, in the first annual report in 1916, Guide training is described as developing in each girl a happy 'citizenhood', a capability as a worker and an efficiency as a home-maker. But for the war, the writer concludes, it would have been much more difficult to convince the public that the Girl Guides were anything more than 'a factory for tomboys'. Finally, in his handbook, Girl Guiding, Baden-Powell was able to incorporate almost all the elements he had originally included in his training scheme for boys: signalling, first aid, pioneering, tracking, camping, service, health – all are present. In particular he is able to extol the virtues of a training for a frontier life in a way which allows the reader to translate those ideals into the setting of the home country through an enthusiasm for camping and the outdoors, which he had not been able to do for girls before 1914. Even so, old thinking did not die that easily and Baden-Powell was also able to declare (as did most of his contemporaries) that the most important sphere within which such resourceful women would operate would be the domestic and familial one, not subservient to men but as equal and complementary partners.10 A third feature of the war years which created a more favourable environment for the Guide Movement was the increased enthusiasm for the outdoors and the cult of nature. This had always been an aspect of [104]

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Baden-Powell's own writings, but from the middle of the war it acquired greater emphasis through woodcraft in Scouting and the cult of nature study in Guiding. Clearly, both these elements had quite deep cultural roots, and feelings of alienation in an increasingly urban environment had stimulated writers and social critics alike. The war seems to have given such emotions a greater intensity, as the conflict's deeper causes were reflected upon. For many the answers to such problems were to be found not in the failings of diplomacy but in the corruption and decadence of pre-war values, for which the only remedy was the restoration of a harmony between mankind and the natural world. Even before the war, nature study had become an increasingly common feature in the school curriculum and organisations like the Children's Country Holiday Association took many thousands of children into the countryside annually. Contact with nature on such trips was regarded as developing the child's powers of observation in a healthy environment. But this was seen as having a wider moral significance also. Stimulated by the contemporary enthusiasm for Bergsonian vitalist philosophy, nature study was the way in which a child's sense of awe and wonder could be nurtured and along with it a reverence for life, something visibly outraged by the facts of war. So it is not surprising that John Hargrave's most eloquent plea for a woodcraft philosophy should be entitled The Great War Brings It Home: The Natural Reconstruction of an Unnatural Existence. This woodcraft cult influenced the Scout movement deeply in the years after 1916 and its equivalent for the Guides, nature study, was presented increasingly as the moral and spiritual basis of the training scheme. A good example is Baden-Powell's own address to the Guiding conference held at Swanwick in October 1920, when he made nature study the key to a reawakened spiritual awareness which would not tolerate in the future war between the nations or great inequalities of wealth. The Churches had failed humanity through their denominational squabblings and it was the responsibility of the Scouts and Guides to bring about this process of moral renewal through a nature-based training programme. As a result there was a dual thrust in the direction of a more outdoor emphasis, the one coming from the removal of anxieties about girls 'roughing it', the other from the cult of nature. Camping therefore became almost the central feature of Guiding during the 1920s as a natural development of the original training ideas for boys. 'It is through camp that Guiding gains the greatest hold and its greatest educational effect on girls', Baden-Powell commented in 1921, and his own enthusiasm seems to have echoed the feelings of those at the grass roots as recorded in the rising number of camps officially registered. At a more personal level it is clear from the various logbooks [105]

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and diaries kept by Guides and their leaders that the world of the camp and the outdoors did minister to a sense of spiritual loss. As Cicely Stewart-Smith expressed it in her private journal at the conclusion of her poem 'Camp': Oh my heart is very heavy as I lean against the pole, And watch the moths which flutter round the lamp, For I've learnt the art of living with my body and my soul, And the morning means the breaking of the camp.

With feelings such as these it is not surprising that camping has remained a central feature of Scouting and Guiding ever since.11 Two other features also need to be mentioned in this discussion of the growth of the Guide Movement after 1916. The first is the imperial element, so prominent in the thinking of the headquarters before 1914. For Baden-Powell himself the war did not alter his basic enthusiasm for greater imperial integration, to which Guiding was making a contribution. However, once again, the emphasis changed from the middle of the war. No longer was Guiding presented as part of a defensive imperialism through which efficient mothers at home became the Empire's first line of defence. Rather it was seen in more liberal terms as part of an emerging multi-nationalism within a widening imperial framework. Even though the figure of Britannia was replaced on the cover of the official Girl Guides Gazette by a motif less ideologically charged, the Guides used Empire Day more systematically than the Scouts, free as it was from associations of militarism among women. It became the day set aside for the renewal of the Guide promise with its dedication to selfimprovement and service. Nor should this imperial gloss surprise one, given that Guiding had spread rapidly in the dominions and colonies after 1910, raising many of the problems of racial integration that the Scouts were also experiencing. Similarly, the early 1920s were marked by campaign to encourage emigration to the dominions, so that a training for a colonial life was not a complete pretence. The Empire Exhibition in 1925 also raised public awareness and interest, and the Guides introduced an Empire Knowledge proficiency badge the following year, a few months before a similar International Knowledge badge. Such imperial interest was not unqualified, in part at least because Guiding was spreading internationally as well as within the Empire. Thus in the same year, 1926, the headquarters refused to allow Guide companies within Young Imperialist Clubs, declined to join the Women's League of Empire and did not support the British Empire Union in its scheme of distributing medals to children. Finally, in 1927 the renewal of the Guide promise was moved away from Empire Day to the more neutral joint birthday of Baden-Powell and his wife, 22 February. By the [106]

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early 1930s there is little more than a tinge left of that anxious pre-war ideology of imperial motherhood, either in the official publications of the Association or in the descriptions of Guiding on the ground.12 Finally, mention should also be made of the change in attitude towards the use of leisure time in the post-war period. As was noted earlier, work with girls before 1914 had been either of a rescue or a religious kind in the main, represented by agencies like the Girls' Brigade, the Girls' Friendly Society, the girls' club movement and the Sunday schools. Little attention was given to the idea of leisure time itself. This is not surprising given that most working-class girls had clear domestic responsibilities on return from school and later, often enough, physically tiring work. Among middle-class girls and young women there were few opportunities for hobbies outside the home, and public provision for sports and athletics was poor. Lower-middle-class girls in particular, increasingly pressured towards the respectability of 'white blouse' work, had few acceptable leisure outlets, lacking as they did the more extended family networks of the professional middle class. This was a considerable problem as many girls of this type delayed entry in the labour market upon leaving school and so had time on their hands. The First World War changed opinions in this area also, and during the 1920s it was increasingly accepted that personal leisure was a feature, indeed a positive bonus, resulting from reduced hours of work and extended schooling. But for most social commentators it was important that such free time should be used constructively in health, education or self-improvement. It was a sign of the times that the report on leisure presented to the conference on Christian Politics, Economics and Citizenship (COPEC) in 1924 should give a Christian authority to the idea of leisure as 'the deliberate employment of spare time constructively and creatively', in which the sabbath became an opportunity for recreation as well as worship. This, of course, raised much wider questions of what provision should be made for this recreative time, particularly for children and adolescents. But as far as the Girl Guides were concerned, this change in the social climate could not be unhelpful to an organisation for girls and young women that emphasised an active outdoor programme of training and service, not tied to the constraints of Sunday school or rescue agency.13 By early 1930s the Guide Movement had reached a parity with the Scout Association. Each had a membership of about half a million, the great majority of whom were under the age of fourteen, with about 70,000 in each organisation above that age. Members were drawn predominantly if not exclusively from the middle or lower-middle classes in the suburbs. Each had an outdoor programme based upon the original publication of their founder and each was able to express a multi-racial [107]

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internationalism through its membership worldwide. This coexisted with a liberal imperialism with similar multi-racial aspirations which had replaced the more anxious and defensive imperialism of the pre-war years. They had arrived at this position of equality by rather different routes. Before 1914 the Guides had been constrained in their publications at least by anxieties over what constituted a proper 'womanliness', so that the kind of frontier training recommended for boys could not be fully adopted by girls, and only then within a separate single-sex organisation. On the other hand, the colonial element with its potentially liberating outdoor and practical programme could be emphasised, since the slur of militarism could be much less easily applied to the training of girls. The First World War changed many of these assumptions, most notably in what it was acceptable for girls and young women to do outside the home. It also altered the basis of Girl Guide training, matching shifts in attitude about the rôle of women in society. Motherhood was no longer esteemed exclusively; citizenship and preparation for work as well as family were seen as increasingly important. Too much should not be made of this, however, given that most contemporary writing still anticipated that the overwhelming majority of women would find basic fulfilment within the domestic sphere. But the preparation for that rôle had become more diverse and less inevitable. What had not changed was the reticence in all matters of sexuality and physical development in girls and young women, although the formation of sections for the older boy and girl did encourage some discussion of relations between the sexes. Much was left shrouded in ambiguity. The war also had a significant impact on attitudes to outdoor training for girls, so that in the liberalisation which followed the war the whole range of ideas contained in Scouting for Boys could be used by the Guides through the enthusiasm for camping and nature study. Finally, although liberal imperialism was much in the air during the 1920s, the Guides no less than the Scouts did not accept its tenets too uncritically, largely discarding its more explicit overtones by the end of the decade. By 1930 both movements were firmly placed within a framework of the quasi-educational provision for the young. Their numerical success gave weight to the power of the voluntary sector in any public debate, their weaknesses lent support to those arguing for extended statutory provision for the leisure needs of young men and women, an issue not resolved even by the 1944 Education Act.

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Notes The author would like to thank the Girl Guides Association, London, for permission to consult material in its possession and the Librarian in particular for her help. In the Notes this material is referred to as GGAA – Girl Guides Association Archives. 1 Rose Kerr, The Story of the Girl Guides, London, Girl Guides Assocation, 1932. 2 Girl Guides Gazette, 28 April 1916, GGAA. 3 John Springhall, Youth, Empire and Society: British Youth Movements, 1883–1940, London, Croom Helm, 1977, Michael Rosenthal, The Character Factory: BadenPowell and the Origins of the Boy Scout Movement, London, Collins, 1986, Jane Mackay and Pat Thane, The English woman', in Robert Colls and Philip Dodd (eds), Englishness: Politics and Culture, 1880–1920, London, Croom Helm, 1986. 4 Jane Lewis, Women in England, 1870–1950: Sexual division and social change, Brighton, Wheatsheaf,1984; Deborah Gorham, The Victorian Girl and the Feminine Ideal, London, Croom Helm, 1982; Paul Atkinson, 'Fitness, feminism and schooling', in Sara Delamont and Lorna Duffin (eds), The Nineteenth-Century Woman: Her Cultural and Physical World, London, Croom Helm, 1978; Elizabeth Roberts, A Woman's Place: An Oral History of Working-Class Women, 1890–1940, Oxford, Blackwell, 1984; Carol Dyhouse, Girls Growing Up in Late Victorian and Edwardian England, London, Routledge, 1981; Anna Davin, 'Imperialism and motherhood', History Workshop, Vol. 5, 1978, pp. 9-65; Arthur Marwick, Women at War, 1914–1918, London, Croom Helm, 1977. 5 R. S. S. Baden-Powell, Girl Guides: A Suggestion for Character Training for Girls, 1909; and The Handbook for Girl Guides, or How Girls Can Help Build the Empire, 1912. See also Executive Committee Minute Book, 1910–, GGAA. Also Guiding news in Home Notes, 1910, and The Golden Rule, 1910–13, Girl Guides Gazette, 1914–. For membership figures see Annual Reports of the Girl Guides Association, 1916– , GGAA. 6 For Girl Scouts, see extracts from the Scout, 1908–9, The Scout Association Archives, London. I am grateful to the Archivist for this reference. For the anonymous pamphlet, see GGAA. 7 See Executive Committee Minute Book, 1910–, GGAA. For Scouting and the imperial connection see Allen Warren, 'Citizens of the Empire Baden-Powell, Scouts, Guides and an imperial ideal, 1900–1940', in John MacKenzie (ed.), Imperialism and Popular Culture, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1986. 8 Kerr, The Story of the Girl Guides, pp. 38–68; Home Notes; The Girl Guides Gazette. 9 Girl Guides Gazette, 1914-18; Executive Committee Minute Book, 1914–. See also the logbook of the 1 st Putney YWCA Girl Guides, 1914-34, for details of war work, GGAA. 10 Olave Baden-Powell, How Shall I Help My Daughter?, London, Girl Guides Association, n.d.; R. S. S. Baden-Powell, Girl Guiding: A Handbook for Guidelets, Guides, Senior Guides and Guiders, London, Pearson, 1918; Girl Guides Association, Policy, Organisation and Rules, London, Girl Guides Assocation, 1st ed., 1916; and Annual Report, 1916. 11 E. W. Jenkins, 'Science, sentimentalism or social control? The nature study movement in England and Wales, 1899–1914', History of Education, Vol. 10,1981, pp. 33-43; John Hargrave, The Great War Brings It Home: The Natural Reconstruction of an Unnatural Existence, London, Constable, 1919; R. S. S. Baden-Powell, 'Nature study in the Guide Movement and what underlies it', Girl Guides Gazette, January 1921; Girl Guides Association, Annual Reports, 1921, 1927; the logbook of Cicely StewartSmith, GGAA. 12 Girl Guides Gazette, January 1914, May 1918, July 1925, February 1927, May 1927, Jan 1930, Executive Committee Minute Book, 1918-30; Policy, Organisation and Rules, various editions, 1918-30, GGAA. 13 Madeleine Rooff, Youth and Leisure: A Survey of Girls' Organizations in England and Wales, prepared at the request of the Carnegie United Kingdom Trust, under the auspices of the National Council of Girls' Clubs, London, 1935; Conference on Christian Politics, Economics and Citizenship (COPEC), 1924, Vol. 5, Leisure.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Victorians, socialisation and imperialism: consequences for post-imperial India T. V. Sathyamurthy

During the first four decades since independence, India has become the scene of a curious political phenomenon. The characteristic feature of the post-colonial polity of India may be identified as the increasing distance between the mass of the people and the governing classes.1 It is true that during the brief hiatus represented by the final phase of the Indian nationalist struggle under Gandhi's leadership (1919–47), the gulf separating the élite sections of the Indian National Congress at different levels on the one hand and the masses on the other was temporarily bridged by the goal of national independence, which both sides shared. But the major developments in India since the formation of an independent state, the control of whose power passed into the hands of the Congress Party through a process of negotiated transfer, have thrown into bold relief some of the unique characteristics of the Indian ruling classes. These bear the unmistakable imprint of influences inherited from the colonial era. Were a delegation of liberal cognoscenti belonging to early Victorian Britain to visit India from their other-wordly abodes now, it would be more than gratified to discover that the ultimate fruits envisaged in the education policy as adumbrated in Lord Macaulay's famous Minute have in fact materialised: I feel. . . that it is impossible for us, with our limited means, to attempt to educate the body of the people. We must at present do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern; a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour but English in taste, in opinion, in morals and in intellect.2

Making allowances for the specific deviations from the end product necessitated by historical developments, Macaulay would have found no difficulty in recognising a highly Western-orientated ruling élite in contemporary India. What he would witness could hardly be in closer [110]

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conformity with his own vision of the future when he was at the centre of power. 'It may be that the public mind of India may expand under our system... that having become instructed in European knowledge, they may in some future age demand European institutions.' 3 Indeed, such a delegation would discern that the nineteenth-century liberal policy of limited assimilation of a small proportion of Indians through English education produced results which have lasted well into the era of independence and show no sign of fading. This is not to say that educational policy in post-colonial India has been merely a linear continuation of colonial policy. On the contrary, the ramifications of educational policy since independence – at the centre and in the states – have been many and varied. The demand of the mass of the people for access to education in a polity whose specific institutional structures revolve round elected governments can be ignored by the ruling party only at risk to its continued survival in power. At the same time, scarce resources available for education have to be distributed between different regions and between the more privileged classes on the one hand and the mass of the people on the other. The tensions and contradictions engendered in this process have surfaced in the form of choices involving the three main languages – the regional (or vernacular, or the language spoken in a given state), the national (Hindi)4 and English. The plethora of alternatives that governments in India have tried out in practice in all spheres of education, ranging from the primary to the tertiary stages,5 has not resulted, even after four decades of independence, in a broad consensus on a national system of education for the balanced development of all sections of Indian society.6 While forces of Hindi nationalism and non-Hindi regionalism based on local languages have been at loggerheads on India's wide-ranging periphery,7 the Indian élite in all parts of the country have tended to opt for an English education for their children for the most part through privately run schools. Mr Rajiv Gandhi, until recently Prime Minister of India (1984-89), and the coterie of power-wielding advisers surrounding him, are products of the Indian public school tradition.8 The dynamics of these divisions of power and influence affecting educational preferences are faithfully reflected in the disparities that characterise Indian society – for example, between sections of society in which the urban industrialist class and its supporters (mainly the bureaucracy, the military and the liberal and learned professions) on the one hand and the rural élite on the other.9 In a different context, under colonial rule, the emergence of English as the dominant medium of instruction in secondary and higher education was closely followed by the replacement of classical court languages10 by vernaculars in different [111]

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parts of India. The dominance of Hindi as a linguistic vehicle of Indian education in a later era resulted from its adoption by the Indian National Congress as the national language or lingua franca. Thus the unequivocal choice of English as the medium of instruction in secondary and higher education in India under Lord William Cavendish Bentinck, first Governor-General of India, paved the way for the emergence of new social forces whose salience for the future of India up to and beyond independence can hardly be exaggerated. The socialisation of the Indian élite under the colonial educational system not only produced civil servants and professionals who occupied official positions but also spawned a new breed of critical but loyal nationalist elements which subsequently metamorphosed itself into a fully fledged leadership of the Indian nationalist movement. Despite assertions to the contrary by patriotic Indians, the lure of the English language as well as the content of English education have to date been irresistible to the Indian ruling classes. It has continued to govern their intellectual, institutional and ideological preferences. To this must be added, in the contemporary context, the lure of the consumer commodities of the same provenance in order to complete the package. This chapter explores the interconnection between the process of socialisation to which colonial educational policy gave rise and the process of adaptation which it has undergone since the control over the Indian state was passed to the Indian nationalists in 1947.

Company rule, imperial control and Indian education During the seven decades intervening between Bentinck's stewardship of the East India Company and Lord Curzon's imperial viceroyalty (1898–1905), colonial educational policy oscillated between two mutually contradictory and conflicting ideological orientations towards the Indian people in general and the potential Indian élite in particular, both orientations were steeped in racial prejudice. Macaulay was clearly of the early liberal–utilitarian mould. With the acceptance of his famous Minute (2 February 1835) by Bentinck (7 March 1835), the decision to adopt English as the medium of higher instruction was formally taken. The modest sum of money appropriated for education would thenceforward be used for the promotion of English. The ideological roots of the East India Company's educational policy for several decades thenceforward were sunk in English utilitarianism and liberal enlightenment.12 The justification given for English as the medium of instruction in preference to either the classical oriental languages or the Indian [112]

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vernaculars was that the former had the advantage of great practical utility. Macaulay and his colleagues were convinced that, unlike Indian languages which embodied darkness and superstition, English was the language of reason and modern science. Macaulay's distinctive contribution lay in the fact that, unlike his predecessors and elder colleagues such as James Mill and Charles Grant who despaired of any educational policy (vernacular or English based) at all yielding results under Indian conditions, he firmly held the view that education could be effective and was necessary for the sound administration of the country. He shared the others' contempt (entrenched in deliberate ignorance) for oriental culture but not their pessimism about the capacity of a small number of well-chosen Indians to benefit from education in order to serve the Company's interests. During the several decades following the publication of Macaulay's Minute, the Company's policy of educating 'a people who cannot at present be educated by means of their mother tongue' resulted in a total neglect of the vernaculars and a downgrading of the classical languages. Those members of the Company administration (for example, Minto and Prinsep) who argued for the retention of the classical languages were effectively silenced with the racial and utilitarian argument centred round the inferiority of oriental culture and the practical necessity of producing a class of Indians who would be enlightened enough to assume subordinate positions in government. A section of the Indian élite which stood to benefit from the new policy and shared the rulers' contempt for the Indian languages welcomed the introduction of English education. Raja Ram Mohun Roy, the most distinguished advocate of English education and an ardent admirer and supporter of colonial rule, had, over a decade before the publication of Macaulay's Minute, already gone as far as registering a vociferous if not intemperate protest against the foundation of a Sanskrit College in Calcutta. But indigenous élites (particularly Muslim élites), more deeply committed to their own religion, did not like the consequences of the government's withdrawal of support for traditional educational establishments. In general, however, the Hindu élite took to English education much more readily than its Muslim counterpart. Even so, the East India Company felt compelled to accommodate pressures from the indigenous sector by making available (from 1839 onwards) a modicum of resources for the existing institutions of oriental learning. The link between the civil service and the policy of English-language education forms an essential part of the changing fashions in Company thinking. Its sinusoidal fluctuations until the appearance of Macaulay's Minute (from the time of Warren Hastings – 1773–84) had consisted initially of a policy of limited co-optation of natives in administration [113]

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and of using Indian classical languages as the media of intercourse, and subsequently of a policy (under Lord Cornwallis – 1786–93) of total exclusion of natives 'from all but the petty offices'. By the time Macaulay's Minute was translated into concrete policy measures, pressure had already begun to build up among the Indian élite (especially its tiny and nascent modern sector, of which Ram Mohun Roy was the most illustrious representative) through demands for better rewards in the form of government employment for educated natives. In 1833, the year in which Ram Mohun Roy died, Macaulay had already signalled in Parliament that colonial policymakers were once again contemplating at least restricted entry into middle-level and eventually even higher-level civil service appointments for meritorious natives. Utilitarian contempt for things Indian and liberal adherence to the principle of 'equality of opportunity' for Indians in the Indian Civil Service (ICS) mingled together to constitute the subsoil in which the colonial government's new educational policy was to be embedded.13 Within two decades of the adoption of Macaulay's policy, educated Indians were already in a position to sense the power of the weapon that the Company had placed in their hands: a capacity to articulate ideas in the idiom of the conqueror's own language. Thus in 1852, five years before the mass of the Indian people was to signify its opposition to colonial rule through the Sepoy Insurrection,14 a group of educated Indians met in Bombay to formulate a demand for a system of government in India 'less cumbersome, less exclusive, less secret, more directly responsible and infinitely more efficient and more acceptable to the governed',15 an administration in which natives would be given 'a much larger share than they had hitherto had'. The political impact of English education on the minds of its beneficiaries was unmistakable. Its initial public awakening thus preceded the emergence of the Indian National Congress by a period of over three decades. The attempt of the first generation of English-educated Indians to put forward a political demand for greater participation in the administration of the country came before an expansionary phase in the establishment of English medium schools. Already during the 1830s, Protestant missionaries had entered the picture as disseminators of the English language, even though Macaulay himself had no great love for the ministers of God 'bringing light unto the children of darkness'. During the decades preceding the publication of the 'Wood Despatch',16 missionary establishments spanning the entire spectrum of education rapidly multiplied.17 The Wood Despatch (1854) followed close on the heels of the renewal of the Company Charter (1853). It was designed to take stock of Macaulay's legacy in the sphere of English education and to suggest new [114]

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directions for the future. Characteristically, Wood recommended a slight swing of the pendulum in the direction of orientalist thinking, while continuing to uphold the correctness of the policy of providing education 'which has for its object the diffusion of the improved arts, science, philosophy and literature of Europe; in short, of European knowledge'.18 Thus the Wood Despatch purported to combine the use of English and the vernaculars, and to link higher (by 1857, in fact university) education to recruitment to government bureaucracy. Under it, responsibility would be clearly devolved from the centre to the provinces/presidencies, while an impressive proportion of resources required for the spread of education would be derived from missionary enterprise. On the eve of the 1857 insurrection, the colonial government had already embarked upon an educational course that would bring larger sections of the Indian middle classes into the sphere of competition for recruitment to coveted government jobs and to the liberal professions. The anti-colonial feelings of the mass of the people, expressed forcefully through the 1857 insurrection as well as through numerous peasant struggles in different parts of the country,19 contrasted sharply with the loyalty of educated Indians to the colonial regime which, according to a contemporary, was 'rational and calculating . . . with no sentimental affection for the British Raj'.20 By the time the responsibility for the government of India was taken over by the Crown, a class of Indians had already emerged which had taken full advantage of European education primarily as a means of economic advancement and only secondarily as a key to rational enlightenment. In subsequent decades, this class interposed itself between the colonial power and the mass of the people as a layer through which communication between the two could be carried on. Under the Crown, popular primary education increasingly came to be controlled by private Indian and European missionary enterprise, while appropriations were provided for higher institutions and élite schools.21 The government justified this new slant in policy on the somewhat spurious ground that rural people did not wish to be educated. In the turbulence generated by the 1857 insurrection, the colonial administration lost some of its earlier zeal for utilitarianism and evangelism. It contented itself with providing maximum scope and patronage for higher education mainly as a gateway to government employment. Moreover, interpreting the 1857 insurrection as a consequence of the ignorance of the mass of the Indian people, the colonial government seemed to set great store by the loyalty of the educated classes. The people of India, according the Duke of Argyll in 1859, had been loyal in 'proportion to their education and enlightenment'. [115]

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For a quarter of a century after the Crown's assumption of direct responsibility for government, education was in the doldrums for two principal reasons. The highly centralised character of financial control had the effect of taking away from local government the responsibility for education; and the government had no proper understanding of the relationship between the loyalty of different segments (or classes) of the population and their level of education. Thus primary and mass education suffered while higher education expanded. The appointment by Lord Ripon, the Viceroy, of the Hunter Commission brought to light the inadequacies of colonial education policy. Under its recommendations, Indian bodies were to be encouraged to manage aided institutions under government supervision, and higher education was to be expanded and diversified in order to produce not only potential civil servants but also trained professionals in various fields involved in the economy and in agricultural development. English continued to dominate all phases of post-primary education, and vernacular education was not allowed to expand. The sinusoidal oscillation of colonial educational policy to which reference has been made earlier reached a turning point in 1898 with the assumption of the viceroyalty by Lord Curzon. Surveying the achievements of seven decades of colonial policy in Indian higher education, Curzon graphically compared the result with the hatching of a hen's egg into a fighting cock. By giving English education to a large number of Indians and whetting their appetite for government service without satisfying it, the government had bred a class of seditious troublemakers which was inclined to spread discontent and raise the standard of revolt. The emergence of the Indian National Congress in 1885 and its demands for greater government accountability was viewed as an unacceptable challenge to authority. The colonial government's aim of producing docile civil servants through its policy of education seemed to have boomeranged with the emergence of militant fire-eaters such as B. G. Tilak, who demonstrated a capacity to command mass following for anti-colonial agitations. Blaming these developments on his predecessors' education policy in higher education, Curzon reversed governmental priorities. Henceforward, higher (that is, English) education was to be cut, and primary (that is, vernacular) education fostered; and, in the former sphere, technical and vocational education was to be provided greater scope than literary education. The objective of Indian partnership in power at some indefinite date, grudgingly envisaged by Macaulay, was unceremoniously abandoned by Curzon, who believed that it had gathered sufficient momentum to pose a threat to absolute colonial control. [116]

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In practice, however, there was a Canutian quality about Curzon's educational policy. The tide of mass opposition to colonialism and classélite demands for a large share in the fruits of government could not be reversed. On the one hand, reformists22 approached the task of refurbishing and modernising Hinduism with new ideas, methods of work and knowledge of organisation derived from Englisheducation,–on the other, revivalists23 reacted to English education as a fundamentally hostile force and 'as a serious affront to India's cultural heritage and intellectual pride; both tendencies claimed to restore the Hindu social order from decay and desuetude through the spread of modern education. While the reformists gave nationalism a more compartmentalised secular emphasis (which, in principle, permitted power-sharing with the British), the revivalists viewed political liberty as indispensable to the achievement of religious and cultural freedom.24 The relationship between the newly arisen English-educated middle class in India and the mass of the people was contradictory and ambiguous. At the heart of the contradiction lay the fact that this class did not possess an authentically Indian character. It was at best a poor imitation of its metropolitan opposite; it originated no new ideas and methods; there was little that was indigenous about it except its skin colour; in short,it was a partially deracinated minor fraction of the larger Indian society. Its emergence was not parallelled by the development of the Indian economy or social institutions along appropriate lines. Its urban component consisted almost entirely of a non-producing commercial and professional élite; its miniscule rural component was no more than a dusted-up version of the old feudal landed class. Such was the legacy of socialisation under colonial rule after half a century of English education in India. The role played by modern education was thus contradictory in character: 'Introduced at the outset with a view to meeting the political and administrative needs of Britain and even to strengthening the bond of the British rulers and the Indian ruled, it also helped Indian nationalism in its struggle against that rule.'25 The first stirrings of nationalism echoed by the Indian National Congress under the leadership of the intelligentsia were expressed in the English language.26 The twists and turns of domestic politics in Britain and the fluctuating fortunes of the Liberal Party were reflected in alternate phases of progress and retardation in Indian efforts to win a share in the making and implementation of government policy.27 Limited participation in the legislatures and in the executive was extended to Indian Liberals and Conservatives towards the end of the nineteenth century. During its early career as 'loyal opposition', the Indian National Congress concentrated attention on the issues relating [117]

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to the recruitment of Indians into the ICS and the introduction of representative institutions allowing Indian participation through nomination and election. The seeds of division between the Hindu élite on the one hand and the élites on minority communities on the other (and between Hindu and Muslim élites in particular) were thus sown, because the former had already experienced the effects of a far deeper exposure to English education and its socialising impact than the latter.28

The national language issue The issue of national language became one of the most potent vehicles of protest against colonial rule from the beginning of the century. Tilak laid emphasis on the primacy of Sanskrit, the classical language of the Hindus, which was the medium of expression of ancient Indian culture, even though he was as active in English-language journalism and pamphleteering as he was in Marathi (the language of Maharashtra). Even he, however, did not articulate the linguistic dimension of the freedom struggle in a systematic fashion. It was only after Gandhi assumed the leadership of the Indian National Congress that the rôle of Indian languages in general and Hindi in particular as the national language assumed real importance. The final phase of the struggle for freedom (1920–47) was dominated by the Congress leadership's wish to drive out the colonial power and replace English by the national language in independent India.29 The centrepiece of the Congress blueprint for independent India took the shape of a realignment of existing provincial administrative boundaries along the lines of linguistic nationalities.30 In each such linguistically homogeneous province the indigenous language would flourish alongside Hindi in the educational system. While the role of English was left unspecified in the formal statements issued by the Congress, it was apparent from what was left unsaid31 that it would continue to play a role as an international (as differentiated from 'colonial') language, with obvious advantages in the fields of science and technology which would be essential for India's development. In the heat of the political struggle, however, it appeared as though the future of English in India after independence would be severely circumscribed. However, the realisation of these linguistic aims in practice was fraught with difficulties. From the perspective of this chapter, two related considerations are relevant. First, the national leadership (preeminently Gandhi himself)32 as well as a majority of the provincial leaders of the Congress were fluent in English; their espousal of the [118]

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cause of Indian languages was motivated by political rather than educational considerations. Second, the section of the English-educated élite belonging to the civil service and the liberal professions enjoyed the advantages of sitting tenants in their various occupations. In view of the fact that Indian independence resulted from protracted negotiations between the colonial power and the Indian nationalists and not from a protracted revolutionary struggle against imperialism, the Congress would have no opportunity to build a new state upon independence but would simply inherit the colonial state apparatus in which a large section of the English-educated élite of India was already well entrenched. At independence, higher education had taken place throughout India in the English language for over a century and a quarter. It embraced the careerist and the nationalist segments of the élite alike. Thus, even though the Indian nationalist struggle took on a mass character, its essential feature lay in its being led at the national and provincial levels33 by a counter-élite that shared the intellectual background of the élite which was the chief beneficiary of colonial rule. The thinking processes, the value preferences and the economic and social aspirations of the élite/ruling classes had been shaped by English-language education and Westernisation to such a profound degree that those in control of the Indian state at independence systematically moved in the direction of maintaining English as the effective medium of instruction and education, through which they could perpetuate their leading position in society. At the heart of the contradiction engulfing the educational priorities of independent India lies the transformation of the role of the Indian National Congress at independence into the governing party in control of state power. As a mass movement, the Congress Party had promoted Hindi as the national language. After independence, however, as the party in power it had to contend with two opposing tendencies – one of these related to the vested interest of the vast army of English-educated officials in government in the retention of English, while the other stemmed from the political fear of non-Hindi-speaking areas that the replacement of English (which is equally foreign to Indians throughout the country) by Hindi would place the people of the heartland states in a position of unfair advantage in the all-India job market. During the first two decades of independence, the Congress Party enjoyed practically unbroken hegemony both at the centre and in the states. 34 Almost immediately after the transfer of power, regional identities began to assert themselves vigorously along linguistic lines. The central government's initial response to these pressures in the form of assertions to the effect that a linguistic division of provinces would [119]

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undermine national unity fell on deaf ears in the non-Hindi states on India's periphery, where the local Congress leaders recalled the pledges made by the nationalist movement during the 1930s on the related questions of linguistic autonomy and the position of Hindi as the national language.35 The conflict on the language question was resolved by a series of compromises agreed between the central government and all the state governments. The fact that the Congress Party was in power at both levels of government greatly facilitated the process. Against the vociferous protests of the puissant Hindi lobby in the Congress Party, it was decided that the adoption of Hindi as the official language would be delayed for fifteen years (that is until 1965) from the date of the adoption of the Constitution. During this period, English would continue as the official language of the centre as well as of interstate intercourse. The Constitution listed fourteen Indian languages in a schedule which had Hindi as the national language, twelve major regional languages and English as the official language.36 The next big step undertaken by the central government consisted of the reorganisation of states in India along linguistic lines.37 This process was more or less completed before the second general election (1957).38 Large new states carved out on the basis of linguistic homogeneity emerged on India's periphery on all sides of the great Hindi-speaking heartland states.39 Educational policies, understandably, came to occupy a central place in the administration of thesestates,;they were also subject to endless experimentation involving the number of languages that children could be expected to learn.40 Until the emergency (1975–7), during which it was transferred to the 'Concurrent List' in the Constitution, education was an exclusively 'state' subject.41 This meant that the central government was relatively insulated from the various pressures to which state governments were exposed. In non-Hindi states, for example, the approach of the end of the constitutionally guaranteed fifteen-year moratorium on the adoption of Hindi as the sole official language of the country was greeted with popular riots objecting to Hindi or North Indian imperialism and raising demands in favour of the continuation of English (as the link language) alongside the regional languages.42 The uninterrupted education in the English medium of the children of the upwardly mobile segments of society and the Indian bourgeoisie, as signified by the proliferation of private and 'public' schools throughout the country,43 represented an aspect of the survival of English both in respect of the material rewards that it had to offer and in respect of the impact of socialisation under British rule of which it was a legacy.44 A permanent caesura had opened up in Indian education a full genera[120]

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tion after independence, on both sides of which the English language came to occupy a central place. The central government had shown itself to be totally unwilling to remove the system of privilege in which English-language education became the passport to preferment in the economic, social, cultural and occupational spheres. The children of the middle classes throughout India, including the Hindi belt, are invariably sent to English medium schools, the demand for which has become insatiable. On the other hand, the state governments, which are much closer to the mass of the people and are often compelled to affect populist postures, have the immediate responsibility for educational policy affecting different classes of society. Upward social mobility at the regional level carries slightly different connotations from that at the national level. Even so, after the regional language, emphasis in the nonHindi states has seemed to be firmly placed on English in preference to Hindi for obvious practical reasons. Primary education takes place almost exclusively in the language of the region.45 At the secondary level, exposure to English is optional or compulsory depending upon each particular state's educational policy at any given time, but the main language of the region is retained as the medium of instruction for the whole of the educational cycle – from the primary to the tertiary stage. In other words, there are two nations in India, each irreconcilably divided from the other – a very tiny minority which has, by virtue of its access to privilege, such as uninterrupted education in English that it cuts itself off from the mainstream; and a vast majority of people, alienated from the bourgeoisie, with its roots firmly struck in the various regions of the country. The rough weather that an innocuous reform in primary school syllabus introduced by the Left Front government of the state of West Bengal encountered during its first term of office (1977–82) provides a useful case study illustrating the two-nations thesis. West Bengal is among the more educationally and culturally advanced states of India. It has the longest exposure to colonial rule and became the home of a number of reformist and revolutionary movements from the early decades of the nineteenth century onwards. It is also among those areas in which communism is popular. The undivided Communist Party of India (CPI) prior to 1964 and the Communist Party of India (Marxist) (CPI-M) since 1964 have always enjoyed a big following drawn, interestingly, from the urban intelligentsia and industrial workers as well as from the rural poor, middle peasantry and landless labourers. When, in 1967, a rash of anti-Congress coalitions of the right and the left won the Legislative Assembly elections in a number of states, West Bengal came under the rule of a United Front coalition of which CPI-M was the dominant partner. This government was subject [121]

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to destabilisation tactics by the Congress Party until it became unviable. But CPI–M rode back to power in West Bengal at the head of a Left Front coalition in the State Assembly election held in 1977 after the end of the Emergency. The Left Front has consolidated its rule in West Bengal by winning three successive elections since, and is currently serving its third consecutive term in office. Education was one of the key areas in which CPI–M was keen to introduce changes with a view to improving the access to it of the rural labouring masses. Accordingly, the United Front (UF) government carried out an experiment in 1969 with the introduction of a Bengali primer entitled Sahaj Path46 for the first two grades in primary schools throughout the state. As it happened, this particular primer, written in two parts by Rabindranath Tagore, was chosen not for its social relevance but rather for its poetic and artistic quality. After the dismissal of the UF government, the Congress under Chief Minister Siddharta Shankar Ray appointed a Syllabus Committee to go into the question of withdrawing Sahaj Path in favour of new texts to be specially prepared by an expert committee appointed for the purpose. When the Left Front (LF) government took power in 1977, the Syllabus Committee was expanded to include representatives of the different Primary Teachers' Associations of West Bengal irrespective of their political affiliation.47 On the ground that universal primary education should be conceived in a manner appropriate to the needs of the masses, the LF government in 1980 announced the withdrawal of Sahaj Path in favour of new texts specially prepared under the supervision of the Syllabus Committee and the abolition of English at the primary level. Despite the care taken by the government to ensure the representation of a broad spectrum of political views on the Syllabus Committee, it came under heavy criticism from a section of the intelligentsia as well as opposition political parties (notably the Congress Party). A bitter struggle was waged in Calcutta, far away from rural Bengal, by the forces opposed to the withdrawal of Sahaj Path and to the abolition of English at the primary level of education. Those opposed to the government's reform measures completely ignored the original motive underlying them of serving the interests of the rural masses. The LF government was forced to beat a partial retreat. The Sahaj Path controversy constitutes a vivid illustration of the difficulties faced by a mass-oriented or pro-people party in putting forward policies that are viewed as inimical to their interests by the middle and upper classes. A brief analysis of the relationship between class identity and the process of communication can throw light on the experience of the LF government in the field of primary education reform.48 Until the early part of the nineteenth century, the Bengali language in its written form [122]

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contained typical examples of the idiom prevalent among the rural labouring class.49 With the introduction of English education, however, the Bengali language was gradually reshaped in accordance with the characteristics of the newly emerging Bengali middle class. As shaped by the post-Macaulay generations of writers,50 the Bengali language lost its popular touch. It was guided by Sanskritic grammar and influenced by Western ideas. Bengali literature thus became too sophisticated to be within reach of the mass of the Bengalipeople,–it became a vehicle for the expression of the ideas of the leisured and privileged classes,– its quality and resonance faithfully reflected the stagnation of the productive sector of the economy of Bengal. The colonial impact on Bengal was so far-reaching that it resulted in the complete supplantation of the standardised Bengali acceptable to the mass of the people (which had already developed from the local dialects prior to British conquest) by a new language and literature 'which had the sophistication of Sanskrit and secularity of English to suit the growing new class'.51 The world reflected in modern (that is twentiethcentury post-independence) language textbooks used in the primary schools of West Bengal is the world of the urban bhadralok52 developed during the nineteenth century and differs radically from the world of the chottolok.53 It is clear from the Sahaj Path controversy that the mere substitution of the Congress government in the state by an LF government cannot lead to a change in educational policy more appropriate to the needs of the mass of the people. Reform introduced from above by well-meaning authorities are bound to be resisted by entrenched forces. For colonial rule gave rise to conditions congenial to the emergence of the bhadralok as the dominant indigenous social class in Bengal. The system of education developed in the nineteenth-century vernacular as well as in English was directed towards catering to the needs of this class. No wonder then that the modern-language text books developed during the colonial era reflected the cultural world of bhadralok. In the process, the mass of the rural poor 'who had participated in the indigenous vernacular system, were left out of the elementary system that took its place'.54 So potent was the process of socialisation set in motion as a consequence of colonial educational policy that the new bhadralok educational system rose out of the ashes of the indigenous system of the poor people of Bengal. The experience of contemporary West Bengal and indeed of most other states in India since the departure of the colonial power bears the imprint of the process of socialisation engendered in colonial educational policy, the origin of which can be traced back to Macaulay's Minute. It profoundly affected English and vernacular education alike as [123]

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vehicles for the perpetuation of a new non-producing privileged and leisured class which enjoyed a position of pre-eminence in indigenous society, in which production as it was known prior to colonial penetration had become moribund while production along modern lines was not permitted.

Notes 1 A detailed examination of this theme in the context of the development of state power in India is the subject of a series currently under way. See, for example, T. V. Sathyamurthy, India Since Independence: Studies in the Development of the Power of the State, Vol. 1: Centre–State Relations: The Case of Kerala, Delhi, Ajanta International, 1985. 2 H. Woodrow (ed.), The Indian Educational Minutes of Lord Macaulay, Calcutta, Ajanta International, 1862. 3 Sir. P. Griffiths, The British Impact on India, London, 1952, p. 247. 4 See, for example, Government of India, Report of the Official Language Commission (Chairman, B. G. Kher), New Delhi, 1956. 5 See, for example, Government of India, Report of the University Education Commission (Chairman, Dr S. Radhakrishnan), New Delhi, 1949; Government of India, Report of the Secondary Education Commission (Chairman, Dr A. L. Mudaliar), New Delhi, 1953; Government of India, Report of the Education Commission (1946–66):Education and National Development (Chairman, Dr D. S. Kothari), New Delhi, 1966. 6 The New Education Policy of the Government of India (1986) has been vigorously attacked by different sections of Indian society, although it has been carried by the Congress majority in Lok Sabha. 7 Along the coast and the 'soft shoulder of India' stretching from Sikkim in the northeast to Ladakh and Jammu and Kashmir in the north-west. 8 Mr Gandhi and his friends were educated at Doon School, Dehra Dun. 9 See, for example, Ashok Mitra, Terms of Trade in India's Economic Development, London, F. Cass, 1976. 10 Persian and Sanskrit. 11 Bengali in Bengal, Marathi in Bombay and Tamil in Madras. 12 E. Stokes, The English Utilitarians and India, London, Oxford University Press, 1969. 13 The ICS tradition was given its unique character by Sir Charles Trevelyan. 14 Colonialist historians refer to the 1857 events as 'Sepoy Mutiny'; nationalist historians often refer to it (after V. D. Savarkar) as 'India's First War of Independence'. Its character was far more complex than either characterisation would suggest. This author, along with several other contemporary scholars, refers to it as an insurrection serious enough to pose a threat to the foundations of colonial rule in India. 15 Griffiths, The British Impact, pp. 257–8. 16 B. T. McCully, English Education and the Origins of Indian Nationalism, New York, 1940, p. 126. 17 A few private Hindu institutions were started during the 1850s, in part to counteract European missionary influence. 18 S. Nurullah and J. P. Naik, A History of Education in India, London, Asia Publishing House, 1951, p. 205. 19 For a brilliant historical analysis of the antagonism of the rural masses to colonial rule see Ranajit Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India, Delhi, Oxford University Press, 1983. 20 Harish Chandra Mukherjee, quoted in T. R. Metcalf, The Aftermath of Revolt: India, 1857–1870, Princeton, Princeton University Press, p. 82. 21 G. D. Bearce, British Attitudes Towards India, 1784–1858, London, 1961, p. 284.

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CONSEQUENCES FOR POST-IMPERIAL INDIA 22 E.g. G. H. Deshmukh of Bombay, Mahatma Phule, De Rozio of Bengal, Debendranath Tagore, the Prarthana Sabha of Maharashtra, the Brahmo Sabha, the Adi Brahmo Samajists, and the Brahmos under Keshub Chandra Sen. 23 E.g. Dayananda Saraswati of the Punjab and Bal Gangadhar Tilak of Maharashtra. 24 Tilak, Aurbindo Ghosh and Bankim Chandra Chatterji are appropriate examples of this trend. See, for example, Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse, London, Zed Press, 1986. 25 A. R. Desai, Social Background of Indian Nationalism, Bombay, Popular Prakasham, 1948, p. 139. 26 See, for example, Bipan Chandra, The Rise and Growth of Economic Nationalism in India, Delhi, People's Publishing House, 1966; and Anil Seal, The Emergence of Indian Nationalism, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1968. 27 At the level of Indianisation' of ICS, a 'guerrilla'-type resistance developed within the colonial administration and in Whitehall. Sir J. Fitzjones Stephen, the chief ideologue of ICS, maintained on racial grounds that the importation of Indians into it would inevitably lead to a dilution of its quality. The contrary view was espoused by Sir John Strachey and Sir Charles Dilks on grounds of expediency rather than principle. See Stokes, English Utilitarians, pp. 284–305. 28 Desai, Social Background, p. 398–9. 29 When Congress assumed executive power in the provinces in 1937 under the Government of India Act (1935), it promoted the learning of Hindi in schools as a part of its educational policy. 30 See, for example, T. V. Sathyamurthy, Indian nationalism and the "national question"', Millennium: Journal of International Studies, Vol. 14, No. 2, Summer 1985, pp. 172–94; Prakash Karat, Language and Nationality in India, Madras, Orient Longman, 1973. 31 See Pilar Casamada, 'English in India 1947–1980', unpublished doctoral dissertation, Barcelona, 1987. 32 Nehru and Rajagopalachari, for example, were so fluent in English that they probably even thought and dreamed in that language. 33 This was true of the left parties also. The leadership of the Communist Party, and to a lesser degree that of the Socialist Party, was drawn from English educated middle-and upper-middle-class elements. See Desai, Social Background, passim. 34 There were a few exceptions of which the most notable was the elected CPI-led state government of Kerala in 1957, which was dismissed by the centre in 1959. 35 The agitation for a separate Andhra state was led by the veteran Congress leader from Andhra Pradesh, Mr T. Prakasam. It was a serious struggle and claimed a number of lives, including that of a hunger-striker, Mr Potti Sriramulu. In fact, the Andhra agitation served as the trigger for the reorganisation of states that took place during the 1950s. These are listed in a schedule to the Constitution of India. By virtue of its international character, India's long exposure to it and as a gesture of recolonisation on the Congress Party's part, English too appeared to qualify as an Indian language! 37 The Punjab was, however, an exception, mainly because the Punjabi-speaking population split along communal lines when recording their mother-tongue with the census authorities. The Hindus gave Hindi as their mother tongue (by and large), while the Sikhs gave Punjabi (in Gurmukhi script). 38 Government of India, The Report of the States Reorganization Commission (Chairman: Mr Justice Fazl Ali), New Delhi, 1956. 39 Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. 40 At least two (and often three) languages – mother tongue, another Indian language, which is Hindi in non-Hindi areas, and English. 41 The central government did have an Education Minister who was responsible for policy, but each state government was and still is responsible for education in its own sphere of control. 42 See, for example, T. V. Sathyamurthy, 'Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam in the politics of Tamil Nadu', in B. N. Pandey (ed.), Leadership in South Asia, London, Asia Publishing House, 1977, pp. 426–60.

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 43 For example, the central government established during Mr Nehru's administration an elaborate network of English medium schools throughout India in order to cater for the individual needs of the children of central government officials who were liable to transfer in the course of their careers. 44 Desai, Social Background, passim. 45 In some states, as in West Bengal, English is taught in certain state-run primary schools as a subject. 46 See Poromesh Acharya, 'Politics of primary education in West Bengal: the case of Sahaj Path', Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. 16, No. 23, 13 June 1981, pp. 1069–75. 47 The Syllabus Committee consisted of twenty-three members. 48 What follows is drawn heavily from Poromesh Acharya, 'Development of modern language textbooks and the social context in 19th century Bengal', Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. 21, No. 17, 26 April 1968, pp. 745–51. 49 E.g. Mrityunjay Vidyalankar's Probodh Chandrika and Madan Mohan Tarkalankar's Barna Parichaya. 50 E.g. Ishwara Chandra Vidyasagar, Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and Rabindranath Tagore. 51 Acharya, 'Politics of primary education', p. 1073. 52 Literally 'big people' (i.e. upper classes). 53 Literally 'small people' (i.e. lower classes). 54 Acharya, 'Development of modern language textbooks', p. 750.

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CHAPTER SIX

Christian imperialists of the Raj: left, right and centre Gerald Studdert-Kennedy

I The English men and women who saw out the last three decades of the Raj had been brought up as Christians. The formal religious instruction they had received was uneven. Doubt and indifference towards the Christian tradition after the Great War could be freely acknowledged and was frequently lamented. But within the preparatory schools and public schools, which trained the imperial middle class and the greater part of the small 'India public' of the inter-war period, that there was a Christian core to the imperial civilisation continued to be confirmed daily in compulsory religious observance and in subtler ways that permeated teaching practices and social relationships.1 The leading public schools were self-consciously Christian foundations and the ascendancy of the great clerical headmasters was by no means over. Educational theorists like A.D. Lindsay, Master of Balliol and first ViceChancellor of Keele University, whose political thinking now finds itself dusted off and reconsidered with something like an apology for the archaism of its explicitly Christian commitment, spoke with the confidence of authority addressing a period in which Christianity was still 'a live force in British intellectual life'.2 Lindsay, like other influential publicists – such as his friend William Temple, a former headmaster (not a very successful one) of Repton, but unique among archbishops for the breadth of his appeal as a writer and a speaker – was very conscious of his obligation to protect Christianity as an informing presence both in domestic politics and in imperial trusteeship. Lindsay and Temple were political liberals, but other political orientations, encompassing both domestic and imperial arenas, identified themselves as no less fundamentally Christian. However, though there are many studies of the missionary impact on India, it has been fashion[127]

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able to discount the religious beliefs of British Christians themselves as an historical residue, against the calculations of political and material advantage that led to the termination of the Raj. It is the argument of this chapter that the imperialism of the Raj must be understood in relation to a framework of assumptions in which Christian, even at times christological, elements were of importance. Some outstanding figures were explicitly aware of this. For others, unexamined notions about Christian conduct and purpose were part of the mental equipment with which they encountered the East, or merely shared their opinions on the imperial relationship as members of the India public. So the question is not simply one of trying to demonstrate that there was more Christian ity around, so to speak, than is indicated by a reading of many recent studies of the later history of the Raj, but also of suggesting why that might be of some consequence. Writing generally, in 1973, about the imperial demission of power, D. A. Low pointed out that: it would seem fairly clear that for quite a number of those affected by it, Empire was as much a religious as a political or economic or ideological problem. It has to be said that this consideration has not always received the attention it deserves.3

He goes on to instance the treatment by political scientists and historians (and nationalists) of nationalism itself. For many of them it has been first and last a secular matter. But Indian nationalism, in particular, was a problem defined by the British in ways that were heavily conditioned by the legacies of a Christian discourse, early acquired, consistently reinforced and barely challenged in the social and political networks that dominated the Raj. The central purpose in what follows is to give some substance to this claim.

II It is worth pointing out the most preliminary fact of all, that the many branches of Western orientalism had authoritatively defined India as a religious civilisation, Hinduism and, in a more muted sense, Islam, were seen as representing a fundamental cultural challenge to the civilised West.4 Whether critical or sympathetic, India raised questions about the ultimate justification and nature of any given social order and about the meaning of social change. British imperialists were by no means insensitive to such questions, since many of them rejected Lord Macaulay's view of the state as the mere guardian of the material means of existence. From Thomas Arnold, who taught prospective servants of Empire, to the [128]

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Earl of Meath, promoter of Empire Day, who dedicated himself to celebrating and exhorting them, and such figures as the powerful India Office bureaucrat Sir Arthur Hirtzel, or Lionel Curtis, the Round Table Group's self-appointed constitutional expert, or, on the other hand, many of the Tory diehards who supported Churchill's opposition to the India legislation of 1935, there were providentialist visions of a multiracial state or Empire, under a universal religion, emerging as a moral totality in the fullness of time.5 Studied pragmatism was not the only response of the British to India or to the new forces stirring within it. The 'India public' was notoriously small, in Parliament and at large, and for significant elements in it, at very different levels, churchmanship and Christian belief were of salient importance. This was true of, individual politicians who were deeply implicated in imperial affairs, notably Lord Irwin (Viceroy from 1926 to 1931), Stanley Baldwin, Samuel Hoare (Secretary of State for India, 1931–5), and, among others in India, George Lloyd (Governor of Bombay from 1918 to 1923), while many of those who wrote about or were attentive to Indian politics had Church and missionary connections. This in itself says nothing about the nature of their imperialism, which could range from liberal to diehard. However, the debate between liberal and diehard over Indian nationalism took place in an intellectual context, organised around assumptions which were closely associated with components of religious belief. Lindsay himself, occupying a position in the centre of the spectrum of opinion on Indian nationalism, provides a convenient point of entry to this interpretative framework. Lindsay chaired a major Commission on Higher Education in India, which reported in 1931. Two printings of the report rapidly sold out.6 A political socialist, he was more obviously a late product of the liberal Anglicanism which Arnold and others had led from Anglican doctrinal orthodoxy into the support of liberal causes. Richard Brent has shown how, while: they denied the essential role of the church as the vehicle for saving souls, these liberals turned their attention to a consideration of the contribution which Christianity had made to the foundation of the world civilisation. This entailed the recognition that the prosperity of the state depended on the sustenance of a religion of a non-dogmatic, but also orthodox, kind.7

Transposed into the context of the Report, this recognition focused a number of arguments which had become a standard feature of commentary on the Raj. The crisis in India was identified, first, in terms of her critical need of that ability to discern between wise and dangerous leadership which only sound education can impart, and, secondly, in terms of doubts about her historical maturity, the absence in India of any [129]

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agency effectively corresponding to the Wesley an revival which Halévy had seen as outflanking revolutionary impulses in Britain after 1815. The Report acknowledges the positive religious impulse behind the Arya Samaj, the uplifting social message of Swami Vivekananda, even of B.G. Tilak, but can see no alternative to the transforming and healing power of the Christian message, operating, however, not through conversion or dogma, but indirectly, through the Christian example of service and understanding in Christian foundations such as St John's College, Agra, and St Stephen's College, Delhi, and through the example of practical service by individual British servants of the Raj. If India is really to recover hope and energy for the service of men and the rebuilding of life it must reach a deeper readjustment than it has yet attained. It must believe in the reality of life and its values and of the personal relationships through which eternal values are revealed. It must have enduring standards by which what is precious and what is vile can be measured. It must, in a word, accept the faith of the Incarnation.8

The final sentence here, which will be discussed shortly, is not the theological dogmatism it appears to be. The most important educational recommendation of the Report emphasised the essential place of history in the curriculum, on the grounds that Christianity is an historical religion and that historical materialism ignores the significance of individuals and of personality and perverts the true nature of historical study. This identifies the central premise of the Christian imperialists, which, following Butterfield, can be described as a Christian, Whig reading of history.9 Butterfield's celebrated attack on this treatment of the past was published in the same year as Lindsay's report. The question raised for the Christian imperialists by the protean forms of Indian nationalism was whether some at least of these represented the organic unfoldings of a purposive process, or the disordered interior of a society that had, quite literally, run after strange gods, and was to be protected from bringing about its own catastrophe. Post-Great War politics in Britain confronted Christian liberals with a similar question about the impulses informing the new democracy, the threat of dangerous leadership to wise leadership, the tendency of political militancy to disintegrate the organic bonds of the social order and to substitute group competitiveness and greed for service. In the 1920s, an interdenominational religious movement acquired a substantial popular following round these anxieties. Along with Temple, many of the more cautious and conservative elements in the national leadership of the British trade union movement and a number of Fabian reformers and Christian industrialists, such as Curtis' closest friend in the Round Table Group of the South African proconsul Lord Milner, [130]

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Lionel Hichens. Director of Cammell Laird (and the backbone of a Liberal Party Royal Commission on British Indian administration in 1907), Lindsay was a natural and enthusiastic activist in the movement associated with the Industrial Christian Fellowship.10 The movement's central commitment was to a sacramental interpretation of the meaning of history, as a gradual working out of the divine purpose, through practical service in a truly corporate society, a form of Christian idealism that endorsed existing political and social structures while criticising the failure of groups and individuals to live up to them. It responded to the militant, the radical and the revolutionary by calling on the practical realism and common sense of economic and political orthodoxy. It sympathised with political aspiration, but identified fulfilment primarily with the individual's recognition of his duty in an ordered society and very much less with the collective acquisition of power. Emerging from the Church of England, around liberal clerics like Charles Gore (who had a life-long concern with India) and active and well-placed clerics from the public schools (a number of whom visited India in the cold weather of 1922 on a 'Mission of Help' to the British community), it also had a powerful appeal to the last generation of political nonconformity, particularly through the Methodists and Baptists in the trade union world.11 Socially concerned Christians after the Great War were alarmed at the wartime revelations of indifference to the national faith, and looked anxiously for evidence, in the discipline and self-sacrifice of men in the trenches for instance, of an inarticulate witness to the presence of Christ in the conflicts of the time. The same people scanned the threatening imperial convulsions of the Raj for analogous reasons, and Lindsay's reference to the Incarnation is an allusion to a standard theological response to Hinduism and Islam, which was simultaneously critical and anxiously hopeful. It had been elaborated at length in the work of J.N. Farquhar, to which the Commission's Report explicitly refers, and had become the received wisdom of Christians of all denominations.12 There is no space here for a review of the 'theological' discussion, much of it perfectly accessible to the ordinary reader, of Eastern religion,13 but the prevailing model was a very simple one and widely accepted. Ramsay MacDonald, for instance, ran it out, with full acknowledgements to Bernard Lucas of the London Missionary Service and to Farquhar of the Calcutta YMCA, in the climactic chapter of his The Government of India (1914). The model suggested that the problem of the Raj, ultimately, was Hinduism. The arguments were endlessly repeated, with different emphases, and in every kind of literature from political commentary to fiction. Hinduism does not believe in the reality of this world, which it [131]

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regards as maya or illusion. Individually and collectively, the Hindu is incapacitated from recognising that it is this world that is the theatre of reality, and that the doctrine of the incarnation identifies man's obligation to struggle intelligently, truthfully and objectively with factual reality, with causes and effects, in order to realise the divine purpose in history. The Indian's maddening indifference to 'fact' is a leitmotif of the imperial experience, often expressed with brusque contempt, but reflecting a conviction that Western civilisation was based on a fundamental insight into the locus of reality and the nature of our obligation to it. The Englishman, whether he is fully aware of it or not, is taken to embody this knowledge. It does not lie within the power of Hinduism, or of a fatalistic Islam, to bring India to that insight; indeed at many levels both of them have resisted it. Even so there are in each religious tradition tendencies which may be brought to fulfilment through contact with the inner spirit, if not the dogma of the Incarnation, so long as British servants of the Raj continued to see themselves as the agents of an historical process, and if an Indian leadership could emerge, through the Christian colleges, imbued with the spirit of practical service to the nation through service to others.14 This understanding laid a daunting obligation on the Raj. Caste divisions were an obstruction in the path of what Christian idealists identified as a natural evolution of society, by which local loyalties of family and region come to be encapsulated in larger organic wholes, on the basis of a free association of morally responsible individuals. There was an accurate recognition in this of Hinduism's historical indifference as a system of belief to the idea of the state as an enclosing moral order, as anything more than an agency with certain necessary functions which should accept its criteria from orders which lie beyond it. But for a Christian Hegelianism, caste constraints must demoralise the individual Indian, and turn group loyalties inward. In public life the result is endemic nepotism and corruption, and the consolidation of highly fissionable communalisms. The promise of what came to be called fulfilment theology was not a foregone conclusion, though Farquhar's more liberal readers tended to ignore his reminders on this point. Liberals and conservatives emphasised different aspects of these systemic disabilities, the former making the most of the succession of reformist movements within Hinduism, from the synthesising appreciation of Ram Mohun Roy (d.1833) for 'England's work in India',15 to anything in the contemporary movement that could be identified as 'healthy', expressive of nationalism in an essentialist sense. Conservatives dwelt on the distance still to go, on the centuries of Brahmanical ascendancy, on practical and administrative incapacity, on the fissiparous tendencies of caste, language and culture, and also, persistently, on [132]

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the morbidity in relation to sexual practices of a religion obsessed with abstract ritual purity at the expense of the moral purity of conduct. This important theme will re-emerge, but if Lindsay's Commission distilled for an earnest section of the India public, including those who had commissioned the Report, the commonplaces of the discourse in relation to the transmission of values, leadership, sensitivity to the moral implications of fact and of cause and effect, Lionel Curtis did the same at the level of the institutions and structures through which Britain was to tempt India to graduate into political maturity. An hyperactive, undeniably influential figure, operating as a middle brow publicist from a fellowship at All Souls and as a brainstorming moulder of opinion through the discussion papers and groups promoted by the Milnerite Round Table network, Curtis' religious beliefs are generally treated as an eccentric elaboration of his vision of the course of world history.16 But there are good grounds for a very different view. His magnum opus, the three-volume Civitas Dei, is historical narrative interpreted, precisely, in terms of the incarnation, that is to say the historical reality of Christ's Incarnation as man, but also His real presence in the unfolding of God's purpose in all history, the large contours of which, in the classic manner of the Whig historian, Curtis did not doubt could be recognised by the right-minded student of the past. This premise is in fact central to everything he did, including the meticulously detailed constitutional proposals for India which he brought together, to the irritable satisfaction of E.S. Montagu, Secretary of State for India between 1917 and 1922, in the so-called 'dyarchy' scheme for a degree of effective Indian responsibility in provincial legislatures.17 More important, the premise was widely shared. Others made less of the christological argument, though William Temple of course made the most of it and successfully promoted Curtis' books, particularly The Commonwealth of Nations, with schoolmasters such as Somervell, and with others.18 But the notion of a morally purposive history was not questioned by the influential figures close to Curtis, and the visionary effusions of his friend Lord Meston, for instance, addressing Convocation at St John's College, Agra, as Lieutenant-Governor of the United Provinces, have to be taken at face value.19 The massive collection of favourable reviews of Civitas Dei in the Bodleian collection of Curtis' papers is further evidence of the contemporary resonance of his central argument. Sir Edward Grigg MP, for example, Times leader writer on imperial affairs form 1910 to 1913, and almost certainly the author of The Times review of 16 October 1937, echoed Curtis' religiosity.20 Indian nationalists for the most part took a very different view of Curtis, and of the Montagu–Chelmsford reforms, but in his own view he was trying, as a constitutional expert, to adjust the authoritative [133]

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institutions of the Raj to the next step towards maturity of a society comprehensively handicapped by the religious legacy of its own past. Nationalist impatience with this slowly evolving rationality of the Constitution reflected for him and others the characteristic disconnection of the Indian from reality, just as conservative hostility to reform reflected an inability to recognise the ripening moment of organic growth.

III It is worth pointing out some of the ways in which the commonplaces of this discourse were systematically sustained, in defiance of the familiar secularism of the period. Curtis had been a schoolboy at Haileybury and he returned there, and to other public schools, as a speaker, as did a number of other magnetic figures from India, notably the Reverend W.E.S. Holland and Canon E.C. Tyndale-Biscoe, headmaster of the Kashmir Church Missionary Society (CMS) mission schools, which were a showpiece for visiting influentials until Independence. Haileybury financed a hostel at St John's, Agra, and the college magazine carried colourful and regular accounts of the struggle to maintain standards and of successful resistance by students to the threats and blandishments of mobs during periods of nationalist activity. Both Holland and Tyndale-Biscoe wrote vivid and successful books, full of a vigorous and unaffected sense of purpose, an uncompromising view of the moral darkness and confusion of Hinduism and of the fatalistic rigidity of Islam, and in no doubt about the obligations laid by the hand of Providence on the British Empire. There was an orchestrated burst of attention to India in English public school magazines when recruitment into the ICS was declining after the Great War, and the level of interest otherwise varied considerably, but it was earnestly sustained in schools with long-standing connections with the Raj such as Haileybury and Cheltenham.21 The stoicism of the public schoolboy under high-minded talk is of course well known, but Tyndale-Biscoe's spell-binding moralism in particular is a vivid memory for the present writer from his early boyhood, as it must have been for many others. On the spectrum of Christian imperialists, he was an authoritarian figure, one of the earliest members of Churchill's India Defence League, who set himself, in Baden-Powell's phrase in the foreword to Fifty Years Against the Stream, the task of putting 'backbones into jellyfish' in Kashmir. Holland was less abrasive and more conventional: 'India needs pre-eminently the social gospel, needs to see the higher spiritual life lived in the path of worldly duty. And therefore [134]

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a godly Indian commonwealth is the goal no less of the Christian Church than of the British administration.'22 Their common terms of reference were not challenged in the preparatory school and public school world.

IV There was a spectrum of informed debate to which the India public attended which ranged from C.F. Andrews' fervent and lively journalism, in C.P. Scott's Manchester Guardian and in the serious reviews, to the diehard warnings of Sir Henry Page Croft MP. Constitutional historians have pointed out that the debate over India between the wars was not, in a conventional political sense, between left and right but between centre and right of centre,23 for the socialist left made a weak showing on India. The Labour Party actually employed Lionel Curtis to write the pamphlet on India used by parliamentary candidates in the 1919 election.24 Christian imperialists polarised in terms of a general response to the confrontation between Christian ruler and non-Christian subject, and then, inevitably, on the ambiguous phenomenon of Gandhi, the Mahatma, Churchill's 'fakir' striding outrageously on to viceregal premises, the exacting, Christ-like figure presented by his friend C.F. Andrews. Hinduism was known to sanction frightful depravities, as many who objected to Katherine Mayo's sensationalism in Mother India acknowledged,25 though in the standard allusions suttee, child marriage, the sacred linga and the proliferation of sexual activity depicted in the mithunas of the temple vestibules of Khajuraho and elsewhere tended to be run together as evidence of its deep morbidity. But Hinduism was also the religion of Eastern asceticism and mystical insight, reaching the highest levels of transcendent awareness, notwithstanding its verbal tumidity and routine fraud. It was not only professional churchmen who freely recognised that materialism had all but severed Western religious consciousness from such intimations of the spiritual world. So there was deep ambivalence about Hinduism, across the spectrum of attitudes to nationalism, for instance in the work of widely read exponents of the British imperialist ideal, Valentine Chirol, a Times correspondent, a close friend of Curtis and a damper on his liberal enthusiasms, and the Earl of Ronaldshay, Governor of Bengal.26 Chirol in particular lingers on Hinduism's assaults on Christian morality, and on a pathological correlation between Hindu revivalism and illegal political extremism. His account in the third chapter of Indian Unrest is much concerned with the 'recrudescence of the Shakti cultus, with its [135]

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often obscene and horrible rites' and its connection with the 'unnatural depravity', and even 'erotomania', which is 'certainly much more common among Hindu political fanatics than amongst Hindus in general', of the young Chitpavan Brahmins who were charged with the murder of Mr Jackson at Nasik. Ronaldshay made a strenuous attempt to come to terms with the Hindu renaissance in Bengal, to the extent, as leading missionaries elsewhere pointed out, of generalising too freely from Bengal to the rest of India. Both Ronaldshay and Chirol deplored the drift, which accompanied religious irrationalism, away from the patient development of social reform, with its Christian inspiration, and into political agitation. But both also paid tribute to the loftiness of Hinduism's underlying conceptions, universal insights obstructed by priestly accretions. The nature of Gandhi's anchorage in his Hindu roots was a contentious one. Gandhi appealed quite explicitly to New Testament teaching, not only in what he said but in the unfakeable asceticism of his daily life and in the unsettling strategy of non-violent confrontation in which he successfully trained large numbers of his fellow countrymen. An understanding of the social dynamics of Gandhian nationalism is the achievement of relatively recent scholarship, which has explored the complexity of its accommodations with local structures of power and the crosscurrents in which it was caught in nationalist politics.27 But between the wars, whether he was regarded with hope or with suspicion, or both, Gandhi was regularly accommodated to the framework, and observers fastened on two aspects of the challenge he represented to the Raj, first the nature of his 'religious' leadership and, secondly, his status as a representative figure. Gandhi's friend Andrews, in his impatience to see India come into her own at the time of the Round Table Conferences, was as 'extreme' as the small number of secular radicals, but more frenetically active. 28 MacDonald himself was one of the architects of the lumbering bipartisan consensus on India in the 1930s, and his first Labour government had been under pressure from unconventional Christians like Andrews and Josiah Wedgwood MP for its tentative treatment of Indian affairs.29 Suspicion of Andrews in official circles may have been exaggerated, by MacDonald for instance.30 In diehard circles he was always regarded as seditious, but he had access to people in high places and, even when he made them impatient, there were many like Irwin and Archbishop Lang who recognised the impulses they shared with him. They objected to his impatience, to the optimistic misreading of the spiritual authenticity of the national forces he took Gandhi to represent, and to his obtuse indifference to 'objective' constraints. Lang complained that Andrews 'talked wildly about Gandhi's spiritual force . . . as destined to be the [136]

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redemption of India', and that he was 'as much in the clouds and as little possessed of political sense as his master', whom Lang had described in a letter to his friend Irwin as a mystic, fanatic and anarchist.31 But the Primate was also bound to see imperial evolution operating through organic co-operation, the welding of unity and mutual understanding. This was the message of the Church in the context of domestic industrial strife, disseminated through the crusades of the Industrial Christian Fellowship, of which he was the chief patron. The problem in each case was that of nourishing goodwill within the constraints of political reality which, as a patrician and, furthermore, as one of the most assiduous members of the Joint Select Committee on the White Paper for the 1935 legislation, he could reasonably claim to understand. For all his militancy, Andrews' disengagement from the Church, when he left his teaching post at St Stephen's Delhi, and joined Gandhi in South Africa, represented a decisive change of emphasis in his interpretation of British obligation to India and not a rejection of previous patterns of thought. His early book The Renaissance in India, reprinted in 1914 for CMS Study Circles, is a lively and engaged exposition of a Christian Whig interpretation of Indian history, as he presented it to his students at St Stephen's. What had increasingly affected him since writing it was, in the words of Sir John Seeley which he liked to quote, the realisation that 'subjection for a long time to a foreign yoke is one of the most potent causes of national deterioration7.32 This deterioration had outrun the benefits of imperial dominance and was infecting the spiritual health of the imperial power, a situation of great moral urgency, but also of God-given opportunity, precisely because of the spiritual leadership provided by the Mahatma, in itself a fulfilment and realisation of spiritual growth within the national movement, of discipline and unity 'from within'. Andrews' polemical strategy was to take the emphases of the conservative argument about India head on, to admit the cruelty to animals at the temple of Khaligat in Calcutta, the treatment of widows, untouchability and the rest, but to weigh all these against the Western juggernauts of war and the cruelties of its peace, on behalf of a society which appeared to be subsuming its political aspirations under the moral absolute of ahimsa and the weapon of persuasive non-violence, which it could draw from the resources of a religious tradition revitalised by the spirit of Christianity. For Christians who claimed to take their Bible seriously, he clearly had a point, as many ruefully acknowledged. James Meston, who stood by him in 1914 when he was very unpopular in British India, described him as 'the most fascinating of idealists and I wish I had one tenth of his single-mindedness'.33 The inspiration of his idealism could be acknowledged because of the innocuous safety of his [137]

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politics. Then, as now professional politicians could make use of professional Christians.34 Furthermore, if Andrews and those who listened to him were wrong or wrong in part about the Mahatma, they were reassuringly right about the militant threat which it always seemed doubtful that Gandhi could control. Young India, copying Soviet Russia far too closely, and leaving on one side the fountain-head of truth in the immortal sayings of its own past, has been ready to throw over religion altogether and turn the main purpose of life into the economic struggle.35

'Young India' was indulging in the historical materialist's misreading of history. Those who occupied more central positions on the spectrum of Christian imperialist perspectives were more ambivalent about Gandhi and more uncertain about the forces pressing upon him. To a great extent the reactions of the India public to Gandhi's political performance were drained of what we would now recognise as its politics and were followed in the terms of a moral drama, which can be traced in the letter books, reports and serials of the missionary societies, in book reviews and articles in the Church papers and generally in the press. For a crucial period Lord Irwin as Viceroy is the Christian protagonist against whom the Mahatma is measured. The Irwin-Gandhi 'pact' of March 1931, through which Gandhi achieved a relationship of negotiation rather than dictation, is seen as the product of a meeting of minds on a 'religious' plane, as indeed it was to some degree by Irwin himself, to the dismay of Delhi officialdom. The Church Times quotes the 'admirable comment' of the Manchester Guardian that Lord Irwin had 'seen beyond Empires' in his negotiations with Mahatma Gandhi. 'The Indian fakir is, for good or ill, the spokesman of the Indian peoples, of the peasant even more than the occidentalised intellectual.'36 Archbishop Lang comes in from the wings to applaud Irwin's insight, if not to endorse the role of the Mahatma: we used to think that the national movement in India was followed by a few rather wild and reckless members of a self-constituted Indian Congress. We now know that the movement was passing through every region and class in India, even to villages which had been hitherto stagnant and isolated. . . Everyone now recognised that it was wrong to denounce and suspect, and still more wrong to attempt to suppress that great movement.37

Doubts and uncertainties take a standard form, for instance after Gandhi's ambiguous pronouncements about the future of Christian missionary activity under swaraj, or independence. Speaking for the missionaries, who 'are on the whole in sympathy with nationalist aims', [138]

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the Methodist Recorder was pained by Gandhi's tone and animadverted on 'a whole view of life vitiated by Hindu pessimism' and by Gandhi's belief in the essential evil of matter. There was applause for the round defence of Britain's moral integrity by Isaac Foot MP, and his belief 'that the association of Great Britain with India was in the Providence of God'.38 Bishop Gore's judgement, made when visiting the Oxford Mission in Calcutta in 1930, that the trouble with Mr Gandhi, as with all Indians, 'is that he is entirely uninterested in facts'39 was the cliche about Hindu otherworldliness invariably called on when the Mahatma's leadership seemed to challenge British generosity and patience. On the other hand, for those like Lindsay (who thought him a 'saint') who shared the social perspective nourished by the popular preachers of the ICF, their understanding of Gandhi's model of an integral social order was irresistible. The hierarchies of caste would be transformed by the moral force of nationalism into a hierarchy of order rejecting the materialist premise of accumulation and competition and organised around mutual service. Gandhi had read and identified with the Ruskin of Unto This Last and so had the last generation of 'Christian Socialists', as they looked for an organic solution to the problem of material inequality and class conflict. Tory diehard opposition to the demission of power enjoyed substantial grass-roots support, which severely tested the managerial skill of the Conservative high command. It is too easily presented as an expression of imperial jingoism emerging in response to the political ambitions of Churchill in particular. Certainly it was authoritarian in tone, stressing the social incoherence of India, the bloody disorders that only the Raj could prevent, and the practical incompetence and unfitness to rule of the Indian. But it is a mistake to discount the sincerity with which another aspect of the argument was put forward. In 1934 Sir Henry Page Croft asked the readers of the Guardian 'with humility and sincerity whether the cause of Christianity is being advanced by removing onefifth of the human race from the definite influence of Christian partnership in government and the placing of 6,000,000 Christians permanently under Hindu domination'.40 He was not merely playing for the Church vote, and the diehard emphasis on the chaos that would follow British withdrawal was more than an expedient line with which to defend civil service and army interests. There is an oppressive foreboding of chaos and deep outrage at the prospect of evacuating the structures that represented order and any rational hope for the future. There is a far greater consideration . . . . Although Britain has never allowed any attempt to force Christianity upon the Indian people, nevertheless her whole rule is a silent witness to Christianity upon which our ideas of justice and administration have been based. When Britain leaves India this witness to the

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He goes on to attack the Churches, the liberal Christian imperialists behind the accelerating programme of constitutional dismantling, for what is to come. There was wide support inside his party for the view that the imperial order was more than merely political, was indeed a providential suspension of strife between the irrational religious systems of the East. 'Britain's record in India is . . . the nearest approach to applied Christianity as between nations in the 2000 years since the birth of our faith.'42 As opposition to Sir Samuel Hoare's India White Paper mounted, there was a lively market in books, all of them reviewed in the Indian Empire Review, the journal of Churchill's IDL, rehearsing the same themes. 43 There is curious evidence of another kind to suggest the extent of a diffuse religiosity in the grass-roots diehard perspective. A number of clerics joined Churchill's India Defence League and there is evidence in correspondence44 that there was considerable rank-and-file support from churchpeople. But the 1920s and 1930s were the best years of the British Israelite movement, an extraordinary system of beliefs which attracted considerable numbers of otherwise hard-headed and practical people from the ICS and the Indian Army.45 They were not a sect and could be all too active churchgoers, but their specific beliefs about the Aryans and the Lost Tribes of Israel were criticised by people who at the same time strongly shared their imperial values. [Despite their ludicrous ethnology and philology] we owe them a great deal for their insistence on the truth that we British are the covenant people of God, a belief which inspired Kipling's Recessional and which seems to appeal to some deep-seated feeling in British hearts Where, then, is Israel to be found? Like my British Israelite friends I say, In the British Empire, but not because of our racial origin. . . .46

British Israelites crop up in the constituency grass-roots committees set up by the diehard lobby in the early 1930s, and an item from their wellproduced journal, the National Message, appears in the first issue of the British Empire Review. Kipling, like others on the right besides Page Croft, was anticlerical, but had a deep conviction that God identified with the Empire. Gandhian politics did not survive in India and we now have a much clearer idea of the complex elements of which they had been constituted. Christian imperialism, whatever it was taken to entail for those responsible for the course of events, evaporated with the evacuation of the Raj and subsequent historians of the Raj have, quite rightly, concen[140]

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trated on the deeper economic processes that brought it to an end. But for a significant period debates within the framework of this discourse shaped and informed the reactions and expectations of many of those who were concerned with India. It simplified judgements, obscured complexities and distorted perceptions, not least those of Indians who had been exposed to it in the educational institutions Lindsay was so anxious to preserve.

Notes I am grateful to the Nuffield Foundation for Small Grant support for work on British Christianity and the Raj. 1 See, for instance, a frequently reissued textbook by a schoolmaster at Tonbridge public school, D.C. Somervell, The British Empire, London, Christopher, 1930 , 7th edn, 1948. 2 Robert Anderson, comment on Ian Gregor, 'Liberal education: an outworn ideal?', in N. Philipsonjed.), Universities, Society and the Future, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 1983. Graham Maddox, 'The Christian democracy of A. D. Lindsay', Political Studies, Vol. 34, 1986, pp. 441•55. 3 D. A. Low, Lion Rampant, London, F. Cass, 1973, p. 114. 4 Raymond Schwab, The Oriental Renaissance: Europe's Rediscovery of India and the East, 1680–1880, Columbia, NY, University of Columbia Press, 1984. 5 T. Arnold, Fragments on Church and State, London, 1845. The Earl of Meath, with M. H. Cornwall Legh and Edith Jackson, Our Empire, Past and Present, London, Harrison, 1905, e.g. 'the Darbar . . . showed to the Indian people the path which, under the guidance of Providence, they are treading, taught the Indian Empire its duty and impressed the world with its moral as well as its material force' (p. 653). Sir Arthur Hirtzel, The Church, the Empire and the World, London, SPCK, 1919. L. Curtis, The Commonwealth of Nations, London, Oxford University Press, 1916; Civitas Dei, 3 vols., London, Macmillan. 6 (A. D. Lindsay), Report of the Commission on Christian Higher Education in India: An Enquiry into the place of the Christian College in Modern India, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1931. 7 RichardBrent, Liberal Anglican Politics: Whiggery, Religion, and Reform, 1830–1841, Oxford, Oxford University Press, p. 182. 8 Lindsay, Report, p. 51. 9 H. Butterfield, The Whig Interpretation of History, London, Bell, 1931. 10 Gerald Studdert-Kennedy, Dog-Collar Democracy: The Industrial Christian Fellowship, 1919–1929, London, Macmillan, 1982; 'Woodbine Willie': religion and politics after the Great War', History Today, Vol. 36, December 1987. II Stephen Koss, Nonconformity in Modern British Politics, London, Batsford, 1975. 12 The most widely read text was J. N. Farquhar, The Crown of Hinduism, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1913. 13 E.g. Bernard Lucas, The Empire of Christ, London, Macmillan, 1907; Christ in India, London, Macmillan, 1910; Our Task in India: Shall We Proselytise Hinduism or Evangelise India?, London, 1914. See Gerald Studdert-Kennedy, British Christians, Indian Nationalists and the Raj, Delhi, Oxford University Press, 1990. 14 A. Mayhew, Christianity and the Government of India, Faber & Gwyer 260, London, 1929; 'The Christian ethic and India', in L. S. S. O'Malley (ed.), Modern India and the West, Oxford, Oxford University Press 1941. Mayhew was Director of Public Instruction in the Central Provinces. F. F. Monk, Educational Policy in India, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1928, A History of St Stephen's College, Delhi, Calcutta, YMCA,

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15 16 17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

1935; The Voice from Burgo Park: Principal Miller's Messages to Former Students of the Madras Christian College, Veperey, Madras Christian College, 1922. Thomas Pantham, The socio-religious and political thought of Rammohun Roy', in T. Pantham and K. Deutsch, Political Thought in Modern India, New Delhi, Sage, 1986. There is a useful discussion in Deborah Lavin, 'History, morals and the politics of Empire', in J. Bossy and P. Jupp (eds), Essays Presented to Michael Roberts, Belfast, Belfast University Press, 1976. L. Curtis, Letters to the People of India on Responsible Government, London, Macmillan, 1918; Dyarchy, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1920. E. S. Montagu, An Indian Diary, London, Heinemann, 1930. Victor Gollancz and David Somervell, Political Education at a Public School, London, Collins, 1918. William Temple Mens Creatrix, London, Macmillan, 1917, p. 211,250. St John's College Magazine, 1917–18. Sir Edward Grigg, The Faith of an Englishman, London, Macmillan, 1936, p. 254. Eric Tyndale-Biscoe, Fifty Years Against the Stream, London, Wesleyan Mission Press, 1930; Tyndale-Biscoe of Kashmir: An Autobiography, London, Seeley, 1951. W. E. S. Holland, The Goal of India, London, CMS Press, 1917; The Indian Outlook: A Study in the Way of Service, London, Edinburgh House Press, 1926. Holland, Goal of India, p. 233. R.J. Moore, Escape from Empire, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1983; C. Bridge, Holding India to the Empire, Delhi, Oriental, 1986. P. S. Gupta, Imperialism and the British Labour Movement, 1914–1964, London, Macmillan, 1975, p. 42. K. Mayo, Mother India, London, Cape, 1927, seven impressions. Valentine Chirol, Indian Unrest, London, Macmillan, 1910; India Old and New, London, Macmillan, 1921. Earl of Ronaldshay, The Heart of Aryavarta: a Study of the Psychology of Indian Unrest, London, Constable, 1925. Judith Brown, Gandhi and Civil Disobedience: The Mahatma in Indian Politics, 1928–1934,Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1977. Sarvepalli Gopal, Jawaharlal Nehru, 3 vols., Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1975–84. 'One of the greatest personal disappointments I have ever had was to find the Labour Party in England . . . apathetic with regard to Indian Swaraj': Indian Review, Madras, December 1928, quoted in H. Tinker, The Ordeal of Love: C. F. Andrews and India, Oxford, Oxford University Press, p. 230. C. V. Wedgwood, The Last of the Radicals, London, Cape, 1951, p. 147. Tinker, Ordeal of Love, p. 53. Quoted in Margaret Chatterjee, Gandhi's Religious Thought, London, Macmillan, 1983, p. 90. C. F. Andrews, Representative Writings, compiled by Marjorie Sykes, Delhi, 1973, p. 74. Tinker, Ordeal of Love, p. 74. Hugh Tinker, 'The India Conciliation Group, 1931–59: Dilemmas of the mediator', Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics, Vol. 14, 1976, 225. C. F. Andrews, The True India: A Plea for Understanding, London, Macmillan, 1939, p. 204. Church Times, 27 March 1931. Church Times, 8 May 1931. Methodist Recorder (30 April, 7 May 1931). G. L. Prestige, The Life of Charles Gore, London, Heinemann, 1935, p. 525. Guardian, 19 October 1934. Lord Croft, My Life of Strife, London, Hutchinson 1948, p. 249. H. Page Croft, India: The Conservative Case, London, Bournemouth Guardian Ltd, 1934. E.g. the Rev. Hugh Trevaskis (ex-ICS), Indian Babel, London, Muller, 1935; James Johnston, Can the Hindus Rule India!, London, P. S. King, 1935; and, as background reading, the potboilers of Sir George McMunn, The Religions and Hidden Cults of

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CHRISTIAN IMPERIALISTS OF THE RAJ India, London, Sampson Law, 1932, etc. 44 E. g. the Rev. Aubrey Storrs Fox's papers, India Office Library. 45 See Studdert-Kennedy, British Christians. 46 Letter from the Rev. H. G. Harding, Guardian, 8 April 1932.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

White supremacy and the rhetoric of educational indoctrination: a Canadian case study Timothy J. Stanley

By 1925, British Columbia (BC), Canada's westernmost province, had been made into a white supremacist society. In this society, an individual's 'race'1 defined his or her political and civil rights and potential areas of economic activity and circumscribed such day-to-day matters as place of residence. First Nations people (North American 'Indians') and Asians, unlike whites, were politically disenfranchised, barred from certain occupations and free associations, confronted by legalised discrimination and subjected to random violence.2 In short it was 'A White Man's Province' which defined non-white peoples as intrinsically alien. This society, however, did not come into existence overnight. It was constructed through political and ideological definitions which claimed that whites properly 'belonged' in British Columbia and First Nations people and Asians did not.3 Definitions of this kind were evident shortly after the province's entry into the Canadian confederation in 1871, when First Nations people and Asians were disenfranchised. At the time, First Nations people were the overwhelming majority of the population, and the Chinese were one-sixth of the remaining population.4 State-controlled schooling was integral to the construction of supremacist hegemony in BC. As state schooling became a mass phenomenon,5 the school came to be one of the chief vehicles for indoctrinating the population of the province in supremacist ideology. School textbooks were particularly important in transmitting a nexus of ideas about patriotism, citizenship and 'character' which made supremacist notions virtually impossible to challenge. Above all text-books fostered 'an ideology of difference' which legitimated the white occupation of the province as both natural and morally necessary, at the same time that it rendered First Nations people and Asians as 'Other', as 'that which Europeans were not',6 as morally depraved and illegitimate in their presence. [144]

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Imperialism was at the centre of this process of indoctrination. Canada in 1885 was an integral, although self-governing, part of the British Empire. Imperialism, and Canada's rôle in it, was at the heart of discussions among the country's leading intellectuals,7 many of whom argued that Canada had its own imperial mission: expansion into, and the European settlement of, the West where a new and better British nation could be built.8 Canada's own westward expansion was in this sense part of the New Imperialism which led the Western powers to scramble to divide up the remaining autonomous areas of the world.9 Imperialism and racism went hand in hand. Imperial expansion required the subjugation of the peoples already inhabiting the land. In Canada, expansion was not a peaceful process, but was carried out by the same means employed in other parts of the British Empire: troops, gunboats, police, government agents, civilian traders and missionaries.10 As in other parts of the British Empire, 'opening up' areas for European settlement was achieved at tremendous cost to aboriginal peoples.11 And, once territories were 'opened up', efforts were made to ensure that non-Europeans were kept out of the now 'unoccupied' lands. In the British Empire these efforts were often directed against Asians. The Asiatic Exclusionists of South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and Canada were well aware of, and often consciously copied, each others' policies.12 As the infrastructure of western expansion, the Canadian Pacific Railroad (CPR), neared completion during the 1880s, racism intensified for both the First Nations people and the Asians of British Columbia. In 1885, new federal franchise legislation reaffirmed the disenfranchisement of both groups.13 Increasingly, First Nations were subjected to the federal system of control, established under the Indian Act, involving 'wardship', Indian agents, reservations and regulations. In 1884, for example, Parliament barred West Coast groups from practising the Potlatch, ceremonies central to traditional government and economy. As the nineteenth century drew to a close, where First Nations people had earlier played important roles in the white economy, they were often marginalised.14 The mid-1880s also saw an intensification of antiChinese racism. Large numbers of Chinese labourers, brought into BC to build the CPR line, immediately found themselves to be the objects of exclusionist pressure. In 1885, at a time when certain Europeans were given free land to encourage their immigration to Canada, the Chinese became the only group to be subjected to an immigration head tax.15 In subsequent years, a series of provincial and municipal policies effectively barred the Chinese from working on Crown contracts or for certain corporations, and from practising professions such as law, pharmacy and teaching. Various practices ghettoised Chinese workers [145]

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into low-paying, labour-intensive sectors of the economy, segregated them in Chinatowns and deprived them of family life. These measures culminated in 1923 with the enactment of the Chinese Immigration Act which effectively excluded Chinese from immigrating to Canada.16 By 1925, as mentioned above, British Columbia had become a white supremacist society. 'Race' concepts were fixed and used to justify differential political and social treatment of whites, Asians and First Nations people. Institutional and social segregation on the basis of 'race' ensured that members of these groups normally did not interact with each other at the level of day-to-day existence and that supremacist notions went largely unchallenged. By helping to 'organize'17 British Columbia society on the basis of 'race', and by indoctrinating students in supremacist ideology, schooling played an important rôle in promoting white domination in BC. The schools' rôles of organisation and indoctrination were inseparable. By segregating students according to 'race', schools insulated white students from the common humanity of non-whites, thus facilitating their indoctrination in the ideologies of dominance: imperialism and racism. Meanwhile, racist notions of innate differences among whites, Asians and First Nations people justified school segregation. First Nations and white children normally attended completely different school systems. Under the division of powers established by the British North America Act of 1867, education was a provincial responsibility, while the federal government assumed 'wardship' over and responsibility for Indians, including their education. This division of responsibilities was continued under the Terms of Union through which British Columbia entered confederation in 1871. Consequently when the public school system of British Columbia was formally established the following year, First Nations people were excluded. A separate federally funded and controlled system of missionary-run schools for First Nations children was established in BC as elsewhere in Canada. These schools were often established away from urban areas. Thus First Nations people would have been rendered invisible as far as most white children were concerned.18 Asians for their part were usually segregated within the provincial school system. For example, after 1900 when Chinese students began to enter the provincial school system in significant numbers, school boards in Vancouver, Victoria, and other centres, segregated them in 'special' classes and 'special' schools for at least part of their education. This segregation continued until after the Second World War. Visibly setting Asian children apart from white children helped to define them as selfevidently aberrant from the norm of white society.19 [146]

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The ideological rôle of schooling was evident in the text-books used in BC schools. The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were an era in which text-books were in practice the curriculum and in which school readers, geographies and histories were intended to transmit what one contemporary observer referred to as 'the dominant ideas of the people at the time that they were written'.20 Readers, for example, the most important text-books, were intended to 'excite the interest, improve the taste, develope [sic] the judgment, and ennoble the ideals of the pupils'.21 Through a variety of contents – fairy stories, adventure fiction, morality and historical tales, heroic and nature poetry, and excerpts from the great works of English literature – readers sought to describe and explain the world. In the process of describing the world, readers simplified and abstracted it. They presented the world not so much as it actually was, but rather as it was 'represented' to be in Western, and especially British, êlite culture.22 In later years, as the curriculum diversified, other texts joined in this function. One of the central facts of the world as represented to BC students by their text-books was imperialism: the Western European and increasingly American domination of the world.23 The text-books used in BC between 1885 and 1925 never questioned this domination. Instead they reproduced and propagated a world-view based on an 'ideology of difference' which legitimated it. Text-books were able to play this ideological rôle because their carefully controlled contents presented a world-view that was consistent with êlite opinion.24 The extent of ideological agreement about textbooks in BC was demonstrated on one occasion when a text-book which did not completely support conventional interpretations was banned in the province for presenting a supposedly subversive perspective.25 From the inception of the British Columbia school system, control over text-books was one of its chief forms of bureaucratic regulation. Teachers in BC were required to use only certain 'prescribed' texts. As in other parts of English Canada, 'School inspection and examinations were directly linked to textbooks. Inspectors policed their use and based their judgments of school achievement upon pupil knowledge of their contents.' 26 Periodically lists of these text-books were revised and published in official documents.27 The official weight placed on text-books suggests that teaching rarely deviated from them. Classroom teaching often involved little more than having students read, memorise and recite passages from the prescribed text. This emphasis was apparent in the high-school entrance examinations. For example, the 1904 Canadian history exam gave students seventy-five minutes to answer seven questions. Typical of the questions was one requiring students to write a paragraph describing 'North [147]

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American Indians, telling the names of the tribes, where they lived, their physical characteristics and manner of life'.28 Unless students memorised sections of the authorised text-book which dealt directly with the examination content, it is difficult to imagine that they could have satisfactorily completed such an exam in so short a time. Starting in 1908, students were given most elementary text-books, and some high-school texts, by the Free Text Book Branch of the Department of Education. This distribution ensured the mass distribution of 'school knowledge' as 10,000 or more copies of a reader and 5,000 copies of a history might be given away each year.29 Text-books were thus able broadly to disseminate imperialist and racist ideology in BC. The text-books themselves were remarkably stable in their contents, at least as far as their imperialist and racist themes were concerned.30 First, through patriotic themes, they described the British Empire as a moral enterprise to the benefit of subject peoples and linked Canada and British Columbia to this enterprise. Second, an imperialist ethic constructed around the notion of 'character' transformed BC classrooms into imperial outposts and allowed students personally to become part of, and share in the responsibility for, this imperial mission.31 Third, by explaining the Empire as the product of genetically based moral superiority, they presented subject peoples as morally deficient Others. Finally, text-books fixed these notions of difference into a scientifically proscribed division of humanity in a hierarchy of 'race'. In his 1893 geography primer, Round the Empire, George R. Parkin wrote that he hoped his 'little volume' would assist teachers 'in building up British patriotism on that basis of wider knowledge which is necessitated by the wonderful facts of our national growth'.32 To Parkin and many of his contemporaries, 'patriotism' and support for imperialism were synonymous.33 Between 1885 and 1925 text-books presented BC students with Parkin's 'wider knowledge' in order to instil patriotic feelings. The 'wonderful facts' of 'national growth', that is, of Britain's imperialist expansion, linked BC classrooms to the Empire. Historical, geographic and civic knowledge described Canada as an integral and important part of the Empire and made the Empire into a terrain for the imaginations of BC students. Text-books often linked Canada and the Empire directly through their physical organisation. Typical was a reader in the W. J.Gage and Company's Canadian Readers series of the 1880s and 1890s which contained 'Canadian' items such as a letter from a 'friend' in Ottawa, the poems 'Our Canadian Home' and 'The Maple Leaf Forever'. Also included were British stories such as one on the Duke of Wellington and an imperial epic about a boy who chose certain death by staying at his [148]

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father's side during a colonial war in Africa.34 Even after the First World War, the Canadian Readers (1922) series included Canadian and British contents. For example, the Fifth Reader began with 'Rule, Britannia' but also contained 'A Canadian Boat-Song'.35 Text-books not only physically linked Britain and Canada: they did not differentiate between Canadian nationalism and British imperialism. For one thing, even the language used in Canadian texts to describe the Empire was inclusive. For example, William Francis Collier's History of the British Empire, one of the history texts authorised for use in BC before 1900, referred to 'Our Indian Empire',36 while an early twentieth-century elementary-level Canadian history spoke of 'the common burden' resulting from the Boer War.37 A 1921 high-school text, written by the chairman of the History Department at the University of Toronto, identified the Canadian troops wounded and killed during the First World War as 'only part of the vast cost to the British Empire for its share of the victory'.38 Discussions of citizenship made clear that students were citizens both of Canada and of the Empire. A contribution to Gage's Fourth Reader during the 1880s argued that the relatively new Dominion of Canada had only one respectable option open to it, 'to seek, in the consolidation of the empire, a common imperial citizenship, with common responsibilities and a common heritage'.39 The theme that Canadians and British Colombians shared in 'a common imperial citizenship' was returned to repeatedly in subsequent years. Even W.L. Grant's History of Canada, the history text which was banned in BC shortly after its introduction in 1920 for being 'anti-British' and 'proGerman',40 pointed out that 'every Canadian is at once a citizen of a municipality, of a province, of a Dominion, and of an Empire', and concluded by urging students to love their municipality, province and dominion: And beyond even Canada we must love the worldwide Empire of whose people an English poet has said: We sailed wherever ship could sail, We founded many a mighty state, Pray God our greatness may not fail Through craven fear of being great!41

Thus throughout the period under consideration, the text-books used in BC represented Canada and Canadian identity as inseparable from Britain and the Empire. In order to instil patriotic feelings for the Empire, British Columbia text-books portrayed imperialism as a fundamentally moral enterprise. Britain, itself, was made into the guardian of civilisation and virtue. W. J. Robertson's turn-of-the-century elementary text, Public School His[149]

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tory of England and Canada, made this characterisation explicit. After noting the vastness and diversity of the Empire, Robertson concluded his discussion of English history by pointing out, But better than all, England's influence for truth, justice, and righteousness, is greater than ever. She still leads all peoples in the struggle against vice, ignorance and tyranny. Her shores are still a safe refuge for the oppressed of all nations, and from her the patriots of all lands derive hope and encouragement.42

Potential moral dilemmas associated with imperialism were rationalised on the ground that British rule was more just and better for subject peoples than any other system of rule could ever be. This rationalisation was especially evident in discussions of British rule in India. For example, the post-First World War History of England for Public Schools noted, 'But it is well for India that she is under British rule. Without the firm control of a guiding power, she would be torn by internal strife and exposed to the greed and trickery of powerful neighbours.'43 Readers were told that only one-seventh of the Empire's population was 'of British blood' and that, Unless this fact is grasped clearly, it is impossible to appreciate the wonderful work being done in controlling and civilizing the millions of subject peoples, comprising hundreds of races, each with its own language, customs, and religion. Rarely, if ever, does Britain find it necessary to resort to force in governing her subject peoples. Even their prejudices are respected; their religion, their social customs, and local laws are seldom interfered with, unless for the purpose of preventing crime or abolishing brutal customs.44

Thus the Empire was the best possible form of government as it was really a moral crusade bringing civilisation and enlightenment to millions. According to text-books' renderings of the world, the Canadian federal government was the direct heir of this benign imperial tradition. For example, Canada's treatment of its aboriginal peoples was categorised as 'honest and generous'.45 Texts praised the Royal Proclamation of 1763, which recognised aboriginal title to the land and called for the negotiation of treaties or purchases of land prior to European settlement, as the basis of good government in Canada. Text-books claimed that the Royal Proclamation 'has ever since been followed',46 even though in British Columbia and much of northern Canada aboriginal title had yet to be recognised through treaty or purchase. The Riel Rebellion of 1885, which was put down through military action, was explained as a temporary aberration due to the unjustified fear of the Metis that their lands would be taken away from them. 'There were also complaints of ill treatment and neglect of duty by dominion officers in the North[150]

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West, and the petitions of the half-breeds and Indians did not receive prompt attention from the proper authorities,' a 1902 history text admitted, but these problems were put to rest as 'an inquiry was made into the grievances of the Indians and half-breeds, and many of the causes of complaint removed.'47 British rule in British Columbia similarly was characterised as just and far-seeing. Pre-war texts claimed that the benefits of 'British justice' were extended to British Columbia during the 1857 gold rush,48 while the 'wisdom' of British rule was identified as beginning much earlier with the fur trader who 'year after year occupied the outposts of civilisation, surrounded by savages . . .'49 and whose 'skill in the management of the native races did much to save Canada from the horrors of Indian warfare, and made it possible for the more capable among the Indians to share in the occupations and adopt the pursuits of white men'.50 Still other text-books presented the process of 'civilising' the BC Indians as ongoing. British Columbia texts assured students that the Indians of the province were in the process of transformation from 'savages'. Maria Lawson and Rosalie Watson Young provided an extended discussion on the 'lonely' work of missionaries among First Nations people in their elementary text-book, A History and Geography of British Columbia (1913). They noted that 'it is felt that more lasting and better work can be done with the children than the adults', and provided sketches labelled 'Indian boy, civilised' and 'Indian girl, civilised' to demonstrate the lasting results.51 Imperialism and its ethos permeated BC text-books between 1885 and 1925. British imperialism was described as morally uplifting and Canada represented as an essential participant in the imperial mission. The British Columbia school curriculum, however, not only depicted the British Empire as a moral enterprise, it was also intended to instil in students a morality built around imperialism, mobilise students behind this enterprise and enable them personally to participate in it. 'Patriotism', 'citizenship ' and 'morality ' were inexorably linked in the world-view presented in BC text-books. Central to the text-book construction of the nexus of patriotism, citizenship and morality was the notion of 'character'. 'Character ' was in fact a metaphor52 through which the individual stood for the group, and the group could be reduced to an individual. Thus text-books explained British imperialism by presenting stories about imperialists which were not so much celebrations of their conquests and deeds as they were about their supposedly superior characters. An example was the story 'Fidelity' about the son of Sir Henry Havelock, who later won the Victoria Cross in India.53 Other stories emphasised the virtues of military heroes like Nelson,54 historical [151]

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characters such as Oliver Cromwell55 or the blind courage of The Charge of the Light Brigade.56 Indeed readers are remarkably stable in their contents throughout this era as certain 'tried and true' stories were repeated in different series and editions.57 History was also seen as the basis for instilling notions of character. As one school inspector noted, This subject gives the teacher great opportunities of inculcating true patriotism and citizenship by means of the illustrations of those virtues found in the lives of the great and good men of the nation. From it also an ambition to imitate noble actions and be faithful in the performance of duty may be inspired in the scholars, and all the principles of true morality be brought to their notice in the most forcible manner.58 'Character' was also a gendered concept, often meaning 'manliness'.59 That it was modelled upon male upper-class ideals is apparent in the readers, whose contents overwhelmingly consisted of stories about upper-class men. But girls were also expected to exhibit 'character' as the few stories about women made clear. Thus readers perennially included stories about British heroines such as Florence Nightingale60 and (after the First World War) Edith Cavell,61 and Canadian heroines Madelaine de Vercheres62 and Laura Secord.63 Above all, 'character' linked individual student behaviour and feeling to the Empire. This link was made explicit in Lord Rosebery's 1893 foreword to Parkin's Round the Empire in comments which were later reprinted in a geography text used during the 1900s.64 Rosebery told students, A collection of states spread over every region of the earth, but owning one head and one flag, is even more important as an influence than as an Empire. . . With the Empire statesmen are mainly concerned; in the influence every individual can and must have a part. Influence is based on character,- and it is on the character of each child that grows into manhood within British limits that the future of our Empire rests.65 By exhibiting character in their daily lives, students could play a rôle in maintaining the 'influence' that was the glue of the Empire. Rosebery made clear that this 'character' involved selfless devotion, 'work, sacrifice and intelligence'. These were the same kinds of virtues modelled by readers and other text-books. Even tolerance was transformed into an imperial virtue by the first BC civics text, which identified 'a certain imperial feeling' as part of 'The Duties of the Citizen'. Since '[t]he British Empire is so vast that it contains within itself nations of all languages and all religions', Canadian Civics suggested, 'respect and toleration for the opinions of others' was essential so that 'our brother nations may all have an ardent loyalty, whatever may be their creed, race or tongue'.66 [152]

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Through their emphasis on 'character', text-books linked individual students and the Empire. Unless they wished to be accused of undermining the Empire, students had to be virtuous. Since, as has been described earlier, text-book knowledge represented Canada as an integral part of the Empire and the Empire as necessarily good, questioning one's personal responsibility for maintaining the imperial system would have required challenging the self-evident truth of the text-books. Questioning the legitimacy of the Empire itself would probably have been seen as the ultimate demonstration of 'bad character'. If the superior 'character' of the British explained their control of the largest empire in history, it followed that the objects of imperial rule subject people, and the groups to which they belonged - must have had 'characters' which were inherently deficient in important ways. In other words, part and parcel of the instillation of imperialist sentiment amongst BC students and in the transformation of their classrooms into outposts of Empire was a simultaneous process of 'othering'.67 Renderings of this kind were apparent in the treatment Asians and aboriginal peoples received in the text-books used in BC. Text-books consistently described Asians as the opposites of whites. Even before most of the restrictive measures against Asians were imposed, Gage's Canadian Readers were fostering notions of intrinsic Asian difference. This was evident in the extracts from Montgomery's A Voyage Round the World published in the Fifth Reader. It described 'Tokyo', the capital of Japan, as 'a veritable human ant-hill', while China was 'the land of oddities and contrarieties' where: Everything seems to be the exact opposite of what we have in this country. In China, the old men fly kites, and the boys look on; people whiten their shoes with chalk, instead of blacking them; white is the colour worn in mourning; the Chinaman mounts his horse from the right, instead of the left side; the place of honour is the left; when he enters a room he takes off, not his hat, but his shoes; and when he meets a friend he shakes hands with himself, and works his own hands up and down like a pump. Men carry fans, and women smoke; men wear their hair as long as it will grow, women carefully put their hair up. The spoken language of China is never written, and the written language is never spoken. A Chinese begins to read a book from the end; and he does not read across the page, but up and down. The wealthy classes have a soup made of bird's nests. Wheelbarrows have sails; the ships have no keels; the roses have no perfume; and the workmen have no Sunday.68

This description of the Chinese as the antithesis of the Western norm is an example of the way in which Victorian travel literature promoted notions of innate differences between people. Like travellers' represen[153]

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tations of African societies, this description, while appearing to be an objective account of Chinese customs, was in fact creating 'a stable form of "othering"'. Through renderings of this kind, the Chinese were 'homogenised into a collective "they", which is distilled even further into an iconic "he" (the standardised adult male specimen)'. Even the tense of this description is important as it made people such as the Chinese 'the subject of verbs in a timeless present tense, which characterises anything "he" is or does, not as a particular historical event but as an instance of pregiven custom'.69 The 'othering' of the Chinese remained remarkably consistent throughout this period. The 1922 Canadian Readers Series also had stories contrasting the Chinese with the unspoken norm of white society. For example, the Third Reader in the 1922 series contained the story of 'a funny little boy named Ning-Ting'. Ning-Ting was also an abstraction removed from history. He was described as 'a Chinese boy and does not wear his hair all cropped short as you do. But it is shaved off his head, all but a little piece at the back, and that is plaited into a "pig-tail"', despite the fact that the wearing of pig-tails, a symbol of Chinese subjugation under the Manchu, had ended with the 1911 Nationalist Revolution which overthrew the Manchu regime. Again the Chinese were contrasted to the unspoken Western norm as the reader was told that unlike 'boys here', Ning-Ting wore 'queer, tiny shoes, turned up at the toes', and ate 'his supper of rice, not with a spoon, but with two little sticks made of bone, called "chop-sticks'". Even Chinese names were fictionalised, as 'Ning-Ting' had a cousin 'Foo-Choo' and an uncle 'Pon-gewange'.70 In British Columbia, the Chinese were not simply the inhabitants of an exotic and distant land, but a major and visible proportion of the population. Text-books encouraged students to consider the Chinese people in their midst. For example, a 1909 geography text stated: Most boys and girls, or at least those who live in a city, have seen the Chinaman who keeps a laundry. You will generally see him with his hair plaited into a queue at the back of his head, wearing a blouse and strangelooking thick soled shoes. You can easily see that he is not a native of this country. He does not speak our language. The colour of his skin is different from ours. He has no family, no wife, no children.71

Again here the Chinese were abstracted into an 'iconic "he"' whose customs and appearance were different and who was self-evidently 'not a native of this country'. Even the use of the epithet 'Chinamen' suggested intrinsic alienness. This term, when applied to the Chinese in Canada, identified them as the 'men' who belonged in 'China'.72 First Nations people were similarly defined as Other. For example, history text-books consistently depicted them as 'wild', 'savage', 'cruel' [154]

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and 'uncivilised'. The description of Indian 'character and habits' in W. H. P. Clement's The History of Canada (1895), the winner of a Dominion Education Association contest for a Canadian history text, was typical: Master of woodcraft, he was seen at his best when hunting. Upon the warpath he was cruel, tomahawking, scalping and torturing with fiendish ingenuity. A stoic fortitude when himself tortured was about his only heroic quality. In his own village among his own clansmen he spent his time in gambling, story-telling, or taking part in some rude feast. In his domestic life the Indian was not without virtues, and his squaw and papooses were treated with a somewhat rough and careless kindness. To his tribe he was usually faithful, though to his enemies false and crafty. Indian religion was purest superstition.. .73

Once again this kind of description reduced entire peoples to a single 'iconic "he"'. Unlike the Chinese Other, this Indian Other was described in the past tense. This reflected and would have reinforced the notion that Indians were no longer actors in Canadian society and that they were at best a 'vanishing race'.74 The creation of racial Others did not end with the text-books' representation of the non-white peoples of British Columbia. From 1900 on, BC text-books fixed notions of character and of the Otherness of nonwhites into 'objective' and supposedly morally neutral concepts of 'race'. In fact, such 'race-thinking',75 most evident in geography texts, hid the socially constructed nature of 'race' and would have lent the authority of science to the differential treatment of whites, First Nations people and Asians. The Dominion School Geography, an elementary text-book authorised for use in BC between 1911 and 1923, was typical. It began to 'lay the foundation for an intelligent study of the continents as places where men live and work' with a consideration of 'The Principles of Geography'.76 These principles involved the 'objective' description of such matters as the shape of the Earth and its rotation around the sun, and basic geology.77 Included among these principles was a description of the people of the world. 'The White Race' was described as 'the most active, enterprising, and intelligent race in the world'.78 Thus whites were established as the positive norm against which the other 'races' could be evaluated. Asians evidently were the opposite of this norm as students were told that 'The Yellow Race' included 'some of the most backward tribes of the world and, as a rule, are not progressive'.79 Africans and aboriginal peoples in the Americas were described as in need of the paternal guidance of whites as 'The Red Race' was 'but little civilised, although a few are beginning to develop industries, such as basketry, pottery, and a little farming',80 while 'The Black Race' was described as [155]

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'somewhat indolent, like other peoples whose homes are in tropical countries. They are often impulsive in their actions, but they are faithful and affectionate to any one for whom they care'.81 The most detailed presentation of race concepts was in the highschool geography used between 1900 and 1920. New Physical Geography described many of the same 'Principles' as the Dominion School Geography only in much more detail. Its chapter on 'Man and Nature' included a table on 'Races of Mankind' which divided up humanity under headings such as 'Former home', 'Present extension', 'Physical characteristics', 'Mental characteristics' and 'Numbers'. The 'Mental characteristics' of each 'race' made explicit the arrangement of people in a hierarchy of inferiority and superiority. The 'Ethiopian' race was described as 'unintellectual; unprogressive; no science or letters; few arts beyond agriculture ...; religion very crude'. The 'Mongolian' as 'Sullen; sluggish; industrious in temperate zone, elsewhere indolent; arts and letters moderately developed, science slightly; their culture not of the modern kind.' The 'American' race was described as 'Stern; moody; not emotional; vary from savagery to barbarism . . . Religion a superstition.' By contrast the 'Caucasian' race was 'Fair type solid and even stolid; dark type fiery and fickle. Both active and enterprising. Science, letters, and art highly developed.'82 The page across from the table presented stereotypical sketches of 'the standardised adult male specimen'83 of each 'race' which would have further reinforced the notion that this was a description of objective reality.84 By imbuing racial concepts with the authority of science, these texts would have made it as difficult for BC students to question the idea of innate differences between whites, Indians and Chinese as it would have been for them to question that the earth revolved around the sun or that Victoria was the provincial capital. From the above it is apparent that schooling was an integral element in British Columbia's white supremacist society. Schooling and school text-books indoctrinated young people in imperial racist ideology, linked notions of difference and notions of character, justified and glorified Western domination and control over the world, and dressed up these notions in a scientific and supposedly objective description of the world. Racism as ideology and organisation was so integrated in the forms and content of schooling that it would have been almost impossible to question it, or to conceive of British Columbia as anything other than 'the white man's country'. This is not to say that this ideology was universally accepted by all young people or uncritically presented by all teachers. Forcing students to memorise and regurgitate passages of texts does not guarantee [156]

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agreement or understanding, and children when left to their own devices are quite capable of circumventing adult conventions. Many a teacher has also been in the position of disagreeing with the prescribed textbook's view of the world. Certainly Asians and First Nations people themselves, in challenging racist policies and practices, often resisted being 'othered' and took steps to confront whites with their shared humanity. As Brian Simon has observed, even the most carefully thought-out educational policies often have 'unintended consequences'.85 However, there is considerable evidence that the white people of British Columbia, by and large, bought the ideas of innate difference, 'race' and imperial superiority. This is readily apparent in the case of the white working class and Asians. During the same era in which the industrial workers of BC established a tradition of labour militancy,86 they also proved to be among the strongest supporters of Asiatic exclusionism, to the point where they organised their own unions on the basis of 'race'. Indeed, it has been convincingly argued that they did not see Chinese, and other minority workers, as their fellow workers at all.87 Support among workers for supremacist ideology was evident in 1902 when the Victoria Trades and Labour Council initiated a call for the segregation of the Chinese students attending Victoria School Board schools. It was evident in 1907 when all fifty-eight of the City of Vancouver's white-only trade unions endorsed a rally called by the Asiatic Exclusion League and continued their support for the League even after the rally ended in major anti-Asian rioting. Again in 1914 white working-class organisations were in the forefront of opposition to the unsuccessful challenge of Canadian immigration regulations by Indian nationalists on the chartered Japanese vessel, the Komagata Maru. Thirty years later, acceptance of racist ideology was such that few British Colombians questioned the forced resettlement and internment of over 20,000 Japanese Canadians, many of them Canadian-born, during the Second World War. While it may be too much to suggest that schools alone were responsible for indoctrinating the population of BC in white supremacist concepts, it was in school that many of those who believed that BC was and should be the white man's province were first indoctrinated, and systematically so, in racist ideology. It is certainly evident that by 1925 schooling was part of the 'organisation of an entire texture of life according to an ideology'.88 Racism in BC was not an aberration. It was a sustained reality, part of the air that people breathed.

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Notes A number of people lent invaluable assistance in the preparation of this paper. In particular, I would like to thank Frances Boyle, Vincent D'Oyley, Theresa Richardson, Bill Maciejko, Madeleine Maclver and Michael Jennings for their comments on various drafts of the paper. I would especially like to thank J. Donald Wilson, not only for his insightful comments, but for encouraging me to pursue this publication in the first place. 1 Throughout this paper the term 'race' is used to refer to a socially constructed division of the human species, and should not be construed as having any 'objective' biological meaning. See, for example, Ashley Montagu (ed.), The Concept of Race, London, Free Press of Glencoe, 1964. 'Racism' should be taken to mean not only prejudice or hostile attitudes, but 'part of the method by which societies, under certain conditions, are structured'. See Marion O'Callaghan, 'Introductory notes', Sociological Theories: Race and Colonialism, Paris, UNESCO, 1980, p. 35. 2 For discussions of white attitudes towards Asians, see W. Peter Ward, White Canada Forever: Popular Attitudes and Public Policy Toward Orientals in British Columbia, Montreal, McGill-Queen's University Press, 1978; Patricia E. Roy, 'British Columbia's fear of Asians, 1900-1950', Histoire sociale/Social History, Vol. 13,1980, pp. 161–72; Terrance Craig, Racial Attitudes in English Canadian Fiction, Waterloo, Ont., Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1987; and Patricia Roy, A White Man's Province: British Columbia Politicians and Chinese and Japanese Immigrants, 1858–1914, Vancouver, University of British Columbia Press, 1989. Two major histories on the Chinese in Canada are Anthony B. Chan, Gold Mountain: the Chinese in the New World, Vancouver, New Star Books, 1983, and Edgar Wickberg (ed.), From China to Canada: A History of the Chinese Communities in Canada, Toronto, McLelland & Stewart, 1982. Similar histories of the Japanese community remain to be done, but important works focusing on the Second World War era are Ken Adachi, The Enemy that Never Was: A History of the Japanese Canadians Toronto, McLelland & Stewart, 1976, and Ann Gomer Sunahara, The Politics of Racism: The Uprooting of the Japanese Canadians During the Second World War, Toronto, J. Lorimer, 1981. Comparable historical studies of the First Nations people in BC have also not as yet been done with the exception of Robin Fisher, Contact and Conflict: Indian-European Relations in British Columbia, 1774–1890, Vancouver, University of British Columbia Press, 1977, which remains the major work on the nineteenth century. More recent works dealing with racism and the rôle of the state are Kay Anderson, '"East" as "West": place, state and the institutionalization of myth in Vancouver's Chinatown, 1880-1980', unpublished PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 1987; Duncan Dunae Thomson, 'A history of the Okanagan: Indians and whites in the settlement era, 1860–1920', unpublished PhD thesis, University of British Columbia, 1985; and Gillian Creese, 'Working-class politics, racism and sexism: the making of a politically divided working class in Vancouver, 1900–1939', unpublished PhD thesis, Carleton University, 1986. 3 A similar process of definition took place on the Canadian prairies; see Bill Maciejko, 'Ukrainians and prairie school reform, 1896–1921: ethnic and domestic ideologies in Canadian state formation', Canadian Ethnic Studies/Etudes ethniques au Canada, forthcoming. 4 For population figures, see Ward, White Canada Forever, pp. 170–1. 5 Timothy A. Dunn, 'The rise of mass public schooling in British Columbia, 1900–1929', in J. Donald Wilson and David C. Jones (eds), Schooling and Society in Twentieth Century British Columbia, Calgary, Detselig Enterprises, 1980, pp. 23–51. 6 For discussions of the creation of notions of the 'Other' and ideologies of difference, see Edward W. Said, Orientalism, New York, Vintage Books, 1978. See also Henry Louis Gates Jr (ed.), Race', Writing and Difference, special issue of Critical Inquiry, Vol. 12, No.l, Autumn 1985, esp. Edward W. Said, 'An ideology of difference', pp. 38-58. 7 Carl Berger, The Sense of Power: Studies in the Ideas of Canadian Imperialism, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1970. See also Douglas Cole, 'Canada's 'nationalistic' imperialists', Revue d'études canadiennes/Journal of Canadian Studies, Vol.

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8 9

10

11

12

13 14 15 16

17

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5, 1970, pp. 44–9, and The problem of 'nationalism' and 'imperialism' in British settlement colonies', Journal of British Studies, Vol.10, 1971, pp. 160–82. Doug Owram, Promise of Eden: The Canadian Expansionist Movement and the Idea of the West, 1856–1900, Toronto, Buffalo and London, University of Toronto Press, 1980, esp. pp. 125–48. On the importance of the New Imperialism in Canada, see Robert Craig Brown and Ramsay Cook, Canada, 1896–1921: A Nation Transformed, Toronto, McLelland & Stewart, 1974, p. 27. See also Robert J. D. Page, 'Canada and the imperial idea in the Boer War years', fournal of Canadian Studies, Vol. 5, 1970, pp. 33–49, and Robert M. Stamp, 'Empire Day in the schools of Ontario: the training of young imperialists', in Alf Chaiton and Neil McDonald (eds), Canadian Schools and Canadian Identity, Toronto, Gage, 1977, pp. 100–15. Fisher, Contact and Conflict; John L. Tobias, 'Canada's subjugation of the Plains Cree, 1879–1885', Canadian Historical Review, Vol. 64, 1983, pp. 519–48; Barry Gough, Gunboat Frontier: British Maritime Authority and Northwest Coast Indians, 1846–90, Vancouver, University of British Columbia Press, 1984. See also Robin Fisher, 'The impact of European settlement on the indigenous peoples of Australia, New Zealand, and Britsh Columbia', Canadian Ethnic Studies, Vol. 12, 1980, pp. 1–14. The native population of British Columbia declined from more than an estimated 80,000 in 1835 at the beginning of contact with European settlement to less than 23,000 in 1929. Wilson Duff, The Indian History of British Columbia, vol 1: The Impact of the White Man, Victoria, British Columbia Provincial Museum, 1964, pp. 39, 45. Robert A. Huttenback, 'No strangers within the gates: attitudes and policies towards the non-white residents of the British Empire of settlement', Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, Vol. 1, 1973, pp. 271–02, or Robert A. Huttenback, 'The British Empire as a "white man's" country: racial attitudes and immigration legislation in the colonies of settlement',Journalof British Studies, Vol. 13, 1973, pp. 108–37. 'An Act respecting the electoral franchise', Statutes of Canada, 48–9, Victoria, 1885, ch. 40, pp. 19–53. Fisher,Contact and Conflict, pp. 175–211. For a local study of the institutional containment of native aspirations and the progressive marginalisation of aboriginal peoples, see Thomson, 'History of the Okanagan'. Initially set at $50, by 1903 this tax was raised to $500. See Wickberg, From China to Canada, pp. 42–72, 118 ff.; Chan, Gold Mountain, pp. 74–85, for discussions of various discriminatory measures. For a discussion of the rôle of racism in shaping Vancouver's Chinatown, see Anderson, '"East" as "West"', and on the ways in which 'race' and gender create a differentiated labour market, see Gillian Creese, 'Exclusion or solidarity? Vancouver workers confront the "oriental problem"', BC Studies, Vol. 80, Winter 1988–9, pp. 24–49. The term 'organize' is used here in the same sense that Hannah Arendt, when discussing totalitarian regimes, refers to '[the] organisation of an entire texture of life according to an ideology. . .'. See Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, new edition with added prefaces, San Diego, New York and London, Harvest/HBJ,1951, 1979. She observes that 'in Nazi Germany, questioning the validity of racism and antisemitism when nothing mattered but race origin, when a career depended upon an "Aryan" physiognomy (Himmler used to select the applicants for the SS from photographs) and the amount of food upon the number of one's Jewish grandparents, was like questioning the existence of the world' (p. 363). Arendt maintained that imperialism was an earlier, albeit less ruthless, form of totalitarianism. Mary Ashworth, The Forces Which Shaped Them: A History of the Education of Minority Group Children in British Columbia, Vancouver, New Star Books, 1979; E. Brian Titley, 'Indian industrial schools in Western Canada', in Nancy M. Sheehan, J. Donald Wilson and David C. Jones (eds), Schools in the West: Essays in Canadian Educational History, Calgary, Detselig Enterprises, 1986, pp. 133–53; and Celia HaigBrown, Resistance and Renewal: Surviving the Indian Residential School, Vancouver, Tillicum Library, 1988.

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 19 David Chuenyan Lai, Theissueof discrimination in education in Victoria, 1901–1923', Canadian Ethnic Studies, Vol. 19, 1987, pp. 47–67. See also Ashworth, The Forces Which Shaped Them, p. 54–80; and Roy, A White Man's Province, pp. 24–7. 20 E. T. White, Public School Text-Books in Ontario, London, Ont., Chas. Chapman Co., 1922, p. 14. Although completely concerned with Ontario, this remains a valuable resource on textbooks, their selection and reception. White describes a number of instances in which texts were banned or rewritten because they presented controversial opinions. 21 New Canadian Readers, 20th Century Edition. Third Reader, Toronto, Gage, 1900, (henceforth New Cdn Third Reader, 1900), p.v. 22 For a discussion of the way in which the world was 'represented' to Europeans, see Said, Orientalism, pp. 21–3. 23 Other facts included gender and class constructions. 24 Jean Anyon, 'Ideology and United States history textbooks', Harvard Educational Review, Vol. 49,1979, pp. 361–86. Canadian textbook authors included such establishment figures as the noted scientist and Principal of McGill University, Sir William Dawson, the long-time chairman of the Department of History at the University of Toronto, George M.Wrong, and the Rhodes Trust administrator, George Parkin. 25 W. L. Grant's History of Canada, London and Montreal, William Heinemann & Renouf Publishing Co., 1916. See Charles W. Humphries, The banning of a book in British Columbia', BC Studies, Vol. 1, Winter 1968–9, pp. 1–12. 26 George Tomkins, A Common Countenance: Stability and Change in the Canadian Curriculum, Scarborough, Ont., Prentice-Hall Canada, 1986, p. 237. 27 Between 1872 and 1892, these lists were published as part of the Annual Reports of the Superintendent of Education. See British Columbia, Department of Education, Annual Reports, Victoria, 18 72–92. Between 1893 and 1916, these lists were published periodically in the Department of Education publications, Manual of the School Law and School Regulations of British Columbia, with minor changes reported in the Annual Reports. After 1919, the Curriculum Branch of the Department of Education published detailed descriptions of the increasingly complex and diversified curriculum, variously titled Course of Studies, Programme of Studies and Curriculum Guide. 28 Annual Report, 1904, p. A cxiv. 29 See the reports of the Free Text-Book Branch in the Annual Reports. In 1916, for example, over 10,000 copies of the Beginners Reader, 9,000 of the First Reader, and 10,000 of the Second Reader, along with over 6,000 copies of the Canadian history text were distributed. See Annual Report, 1917, p. A 85. 30 For a discussion of how text-books 'shift' in their contents during this era, see Harro Van Brummelen, 'Shifting perspectives: early British Columbia textbooks from 1872 to 1925', in Sheehan, Wilson and Jones, Schools in the West, pp. 12–28. Reprinted from BC Studies, Vol. 60, Winter, 1984–5, pp. 3–27. 31 H. John Field has identified 'character' as the 'shared presupposition' of late Victorian imperialism, the device that linked the individual and the Empire, mobilised the êlite round the Empire and enabled the indoctrination of the masses in the imperial idea. 'Its usages transmitted a sense of shared intellectual currency; as though, when "character" came up, everyone knew without further explanation what was being discussed and could in fact even anticipate the ensuing conclusion.' See H. John Field, Toward a Programme of Imperial Life: The British Empire at the Turn of the Century, Westport, Greenwood Press, 1982, pp. 231–2. 32 George R. Parkin, Round the Empire, London, Paris and Melbourne, Cassell & Co, 1893,p. xii. This text, written for British elementary schools, was used as a teacher's reference between 1893 and 1906. 33 Hugh Cunningham, 'The language of patriotism, 1750–1914', History Workshop: A Journal of Socialist Historians, No. 12, Autumn, 1981, pp. 8–33. 34 See Cdn Readers, Book III, Toronto, Gage [1881], pp. 162–6, 170–8, 182–6, 187–8, 193–8, 199–204. See also Cdn Readers, Book IV, Toronto, Gage [1883], pp. 198–201, 226–32, 257–74, and Cdn Readers, Book V, Toronto, Gage [1883], pp. 50–5 ff. 35 Cdn Readers, Book V, Toronto, Gage/T. Nelson & Sons, 1922.

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WHITE SUPREMACY: A C A N A D I A N CASE S T U D Y 36 William Francis Collier, History of the British Empire, Canadian Series of School Books, Toronto, Canada Publishing Co., 1876, p. 320. 37 W. J. Robertson's Public School History of England and Canada, British Columbia Edition, Toronto, Copp Clark Co., 1902, p. 192. This text is an adaptation for senior elementary schools of the High School History of England and Canada, Toronto, Copp Clark Co., 1891, which was revised for Canadian schools by Robertson from Arabella B. Buckley's (Mrs Fisher) History of England (High School History, p. [v].) The High School History also included a section, 'History of Canada', written by Robertson. The BC edition of the Public School History included an appendix, 'The History of British Columbia', written by R. E. Gosnell. 38 George M. Wrong, History of Canada, Toronto, Ryerson Press, 1921, p. 353. 39 Cdn Readers, Bk IV [1883], pp. 168–73. 40 Humphries, 'Banning of a book', pp. 1–12. 41 Grant, History of Canada., p. 377, 378. For similar sentiments, see Clement, The History of Canada, p. 340; Maria Lawson, History of Canada for Use in Pulic Schools, Toronto, Gage, 1906, p. 265; and I. Gammell, History of Canada, Toronto, Gage, 1921, p. 255. This latter text was originally authorised in 1912. 42 Public School History, 1902, p. 195. 43 History of England for Public Schools, Toronto, Macmillan Co. of Canada, 1923, p. 301. 44 History of England for Public Schools, p. 297. 45 Gammell, History of Canada, 1921, p. 108. 46 Clement, History of Canada, 1895, p. 95. 47 Robertson, Public School History, 1902, pp. 275, 276. 48 Maria Lawson and Rosalind Watson Young, A History and Geography of British Columbia, Toronto, Educational Book Co., 1913, p. 54; Gammell, History of Canada, 1921, p. 30. 49 Lawson and Young, British Columbia, 1913, p. 41. 50 Ibid., p. 36. This page contains an ilustration of an 'Indian Raid' which indicates the extent to which aboriginal peoples have been fictionalised. A group of white men with revolvers are shown holding off a much larger group of knife-wielding, Afro-haired blacks. 51 Ibid., pp. 70, 67, 72. 52 Nancy L. Stepan, 'Race and gender: the role of analogy in science', Isis, Vol. 77, 1986, pp. 261–77. 53 New Cdn Third Reader, 1900, pp. 180–2. 54 Ibid., pp. 23–8; Cdn Readers, Book III, Toronto, Gage/T. Nelson & Sons, 1922, pp. 137–41. 55 Nathaniel Hawthorne, 'Oliver Cromwell and Charles I', The British Columbia Readers, Fourth Reader, Toronto, Gage, 1916 (henceforth BC Fourth Reader), pp. 20–8. 56 Cdn Readers, Bk V, 1922, pp. 36–9. 57 For example, the Cdn Reader, Book III, [1881], and the New Cdn Third Reader, 1900, had sixteen stories in common. The New Canadian Reader, 20th Century Edition, Fourth Reader, Toronto, Gage, 1900, and the BC Fourth Reader, 1916, had identical contents, although different pagination, except for five stories. Many of the same contents reappeared in the 1922 Cdn Readers, Bk III which again emphasised character models. 58 William Burns in Annual Report, 1895, p. 217. 59 I am indebted to Jane Gaskell for bringing this point to my attention. 60 New Cdn Third Reader, 1900, pp. 111–14; Cdn Readers, Bk III, 1922, pp. 67–72. 61 Cdn Readers, Bk IV 1922, pp. 251–4. 62 Cdn Readers, Bk IV [1883], pp. 226–32. 63 BC Fourth, pp. 251–6; Cdn Readers, Bk V, 1922, pp. 167–9. 64 New Canadian Geography, Toronto, Gage, 1899, p. 209. 65 Lord Rosebery in Parkin, Round the Empire, p.v. 66 R. S. Jenkins, Canadian Civics, Toronto, Copp Clark Co., 1918, pp. 167–8. This was used a teachers' reference and high-school text between 1916 and 1925.

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MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 67 For a discussion of the ways in which the people of the Middle East have been represented as the opposite of Europeans, see Said, Orientalism, pp. 39 ff. 68 Cdn Readers, Bk V [1883], pp. 244–6. 69 Mary Louise Pratt, 'Scratches on the face of the country; or what Mr. Barrow saw in the land of the Bushmen', Critical Inquiry, Vol. 12, 1985, p. 120. 70 Cdn readers, Bk III, 1922, pp. 25–6. 71 Our Home and Its Surroundings: A First Book of Modern Geography, Toronto, Morang Educational Co., 1909, pp. 91–2. 72 The epithet 'Chinaman' is an example of an imposed ethnic category. During this era, most Chinese in British Columbia were from the area of South China surrounding Guangzhou. Their collective political term for themselves before 1911 would have been Qingren or 'people of Qing', while popularly they referred to themselves as 'Tangren' or 'people of Tang'. This is the name that survives to this day, Vancouver's 'Chinatown' being known as 'Tangren Qu' or 'Tang People's Quarter'. 73 Clement, History of Canada [1895], pp. 12–13. Indians are described in almost exactly the same terms by Gammell, History of Canada, 1921, pp. 22–3. 74 The notion of the Indians as 'a vanishing race' was popular in BC at the turn of the century. This was evident in the memoirs of D. W. Higgins, The Passing of a Race, Toronto, W. Briggs, 1905. 75 Hannah Arendt, 'Race-thinking before racism', Review of Politics, Vol. 6, 1944, pp. 36–73. 76 Dominion School Geography, Toronto, Educational Book Co., 1910, p. ii. 77 Ibid., pp. 7–59. 78 Ibid., p. 60. 79 Ibid. 80 Ibid., p. 61. 81 Ibid. 82 'Characteristics of the Races of Mankind' in Ralph S. Tarr, New Physical Geography, New York, Macmillan, 1910, p. 385. 83 Pratt, 'Scratches on the face of the country', p. 120. 84 The sketches included a representative of the 'Malay race' and a caption noted that some classifications include 'five races' thus creating the illusion that the number of 'races' was an objective issue. 85 Brian Simon, 'Can education change society?', in J. Donald Wilson (ed.), An Imperfect Past: Education and Society in Canadian History, Vancouver, Centre for the Study of Curriculum and Instruction, University of British Columbia, 1984, pp. 30–47. 86 Paul Phillips, No Power Greater: A Century of Labour in British Columbia, Vancouver, Boag Foundation, 1967; A. Ross McCormack, Reformers, Rebels and Revolutionaries: The Western Canadian Radical Movement, 1899–1919, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1977; and Barbara Latham and Roberta Pazdro (eds), Not Just Pin Money: Selected Essays on the History of Women's Work in British Columbia, Victoria, Camosun College, 1984. 87 See Creese, 'Exclusion or solidarity?', pp. 24–51; W. Peter Ward, 'Class and race in the social structure of British Columbia, 1870–1939', BC Studies, Vol. 45, Spring 1980, pp. 17–36, and Rennie Warburton, 'Race and class in British Columbia: comment', BC Studies, Vol. 49, Spring 1981, pp. 79–85. 88 Arendt, Totalitarianism, p. 363.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

'A part of Pakeha society': Europeanising the Maori child J. M. Barrington and T. H. Beaglehole

Britain's 'civilising mission' in nineteenth-century New Zealand reflected not only the values and interests of the British at that time but also an assessment of the Maori and their capacity for improvement. Missionaries, traders and colonists in their differing ways shared the official view that with the proper guidance the Maori could graduate to civilisation.1 The principal agents of this process changed over time – by the 1870s the Native Land Court Judge had taken the place of the missionary – but the belief in racial amalgamation persisted and was to do so well into the twentieth century. Equally tenacious was the view that schooling could play a significant part in achieving this ideal. These were of course Pakeha (European) beliefs, policies of colonial reformers or settlers' governments. It was simply assumed that the Maoris would welcome the opportunities offered. To say this, however, should not obscure the fact that the belief in the possibility of racial amalgamation was, for its time, a profoundly liberal view, and that the strength of this belief was to contribute to the emergence by the late nineteenth century of a pattern of race relations in New Zealand which differed markedly from that in other areas of British settlement such as Southern Africa. The missionaries came to New Zealand in the early nineteenth century with a clear purpose: to further the spread of Christianity and show the natives the way to salvation. Their concern was to create a Christian community, be it Maori or European; but, perhaps naturally, the Christian society they looked forward to resembled in many ways the social order they had left at home. Schools were an integral part of their programme; their evangelical brethren in Britain had become increasingly involved with experiments in popular education. And because one learned to read in order to read the Bible, there was little difference between the congregation gathered together to worship and the community assembled in 'school'. [163]

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The missionaries started farms and taught the Maoris simple farming and trade skills, at first not so much from a desire to change the Maori way of life, as from the need to render the missions as far as possible selfsupporting. As Samuel Marsden wrote: T o make schools general and permanent in New Zealand, they must be supported, eventually, by the industry of the Natives, and also taught by Native School masters.' 2 At least until the time when it became apparent that British colonisation was inevitable, the missionaries in general held to the idea of an independent Maori nation in New Zealand. They did not seek to Europeanise the Maoris except in so far as they identified European social habits with Christianity, and Marsden's first emphasis on 'industrial training' was succeeded by a more direct effort to bring about religious conversion. Nor did they attempt to teach the English language; the Bible was translated into Maori and the missionaries learned the language. The schools they started had a purpose which was basically religious. Through them, however, many of the Maoris learned to read and write their own language. The establishment of British rule and the coming of the colonists meant a radical, though at first not clearly thought-out, change in 'educational theory'. Under the new regime, the break with the traditional education of the child in the tribe was to be even greater, and the new education was to cease to be fundamentally religious. The question of Maori education was at first put officially into the hands of the British government or, in practice, the Governor and then, later, into the control of the colonists themselves in the Legislative Assembly. There were two strong influences on British colonial policy in the late 1830s: the evangelical humanitarian ideas which had, ostensibly, triumphed with the abolition of slavery, and the views of the colonial reformers on the appropriate form of government for a British colony. Official expression was given to these schools of thought in the Aborigine Report (1837), and the Durham Report (1839). The humanitarian concern had been essentially with Southern and Western Africa, the West Indies, India and those parts of the world where evangelical Christian missionaries had carried their teaching in the early decades of the nineteenth century. The colonial reformers' fields were Canada and Australia. New Zealand brought the two schools together for the first time. There was, at the time, considerable foreboding about the future of native races, and the decision to intervene in New Zealand was part of a policy to preserve and protect the Maori people. Coinciding with intervention, however, was organised colonisation, and from the outset there was the problem of establishing institutions of government capable not only of protecting the rights and interests of the native race but also of satisfying the desire of the settlers for land and self[164]

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government. The first attempt to reconcile the rival claims of humanitarians and colonial reformers was made in the official instructions to Lieutenant-Governor Hobson. In sending out Hobson the British government's aims were clear, though, as time was to show, far from mutually compatible. He was despatched with the dual purpose of assisting the colonists and protecting the natives, and the policy he was to follow in his relations with the Maori race was outlined in the instructions given to him by Lord Normanby before his departure for New Zealand. They included the aim that the civilisation of the Maoris was to be promoted by the 'establishment of schools for the education of the aborigines in the elements of literature', but with the condition that, 'until they can be brought within the pale of civilised life, and trained to the adoption of its habits, they must be carefully defended in the observance of their own customs, so far as these are compatible with the universal maxims of humanity and morals. But the savage practices of human sacrifice, and of cannibalism, must be promptly and decisively interdicted.'3 The way in which these aims might be achieved was outlined by the Colonial Secretary, Lord John Russell, in the instructions to Hobson on his appointment as governor. He was to encourage and work through the established missions as far as the means at his disposal would admit, and to aid, from the public revenue, the efforts of the missionaries to 'educate and instruct their proselytes'. For as Russell wrote: 'The education of the youth among the aborigines is of course indispensable to the success of any measures for the ultimate advancement in social arts, and in the scale of political existence.'4 Sinclair claims that Hobson's general instructions 'marked a new and noble beginning in British colonial policy', for the intention was that New Zealand's experience was to be different from that of earlier settlement colonies. What happened to the Maoris was to 'differ from that of the American Indian, the Bantu, the Australian or Tasmanian aborigine; for the new colony was being launched in an evangelical age. Imperialism and humanitarianism would henceforth march together. Even the Colonial Office, without much conviction, hoped that New Zealand would be the scene of a Utopian experiment.'5 Hobson's policy of preservation of Maori interests and welfare was to be implemented through the appointment of a Protector of Aborigines. But as far as education is concerned little or nothing was done by the Department of the Protector. Imperial policy, part of which was the support of mission schools, was accepted, but the preoccupation of the protectors with the purchase of land and the settlement of land claims interfered with their other duties. The officials simply did not have time to carry out the constructive policy that the Colonial Office had [165]

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intended for the civilisation of the Maori race. Fitzroy, who briefly succeeded Hobson as Governor, recognised this failure and his answer was to enact, in 1844, the Native Trust Ordinance, the preamble of which ran as follows: Whereas the native people of New Zealand are by natural endowments apt for the acquirement of the arts and habits of civilised life, and are capable of great moral and social advancement. And whereas large numbers of the people are already desirous of being instructed in the English language and in English arts and usages. And whereas great disasters have fallen upon uncivilised nations on being brought into contact with colonists from the nations of Europe, and in undertaking the colonisation of New Zealand Her Majesty's Government have recognised the duty of endeavouring by all practical means to avert the like disasters from the native people of these islands, which object may best be attained by assimilating as speedily as possible the habits and usages of the native to those of the European population . . . In spite of a provision to set up a trust to establish schools, consisting only of members of the Church of England, the Ordinance excited little interest in the Legislative Council among the missionaries or the general public.6 The confirmation of the Ordinance was not gazetted by Grey, the next Governor, and it therefore lapsed. Yet the idea of rapid assimilation, which the preamble stated so clearly, was to be both the strength and weakness of all educational policy for nearly a century. Official policy in those first years had little result, but although the excitement over Hobson's arrival and the establishment of British government had its effect on school attendances, the missionary work was in no way abated, and the village day schools run by the missionaries or by the Maoris themselves reached, at this time, their greatest development. The Church Missionary Society expanded its work to the east coast and south to Cook Strait where, by 1841, the Reverend Octavius Hadfield had established eighteen schools in which 'more than 600 daily meet for instruction'. 7 This was a general pattern. There were schools in which reading and writing were taught under the charge of Maori schoolmasters and superintended by the missionaries in almost every Maori village professing Christianity. According to the Reverend J. Whitely, after thirty years' work through these schools, 'three-fourths of the adult population could . . . read, and two-thirds could write their own language'.8 In what sense and to what extent this produced a 'literate society' is open to some debate and even the missionaries conceded signs of decline. Bishop Selwyn found in 1843 a 'general complaint in all parts of the country, that the schools are not so well attended as heretofore'.9 A report from the CMS Eastern District a little [166]

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later is typical of many: 'Much effort has been used to keep up the Day Schools; but the complaint of the Native Teachers, that they cannot persuade the people to attend is universal.'10 In some districts the schools were subsequently revived but they never again presented the general picture of success of the late 1830s and early 1840s. The reasons for this decline of the schools, it would seem, lay in Maori disillusionment, not simply with reading and writing, but with the mission teaching as a whole.11 With the arrival of several thousand European settlers and adventurers the ability to read and write their own language was obviously not going to provide the Maoris with an understanding and mastery of the new world that was coming into being; the moral precepts so assiduously taught by the missionaries were hardly adequate to cope with European worldliness. What was to be done? The missionaries considered broadening the curriculum of the schools to include what they called 'industrial training' (a revival of Marsden's policy) and, sometimes, instruction in the English language. At Otumoetai the children were reported to have 'made great progress in English, and [to] repeat most distinctly a great many hymns', 12 and the official return of Wesleyan schools in 1847 noted two where the teaching of reading, writing and arithmetic was in English.13 Before this, Bishop Selwyn on his arrival in 1842 had lent his powerful support to those who were beginning to teach English, as well as to the idea of boarding schools giving industrial training. A year later, Selwyn produced the first English primer for Maori schools.14 There was disagreement among the missionaries as to how widely English should be taught. Ashwell, Maunsell and Morgan, the Church missionaries in the Waikato where there was as yet comparatively little intercourse with Europeans, were cautious and would have taught only a small elite. The differences were, however, more about the pace of advance than about the goal desired; this teaching of English long before there was any legal obligation or financial advantage in doing so marks a tacit acceptance by the missionaries of the growing belief in racial assimilation. George Grey, who succeeded Fitzroy as Governor in 1845, brought to the position the vigour and enthusiasm of a young man, allied with that faith in education so characteristic of early Victorian liberalism. Before his appointment to New Zealand Grey had written a report from Australia criticising the policy of leaving aborigines to retain a modified version of their own culture and advocated instead that they be educated, given employment and quickly made subject to British laws. It has been suggested that:

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in that these policies–of 'amalgamation' as they were generally then called – assumed a high level of capability in Pacific peoples and stood ready to meet their desire to participate in the institutions of the new order, they were liberal and progressive. Their very great weakness was that they were underlain by undoubted convictions of the superiority of English institutions, and conversely by a disastrously limited appreciation of local values, of local peoples' possible preference for their own institutions and of the difficulties they would incur in adapting to new responsibilities and obligations.15 As far as Grey was concerned, from a racially mixed society would come amalgamation. Education was to be the agent of this process. Here, if needed, was the justification for Grey's deep interest in Maori schooling. The nature of that schooling owed much not only to the earlier missionary efforts, but also to Grey's other characteristically Victorian belief in the virtues of British civilisation. It was, after all, not long since Lord Macaulay, in his celebrated Minute of 1835, had proposed a system of education for India which would, he confidently believed, form 'a class of persons Indian in blood and colour, but English in tastes, in opinions, in morals and in intellect'. Grey's personal regard for the Maoris was sincere as well as politic. The Maoris, he wrote, 'are fond of agriculture, take great pleasure in cattle and horses, like the sea and form good sailors, are attached to Europeans, admire their customs and manners; are extremely ambitious of rising in civilisation and of becoming skilled in European arts; they are apt at learning; in many respects extremely conscientious and observant of their word...'.16 Here was a noble savage indeed who wanted only schooling for his race and the Pakeha to become one. As soon as peace had been achieved in the colony, Grey turned to education. In 1847 an Education Ordinance was passed by the Legislative Council for promoting the 'education of youth... in New Zealand'. It was a comprehensive measure applicable to both races, although Grey proposed in the first instance to apply its provisions chiefly to the education of Maori and half-caste children.17 Grey refrained from setting up any new educational organisation, considering that the three missions, 'although their peculiar object was the spread of the Gospel... had, to the best of their ability, made some provision for the education of youth...', and he therefore 'thought it wiser to avail myself of the extensive and really admirable machinery which I found thus in existence . . . than to waste both time and money by attempting to create a system of national education, to be conducted by the government'.18 The schools, to be superintended by the Bishop of the Church of England, the Roman Catholic Bishop or the Superintendent of the Wesleyan Mission, were to be run on the following principles:

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1 2 3 4

There must be religious education. There must be industrial training. There must be instruction in the English language. The government was to appoint inspectors who should inspect and examine the schools annually.

To Grey it appeared essential, for reasons that were to him so obvious as not to need repeating, that all the children should be brought up to speak and read the English language. The need for industrial training for both Maori and Pakeha arose from the undeveloped state of the colony: these children 'had a country to create'. The comprehensive premises underlying the Ordinance was not without its critics. The Wellington newspaper, the Southern Cross, asserted that 'no system of education can work well in this Colony which proposes to combine in one plan the education of children of both European and native races. The principle of amalgamation is attractive in theory. . . but it is absurd to imagine that European parents would at present send their children to the same school with natives. . . . The European and native youth cannot be educated together.'19 Criticism notwithstanding, the passing of the Ordinance encouraged the further establishment of a number of industrial boarding schools under Church control. Two years later Grey propounded a plan whereby the schools were to be the means of spreading British Christian civilisation in the Pacific. He framed the land grants so as to 'make these institutions available for the education of poor and destitute persons being inhabitants of the islands in the Pacific Ocean – the effect of which would be to make such institution a component in that great system of Missions, which the piety and benevolence of Great Britain has established throughout the Pacific...'.20 His next despatch on the institutions was to recommend their use as part of a 'frontier policy' in South Africa; he gave a glowing outline of the system in New Zealand, emphasising strongly how in a few years the schools would be self-supporting, but be did temper his enthusiasm with the reservation that schools were not the only means of civilisation.21 From Grey's enthusiastic and at times idealised accounts, we must turn to see what was happening in practice. The declining fortune of the village day schools in the mid-1840s had, even before the passing of the 1847 Ordinance, led members of the Anglican Church and the mission to consider changes in the emphasis of their work. The growing realisation of the importance of teaching English raised questions of teaching methods to which the answers were difficult to find. Boarding schools, or 'central institutions', were seen as a way of drawing together the most able Maori youth away from their home environment and giving them a much more intensive education than was possible in a village school. [169]

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For the Protestants, an added spur was the need to arm more adequately with scriptural knowledge their future catechists and teachers to ensure their capacity 'to meet, on Scriptural grounds, the heresy which the Papists are endeavouring to disseminate wherever they go'.22 Selwyn, a man 'singularly determined in purpose', began St John's College at Waimate. The college included schools for Maori and Pakeha of all ages and was intended to be the 'key and pivot' of all the Bishop's operations, 'the nursery of the ministry and the centre of all sound learning and religious education'.23 The pupils farmed, printed, worked at spinning and weaving, carpentry and shoemaking, and, as was to happen many times later, the industrial side of the institution took up far too much time, to the detriment of study. The ideal of assimilation to an idealised English pattern is made quite explicit in the Rules of the Native Teachers' School. 1 No teacher is admissible into the First Class, who does not pledge himself to adopt English habits, to divide his house into rooms, to abstain from smoking, to take care of hiswifeand children, and attend to their improvement, to wear English clothes constantly, and above all, to be regular in his attendance at Church and School. 2 The Second Class is composed of those who are candidates for admission into the First. 3 The Third Class consists of those who wish to learn English, but have not made up their minds to give up native habits.24 The Wesleyans took their first step towards establishing a 'central institution' when a public meeting to enlist support was held in Auckland in May 1844. There the meeting resolved that it appeared to be 'very desirable to instruct a selected number of the natives of New Zealand in our language, with a view to their having access to the stores of English literature, and also to their becoming more efficient teachers of their countrymen in matters of religion and civilisation'.25 The four years from 1848 to 1852 saw some solid progress in the establishment of the Church boarding schools, and by 1851 between 700 and 800 Maoris attended the government-aided schools. By 1852 several CMS boarding schools were attached to the mission stations. In the Waikato, regular grants were being made to the schools of the Reverend R. Maunsell at Waikato Heads, the Reverend John Morgan at Otawhao and the Reverend B. Y. Ashwell at Kaitotehi. Morgan, at Otawhao, concerned himself particularly with the education of half-caste children, considering it highly desirable that these children should be gathered into boarding schools and rescued from 'poverty, ignorance and vice, and from the degradation of being brought up as Maoris'.26 The underlying belief in the superiority of European ways is clearly expressed in a letter Morgan wrote to Grey. The school, he wrote, was to be: [170]

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exclusively for the Half Caste race. I am persuaded that we cannot admit and educate the natives with the Half Caste children without a decided injury to the latter. A school for the Half Caste race ought to be in every respect an English school. A mixed school would not prosper for the natives would considerably retard the Half Caste children in the acquisition of the English language, neither would a school on the mixed plan give satisfaction to the European parents in general . . . We feel it our duty to provide more comfortable accommodations, as well as a better dietary for the Half Caste than we should for the Maori children. Educated in this way, the half-castes, Morgan hoped, would set an example which the Maoris would want to emulate. The half-castes in turn would be able to help educate the Maoris and raise them in the 'scale of civilisation'.27 The belief in the interdependence of the English language and civilisation, first officially stated in the 1844 Ordinance, was in the 1850s widely held by those connected with Maori education,28 and government aid was given only to those schools where English was taught. The results, however, suggested that real progress was going to be very slow. As early as 1846 Thomas Buddie reported of his pupils at the Auckland Wesleyan institution: 'Only a few of the most intelligent are likely to ever read and speak [English] with accuracy and intelligence', and in the following year he doubted whether the Maori scholars would ever 'be able to conquer the English language'.29 Ten years later, an observer wrote: 'Before the New Zealanders can advance much more in civilisation they must acquire some knowledge of the settlers' language. Very few aborigines have made any progress in English beyond what is sufficient for simple commercial transactions, and much of the present mode of education tends to perpetuate this impediment to civilisation . . . Every sort of education save Christianity, should be subordinate to reading and speaking English.'30 There was thus some confusion, or perhaps difference of opinion, over just what the schools could and should be doing. After Maunsell's practical remarks noted above, he concluded that the task of the schools was to form in the pupils 'a taste for the diet, clothing, comforts, and habits of the Europeans'.31 One report recommended that 'English Masters and Mistresses should be invariably employed';32 another urged that nothing was more likely to mar the progress of any native school than the introduction of an English master ignorant of the Maori language, customs, habits and prejudices.33 It was one great object with the government as well as the missionaries to make their schools 'moral garrisons' and 'centres of civilisation'.34 As we have seen, it was believed that civilisation could not be attained without the English language. Yet the schools in the Waikato, [171]

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where there was least English teaching, appeared to be more successful as 'centres of civilisation'.35 The appearance was based on the successful adoption by some of the Waikato Maoris of European farming technique and their active participation in the wider economy of the Auckland district. One inspector commented that he had 'seen no part of New Zealand in which example and industrial training appear to have produced such evident results'.36 If the supporters of the schools overrated the part they had played in this process, there was still considerable justification for their claim, that, to be most effective, the schools must be taken to the Maoris in their own districts instead of expecting them to go to Auckland where at greater cost the results seemed to be very small. The marked progress the Maoris made, in many parts of New Zealand, in becoming industrious farmers and adopting much of the Pakeha way of life led many Europeans to believe that, given a thorough knowledge of the English language and European way, the Maori could simply become a part of Pakeha society. In this belief in assimilation there was little idea of gradual change and adaptation within the Maori community itself. In the 1840s and 1850s, the process was seen as something rapid, working in one clear-cut direction. Hence the belief in the boarding schools, where the children would be isolated from the 'demoralising influence' of the kainga. The 1858 Act provided that assistance should be given only to schools at which the scholars were both boarded and educated in the English language and in the ordinary subjects of primary English education and given industrial training. Yet for those who believed in easy assimilation the results proved disappointing. Apart from problems of poor management the boarding schools proved unpopular with Maori parents, who objected to the long separation from their children. A perception also existed that when a boarder returned home he 'seemed to resume the mores of his community, not to change them'. 37 The schools were handicapped by the prevailing belief in the ease with which racial amalgamation could be brought about and also by the exaggeration of the part formal schooling could play in this acculturation. Maunsell, with his practical knowledge, could see the necessity of keeping the school in touch with the community in which its pupils were to live. Maori and Pakeha realised that the Maori way of life was changing and had to change. But there was little appreciation of the complexity of this change and the part the schools could play in it. Hadfield wrote, 'I think one error into which all have fallen is impatience', and he expressed his deep conviction 'that any scheme whose object is to effect a rapid alteration in the habits and customs of the Natives will prove abortive, and disappoint the anticipation of its authors'.38 To reaffirm the end desired did nothing to make the [172]

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schools better able to work towards that end. The faith in the power of education to reshape man and society was widely held. What was not understood by the Pakeha was that the Maoris, too, had firm ideas on the future of their country. The schools in this period were more significant as a reflection than as a cause of the emerging pattern of race relations. Emergent Maori nationalism, manifest in the King Movement, produced an 'increasing vitality of response to European ideas and techniques', 39 most marked in relation to education and also to some Christian ideas. As part of an attempt to maintain control over their own destiny, the Maoris sought to adapt and use European ideas and techniques to sustain Maori society. Rather than the sense of novelty, however, which had partly explained the enthusiasm for schools in the 1830s and early 1840s, there was a sense of desperation, of a cruel necessity to stand against the overwhelming pressures of Pakeha society. But, as the country drifted inexorably into war, first in Taranaki and then in the Waikato itself, all the schools, both government and mission-supported, as well as those run by the Maoris themselves, felt the impact of hostilities and found difficulty in continuing. Gorst's reports give a vivid picture of their decline. J. E. Gorst, a young Cambridge graduate who had arrived in New Zealand in 1860, assisted with school inspections, and his comment on the Whatawhata school is quotable in its brevity and typical in its content: 'The school here came to an end at the time of the great meeting at Ngaruawahia, in the month of May, 1860. All the children ran away from school to attend the meeting, and they have never returned.'40 Less than a year after his inspection, Gorst wrote in a report on the Maoris in the Upper Waikato: 'The education of their children is now totally neglected.'41 All the village schools, with the exception of Karakariki, had closed down. This was the district where, in 1859, Ashwell had 'more than 100 scholars, male and female, in the boarding establishment under [his] charge, besides ten branch schools containing 123 scholars . . . altogether supporting themselves without aid from the Government or C.M.S. . . . and conducted by native teachers trained at the central institution', 42 where, in 'large and neatly built' schoolhouses were gathered pupils who were better dressed, 'cleaner, better lodged, and better mannered' than those in the surrounding villages.43 But now a law had been passed by the Kingites and agreed to by all, Gorst reported, that no European schools or schoolmaster should be allowed within the Maori King's dominion. Nor were the schools in or near Auckland in a much better state. The reports by resident magistrates on Native Districts, if they mentioned education at all, generally had the same thing to say: 'Education in this district is a dead letter.... I cannot even get the Natives to converse attentively on the subject',44 or 'Education [173]

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is hardly thought of, and, with rare exceptions, the children are growing up unable to read and write, presenting in this respect a marked contrast to their parents, who almost without exception can read, write and cipher with fluency.'45 Thus the missionaries' fears had come true. The children of literate parents were growing up illiterate. By 1865, the mission schools were empty, the Maoris' schools had disappeared. It was reported that the mission boarding schools which, a few years before, had had between 700 and 800 pupils now had a total of twenty-two.46 The wars of the 1860s closed down practically all the schools except the few in the South Island, and marked the end of the plan begun by Grey, but which the denominational boarding schools were to bring the Maoris, or an elite drawn from among them, to the ways of Christianity and Western civilisation. Indeed, the war, in a real sense, ended the missionary period in New Zealand. After the wars, a fresh start had to be made in Maori education. But the pre-eminent place in native policy earlier given to education was not renewed. The new instrument of amalgamation was to be the Native Land Court and its individualisation of Maori landholding. Economic incentive, it was hoped, would do what industrial training had failed to do. In education, however, some lessons were learned from the past. The 1867 Native School Act established a national system of village native schools controlled initially by the Department of Native Affairs. A condition of a schools establishment was that a Maori community would offer a piece of their own land for a site, organise themselves into a committee and contribute to the teacher's salary. This 'self-help' policy would, it was hoped, demonstrate a genuine enthusiasm for the schools. Ward points out that the spirit behind the Act derived from both the best and worst features of the 'amalgamation' philosophy. Its worst aspect was revealed in a characteristic passage in the Wellington Independent: scrape a Maori, the most civilised, and the savage shows distinctly underneath. The 'Haka' [war dance] is an expose of the evil which really lies at the root of their present prostrate condition, an exhibition of the substratum of utter immorality, depravity, and obscenity, which forms the ground work of their race; and in spite of the veneering with which we clumsily cover the rough wood, we shall do nothing until we alter their entire character, by taking in hand the education,perforceof the growing saplings.47 The debates on the second reading of the Bill, however, reflected the aim of assimilation; the opening speaker, J. C. Richmond, held that 'for a people in the position of the Maori race it was a first condition of their progress to put them in the way of learning the language of the inhabitants and Government of the colony'.48 Mr Hall saw the 'great [174]

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aim' of the government as 'the civilisation of the remnants of a noble race,'49 Major Heaphy raised the issue of social control, for 'any expenditure in this direction [schools] would be true economy, as the more the natives were educated the less would be the future expenditure on police and gaols'.50 Henry Carleton considered the stage had been reached where 'it was necessary either to exterminate natives or civilise them'.51 However, there was one aspect of the new village-school system which Ward had described as part of the 'better aspect of amalgamation'. This was the government's determination that it should not become a racially segregated one. From the beginning, as new schools were established under the Act, they were open to settler children too. The Government attempted, as part of its 'one nation one people' philosophy, to ensure that the ordinary European schools were open to Maori pupils. As the system of Maori schools expanded during the nineteenth century an average of about 10 per cent of total enrolments were European pupils. Some schools had no European pupils and some only a few, but in others there was a substantial number. The Education Act of 1877 created a central Department of Education and a national system of state primary schools administered by education boards, and there was a rapid increase of Maori enrolments in these schools. By 1909, the number of Maori pupils attending board schools matched the number attending native schools, and thereafter always exceeded them. Official policy was to regard the separate native schools as transitional institutions only, and gradually to eliminate them altogether: as soon as the Maori pupils at a native school had made sufficient progress in mastering English the school was to be transferred to the nearest education board. McKenzie asserts, correctly, that 'instances of blatant exclusion of Maori children from the schools continued',52 but he also notes the significance of the fact that 'only one generation after a period of bitter inter-racial warfare' many Maori and European children were being schooled together.53 This phenomenon caught the eye of overseas visitors, because it was not a sight those living in Australia, the United States or South Africa at the time would have been accustomed to.54 It can therefore be seen, like the granting of Maori representation in the House of Representatives in 1867, as the positive side of the amalgamation policy. The aim was to assimilate the Maori to a European way of life, and thus give effect to the promise in the Treaty of Waitangi to grant them the right and privileges of British subjects. It was, perhaps, a blinkered conception of rights and privileges. The policy of assimilation, set in place by the 1867 Act, is evident throughout the reports of inspectors on the schools for at least the next seven decades. One writer, Richard Harker, has linked assimilation to [175]

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the social-control aspect of education, as evident in the report from an inspector in Hokianga: It is an undoubted fact that the native village schools are working great good amongst the Maori of the North . . . as a proof of which I may point out the very orderly and law-abiding conduct of the North Island natives in comparison with that of the more ignorant South Island tribes. . . . I believe that this state of things is in great measure to be attributed to the establishment of native schools, as they have done much to give the Maoris a better knowledge of our manners and customs than they have had hitherto.55 The school books used in the schools, including the Irish National Series and the Nelson Series, generally reflected the British background. So did the games. At Matata School the children were said to be 'quite English in their love of cricket'. At a school in North Auckland, the inspector found the singing of the Maori children 'very hearty, comprising the Low Backed Irish Car, Annie Laurie and the National Anthem'.56 Many observers thought the schools were achieving their aim, a belief succinctly expressed by F. E. Maning in 1873 when he wrote, 'if all your schools are going on as well as that of Wirinaki there will soon be no Maoris in New Zealand'.57 The transfer of the administration of the native schools from the Native Department to the Education Department in 1879 retained their status as a separate system and also the goal of assimilation. J. H. Pope, the newly appointed organising inspector, saw his task as to 'bring an untutored but intelligent and high-spirited people into line with our civilisation, and to do this, to a large extent, by instructing them in the use of our language, and by placing in Maori Settlements European school buildings, and European families to serve as teachers and especially as exemplars of a new and more desirable mode of life'.58 While Pope certainly was, in keeping with the thinking of the time, an 'assimilationist', he was in other aspects ahead of his time in his attempt to understand the role schools might play in rural development, and in the complexities of learning in cross-cultural situations. The preoccupation of many Maoris had by now turned to racial survival. Ravaged by European diseases, their numbers had fallen from an estimated 200,000 in 1769 to a low point of 39,000 in 1896. It was a decline which some contemporary observers saw as proof that the race was 'run out. . . its approaching death hastened by the struggle with a newer and fresher race'.59 However Pope, aware from first-hand experience of the decline, which was reflected in many deaths among Maori pupils, immediately began to attack what he believed to be some of its major contributing causes. He gave close attention to means of promoting economic development in regions with large Maori populations, en[176]

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couraging the use of the Maori schools as centres for demonstrating new crops and improved agricultural techniques. Pope wrote a book, Health for the Maori, published in 1884, which was used primarily as a textbook in the schools and was also translated into a Maori-language edition for circulation among Maori communities. It was still being officially commended to teachers thirty years later. Important as these various extra-curricular activities were, the major justification for the separate existence of the Maori schools continued to be teaching English, and to this activity also Pope devoted his very considerable energy and ingenuity. Years ahead of his time, he insisted that one of the most effective means of teaching the Maori pupils the English language was to relate the reading material used in the school as closely as possible to their everyday experiences. To supplement the Royal Readers, he wrote in 1886 the Native School Reader, a spelling book designed as a school text. In a typical section of the book, Pope uses a description of the gum fields to introduce the pupils to new words. The Native School Primer, which appeared in 1886, was printed in both Maori and English editions and consisted of fifty tables, altered and localised to a familiar New Zealand setting to make them more relevant and interesting to the Maori pupils. These books must have been a refreshing supplement to the standard school texts with their heavy emphasis on British imperialist ideology and the Anglo-Saxon virtues. Pope and his colleagues, engaged in unending attempts to find the most satisfactory method of teaching English, wrestled with the problems of procedure which inevitably seem to arise in cross-cultural settings. Should literacy be taught in the vernacular or in English? If English is to be used, at what level should it be commenced? The 1880 Code for Maori schools provided for the Maori language to be used in the junior classes as an aid to teaching English. However it may appear today, this policy was, like the provision in the Code for teachers seeking promotion to be examined on their understanding of Maori culture and language, an enlightened development in the setting of the 1880s. Even then, however, the use of the vernacular was carefully limited, for in Pope's view the best teacher of Maori pupils would be one who knew the Maori language thoroughly but had sufficient self-control never to use it in conversing with the children or in any other way other than as a language for translation into English.60 'What was being done in 1880,' Pope explained, 'was to teach English through and by means of Maori,' but now the only way to teach English was through English, and by 1903 in his reports on the schools he was describing the use of Maori as 'an anachronism'.61 The policy of assimilation continued under William Bird, who succeeded Pope in 1904, as is evident from a report Bird wrote on a Maori village in the Ureweras he revisited several years after a [177]

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school had been established. The children came forward without hesitation, friendly and smiling (replacing earlier hostility and fear). They were clean in person and in dress, could talk fairly well in English, and were well-mannered and obliging. . . The native school offers to the Maori children in such a locality a pleasing asylum from the life of the kainga [native village].62 How did Maoris generally respond to the policies described? The answer is illuminating. There was no uniform response because this depended on tribal affiliation and, most significantly, on tribal experiences during the land wars and subsequent land confiscations. Most initial requests for schools came from those areas, such as North Auckland, where the Maoris had remained neutral, or fought on the European side during the wars. The eagerness of some Maori tribes to learn English in the government schools was reflected in a petition to the House of Representatives in 1876 in which Wi Te Hakiro and 336 others prayed that the Native Schools Act should be amended so that 'the master, his wife and children should be persons altogether ignorant of the Maori language' and 'there should not be a word of Maori allowed to be spoken in the school'.63 This attitude remained typical of the attitude of some leading Maori spokesmen for at least the next fifty years. And it seemed to them logical at a time when Maoris generally remained confident and secure in their knowledge of Maori. It was mastery of English that a majority of Maoris saw, realistically, as being urgently required if they were to have any chance of holding their own in the European-dominated political and economic world they now inhabited. However, for many years after 1867 there were areas of the North Island in which the King movement and other Maori religious and political movements resisted European schooling, as they did other manifestations of the European presence. Many saw in the Englishdominated schools a threat to the cultural identity and self-respect of the children of their followers. The Resident Magistrate at New Plymouth informed the Native Department in 1879 that the Maoris seemed to prefer to believe in the preachings of Te Whiti that the European should 'return across the sea whence they came' rather than send their children to government schools.64 Pope, as organising inspector, was commenting as late as 1896 on the difficulty of getting schools started among the Maoris in the Taranaki area because of their long-standing determination to have 'nothing to do with the Pakeha'.65 At Parihaka, the Taranaki village where government troops arrested Te Whiti in 1881, the Maoris resisted until 1903 any attempt by the government to get a school established.66 In attempting to summarise the effects of the policies described so far it is hard to disagree with Ward that: [178]

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the colonisation of New Zealand, notwithstanding the Treaty of Waitangi and humanitarian idealism, was substantially an imperial subjugation of a native people,forthe benefit of the conquering race in which the notions of white supremacy and racial prejudice, familiar in other examples of nineteenth-century European imperialism were very much in evidence. 'Amalgamation' had operated to bring the Maori people under as much as possible the same political and judicial system as the settlers, with nominal equality before the law, but with very little assistance to attain a genuine equality in economic and social life.67 But Ward is also correct when he suggests that the official ideology of racial 'amalgamation' and equality of Maori and European before the law had had some benefits. It had 'limited wanton violence against the Maori by settlers during the wars'.68 And it had contributed, as we have seen, to the policy of multi-racial schools, which was a relatively advanced nineteenth-century idea. It had curbed (although by no means totally eliminated) segregation in other aspects of social life and, significantly, it had sanctioned racial intermarriage. However, during the 1920s various reason were put forward for modifying the policy of assimilation; prominent among these was contemporary British colonial educational policy, including the notion of cultural adaptation. The inspector in charge of Maori schools stated in 1933 that the changes 'coincided with the policy' formulated by the British government's Advisory committees on African education in 1925.69 He noted that the roots of British educational policy in Africa lay in the belief that 'Education should be adapted to the traditions and mentality of the people and should aim at conserving and improving what was best in their institutions . . . to replace the servile imitation by the adaptation to his own development of what is best in foreign culture.'70 He was here quoting directly, albeit somewhat inaccurately, from the report of the British Advisory Committee. Again, in 1936, we find the inspector quoting directly from the same report and commenting that 'it is interesting to recall the similarity of policy and principles upon which the various British dominions, colonies and dependencies have based their respective native educational systems'.71 During the 1930s articles by British officials such as Arthur Mayhew, Joint Secretary to the British Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies, and Bryant Mumford, formerly Superintendent of Education, Tanganyika, were printed in the 'Native Schools Column' of the Education Gazette, published by the New Zealand Education Department. The purpose was to demonstrate the close link which existed between the type of education the British were encouraging in their colonial territories and current developments in Maori education. Also influential was the view that the assimilation policy had failed in terms of the academic achievement of Maori pupils in the Maori [179]

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schools: their success rate as measured in progress to the senior primary standards and passes in the proficiency examination remained disappointingly low in relation to the national average. Another factor included the recognition, by educationists, of attempts by Maoris themselves during the 1920s to promote a Maori cultural renaissance in the arts and crafts. Developments within anthropological thinking were also influential, particularly a shift in the way anthropologists viewed 'non-Western' society. Cultural relativism was now fashionable: and held different human cultures to be equally valid when judged according to their own terms of reference, there being no 'superior' or 'inferior' cultures. The adaptionist ideas prominent in British colonial and Maori educational policy emphasised ideas of adapting education to the environment or community in which people actually lived and were put forward by their proponents at the time as liberal and progressive, a positive step forward from the notion of assimilation. But despite their link to aspects of the work of John Dewey, and the positive effects of introducing some indigenous cultural elements into schools, their overriding rationale can be seen, in retrospect, to have had distinctly reactionary undertones, particularly in terms of the manner of their application in the education of non-European pupils. Such ideas had the potential, if fully implemented as they were in South Africa, to tie up indigenous peoples, 'cocoon-like', in their own areas, from which there was little chance of escape through education into wider national affairs. The effects on Maori education policy after 1930 included a reinforcement of the already strongly held view that the place for Maoris was in the country rather than in towns, and in manual and rural occupations rather than the professions. This was demonstrated in the often quoted statement by the Director of Education, T. B. Strong, in 1929 that Maori education should 'lead the Maori boy to be a farmer and the Maori girl to be a farmer's wife'.72 After 1930 an attempt was made to infuse subjects like arts and crafts, singing, and physical education with a Maori cultural component. The effects varied, and were often constrained by the lack of knowledge in these matters by the teachers, the majority of whom were Europeans. But in many of the Maori schools the singing of Maori songs for the first time, and efforts to promote Maori design in such crafts as carving and weaving, did undoubtedly improve the school atmosphere for at least some Maori pupils. However, the Maori language, the heart of the culture, continued to be excluded on the ground that its use would impede the successful acquisition of English, and critics of the change of policy have viewed it as doing little to modify the over-riding aim of assimilation and Europeanisation.73 However, by now it was in the ordinary 'non-Maori' state schools that the impact of education on Maori pupils was mainly felt. These schools [180]

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increasingly enrolled the great majority of Maori pupils, a trend that was accelerated when large-scale migration of Maoris to urban areas started after 1940. Policies in these schools were unaffected by the 'adaptionist' ideas described above: they continued to be dominated by an over-riding ideology of cultural homogeneity, in which 'one people' shared a single culture. As time progressed into the 1950s and 1960s official policies changed: 'assimilation' was succeeded by 'integration' and then 'multiculturalism' or 'biculturism'. But the extent to which, even today, the majority of schools have modified assimilationist policies remains a matter for vigorous debate. To some Maoris, for whom the slow rate of change is a source of considerable and growing disillusionment, the answer increasingly lies in the development of alternative Maori schools where Maori language and culture can, for the first time in over 150 years, receive their proper recognition. British imperial expansion, in its motives and its processes, was always rather more complex than either its supporters or its critics would concede. Reflecting, for better or worse, many of the values of Britain at the time, it was also moulded by those societies drawn into the web of British influence and control. What happened in New Zealand was part of a wider pattern, at its heart the inexorable subjugation of an indigenous people by European numbers and material resources, and European attitudes to Maori education were in many respects echoed by those in other parts of the Empire. Not in all respects perhaps: the idea of racial assimilation, embodying what was both best and worst in Victorian racial attitudes, seemed at the time more applicable to the Maori than to the Australian aborigine or some African people. The underlying belief persisted from the early years of Maori European contact and changed little as New Zealand's formal relationship with Britain evolved towards constitutional autonomy within the modern Commonwealth. The real challenge to these ideas came later, from a resurgent and revitalised Maori people led, one must note, by the products of an education system which, justifiably, they strongly criticised for its narrowly European values. What gives the promise of a fruitful outcome to the clash of ideas is New Zealand's final emergence in the 1970s and 80s from the inhibitions of an essentially colonial society. The idea of a bicultural society, with all its implications for education, could only flourish with a real acceptance of independent nationhood.

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Notes 1 M. P. K. Sorrenson, 'How to civilise savages: some "answers" from nineteenth-century New Zealand,' New Zealand Journal of History, Vol. 9, No. 2, 1975, pp. 97–110. 2 Missionary Register (hereafter MR), Vol. 19, 1831, p. 114. 3 Normanby to Hobson, 14 August 1839, British Parliamentary Papers (hereafter GBPP), 1840, 238, p. 40. 4 Russell to Hobson, 9 December, 1840, GBPP 1841, 311, p. 23. 5 Keith Sinclair, A History of New Zealand, London, Penguin, 1958, p. 67. 6 Southern Cross, Vol. 2, No. 64, 6 July 1844, p. 3. 7 Maori School Records (hereafter MSR), National Archives (hereafter NA), 1842, p. 60. 8 W. Morley, The History of Methodism in New Zealand, Wellington, McGee & Co., 1900, pp. 120–1. For a critical discussion of the missionary views of Maori literacy see D. F. McKenzie, Oral Culture, Literacy and Print in Early New Zealand: The Treaty of Waitangi, Wellington, Victoria University Press, 1985. 9 Selwyn to Venn, 15 June 1843, quoted in C. J. Parr, 'A missionary library: printed attempts to instruct the Maori, 1815–1845', Journal of the Polynesian Society, Vol. 70, No. 4, 1961, p. 437. 10 MR 1846, p. 370. 11 Parr, 'A missionary library', p. 213. 12 MR, 1847, p. 328. 13 T. Buddie to Colonial Secretary (hereafter CS), 23 November 1847, NA IAS (CS) 1/93, 52/643. 14 Parr, 'A missionary library', p. 213. 15 Alan Ward, A Show of Justice, Canberra, Australian National University Press, 1973, p. 36. 16 G. Grey to Earl Grey, 9 July 1849, GBPP, 1850, 1136 p. 191. 17 G. Grey to Earl Grey, 9 December 1847, NA G25/3, 47/130. 18 Ibid.. 19 10 June 1848, quoted in A. G. Butchers, Young New Zealand, Dunedin, Coutts, Somerville, Wilkie, 1929, p. 312. 20 G. Grey to Earl Grey, 29 January 1851, NA G25/4 51/49. 21 G. Grey to Sir John Pakington, 8 October 1852, NA G25/5, 52/126. 22 J. Kemp, MR, 1842, p. 476. 23 J. K. Davis, History of St. John's College, Auckland, Abel Dykes, 1911, p. 1. 24 NA IA (CS( 1/93, 52/643. 25 Morley, History of Methodism, p. 111. 26 Morgan to CS, 6 April 1848, NA IA (CS) 1/57, 48/720. 27 Morgan to Grey, 4 April 1850, quoted in K. R. Howe, 'Missionaries, Maoris and "civilisation" in the Upper-Waikato, 1833–1863: A study in culture contact, with special reference to the attitudes and activities of the Reverend John Morgan of Otawhao', unpublished MA thesis, Auckland Unversity, 1970, p. 97. 28 See, for example, H. Carleton, Report on Auckland schools, Appendices to the Journals, House of Representatives (AJHR), 1858, E–l, p. 77; Report of Wellington Inspectors, 1858, ibid., p. 55. 29 Quoted in Parr, 'A missionary library', p. 217. 30 Opinions on 'the State and progress of civilisation among the Maoris ...', A. S. Thomson MD, December 1856, enclosed with Gore Browne to Labouchere, 13 December 1856, GBPP, 1860, 2747, 413. Gore Browne commented, 'His (Dr Thomson's) remarks on the future management of the aborigines is deserving of attention as coming from a gentleman unconnected with the Government, the Church or the colonists.' 31 R. Maunsell, Hints on Schools Amongst the Aborigines, Auckland, 1849, St. John's College Press, p. 28. 32 AJHR, 1858, E–l, p. 55. 33 Ibid., p. 49. 34 Kissling, Report of the Northern Division, Church of England Board of Education,

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EUROPEANISING THE MAORI CHILD 1855, NA IA (CS) 1/144, 56/2240. 35 Gore Browne to Labouchere, 9 December 1856, NA G25/6, 56/ 123. Russell Report, 1858, AJHR, 1858, E–l, p. 60. 36 Ibid. 37 Ward, A Show of Justice, p. 211. 38 AJHR, 1858, E–l, pp. 34–5. 39 Howe, 'Missionaries, Maoris and "civilisation"', p. 178. 40 AJHR, 1862, E–4, p. 7. 41 Gorst, 'Report on the state of the Upper Waikato', June 1862, enclosed with Grey to Newcastle, 10 June 1862, GBPP, 1863, 467, pp. 6–16. 42 Ashwell to Gore Browne, 7 November 1859, GBPP, 1860, 492, p. 162. 43 Gorst, The Maori King, ed. Keith Sinclair, Hamilton, Paul's Book Arcade, 1959, p. 4. 44 W. B. White, R. M. Mangonui, AJHR, 1868, A–4, p. 37. 45 G. S. Cooper, R. M. Napier, ibid. p. 13. 46 Parr, 'A missionary library', p. 230. 47 Ward, A Show of Justice, p. 210. 48 J. M. Barrington and T. H. Beaglehole, Maori Schools in a Changing Society, Wellington, New Zealand Council for Educational Research, 1974, p. 102. 49 Ibid.. 50 Ibid.. 51 Ibid.. 52 J. D. S. McKenzie, 'More than a show of justice: enrolment of Maoris in European schools prior to 1900', New Zealand Journal of Educational Studies, Vol. 17, No. 1, 1987, p. 7. 53 Ibid.. 54 Ibid., p. 1. 55 Quoted by Richard Harker, 'Schooling and social reproduction' in John Codd, Richard Harker and Roy Nash, Political Issues in New Zealand Education, Palmerston North, Dunmore Press, 1985, p. 62. 56 AJHR 1875, G–2, p. 2. 57 Quoted in Barrington and Beaglehole, Maori Schools, p. 7. 58 Quoted in Roy Nash, Schools Can't Make Jobs, Palmerston North, Dunmore Press, 1983, p. 46. 59 A. K. Newman, 'A study of the causes leading to the extinction of the Maori,' in Transactions and Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute, Vol. 14, 1881. 60 AJHR, 1882, E–2, p. 7. 61 AJHR, 1903, E–2, p. 8. 62 W. W. Bird, 'The education of the Maori', in I. Davey (ed.), Fifty Years of National Education in New Zealand, Auckland, NZEI, 1928, p. 31. 63 AJHR, 1876, J–4. 64 AJHR, 1879, G–l, p. 21. 65 AJHR, 1896, E–2, p. 11. 66 AJHRJ, 1904, E–2, p. 1. 67 Ward, A Show of Justice ,p. 308. 68 Ibid., p. 309. 69 AJHR, E-3, p. 3. 70 Ibid., 71 AJHR, 1937, p. 4. For further discussion of the British colonial connection with Maori school policy, see J. M. Barrington, 'Cultural adaptation and Maori educational policy: the African connection', Comparative Education Review, vol. 20, No. 1, 1976. 72 Barrington and Beaglehole, Maori Schools, p. 210. 73 See J. M. Barrington, 'The Maori schools: fresh perspectives' in Roger Openshaw and David McKenzie, Reinterpreting the Educational Past, Wellington, New Zealand Council for Educational Research, 1987, p. 169.

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CHAPTER NINE

Processes of colonial control: the Bermuda school question, 1926-1954 Robert Nicholas Bérard

The islands of Bermuda, a small British colony of approximately 60,000 people and just over twenty square miles in land area, have enjoyed continuous settlement since 1609, but no formal Roman Catholic presence was established there until well into the nineteenth century. Catholic settlement was discouraged by a requirement that settlers swear an oath of loyalty to the Church of England and by widespread local intolerance toward the Roman Church. By 1800 the islands had only six Catholic residents.1 Bermuda's expansion as a military garrison and a penal colony and the relaxation of restrictions on the practice of Roman Catholicism throughout the British Empire during the first part of the nineteenth century led to a gradual but steady increase in the colony's Catholic population. A decree in 1815 of the Sacred Congregation of the Propagation of the Faith placed responsibility for Bermuda in the hands of Bishop Edmund Burke of Nova Scotia, but not until 1846 was Burke's successor, William Walsh, first Bishop of Halifax, able to send resident priests to provide pastoral care for longer than a few months at a time. Despite a chronic shortage of both money and clergy to devote to the Bermuda mission and a continuing spirit of intolerance on the part of non-Catholic Bermudians and British colonial officials, by the 1930s about 10 per cent of the colony's population was Roman Catholic, and until 1953 Bermuda remained part of the Archdiocese of Halifax (Nova Scotia).2 From the late 1920s to 1954 the Catholic Church in Bermuda tried repeatedly to establish a system of confessional schools in the colony. Each attempt proved unsuccessful, but the history of the struggle affords an interesting case study of the interplay of racism, religious bigotry, cultural imperialism and the local, ecclesiastical, and international politics of education. The school question divided Catholics and nonCatholics, whites and non-whites, set local priests against the only [184]

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religious order serving the colony and diocesan officials in Canada against one or the other, and occasioned one of the first major exposés of the repressive character of Bermuda's local ruling oligarchy. While the history of the nineteenth century in Canada and other countries was marked by intensive efforts on the part of the Catholic Church to establish denominational school systems in the face of determined opposition on the part of non-Catholics, government authorities and some educational theorists, Bermuda experienced no such confrontation. Roman Catholics were few in number, most attached to British military garrisons in the colony and not permanently resident, and those Catholic families whose rank and social position dictated more than rudimentary education for their children, like their Protestant counterparts, usually sent their children to boarding schools abroad.3 Furthermore, as a mission field of a relatively poor Canadian diocese, Bermuda received only intermittent and inadequate pastoral service from Halifax, where ecclesiastical authorities were engaged in a continuing struggle to ensure religious education for Catholics who made up fully half of the city's population.4 Nevertheless, on at least four occasions in the 1870s and 1880s the Archbishop was asked by the Army Chaplain, Father James Bellord (later Bishop of Gibraltar), for a school for girls, primarily the daughters of the Irish Regiment stationed in the islands.5 In 1890 four members of the Sisters of Charity of Halifax arrived in Bermuda to establish such a school, called Mount St Agnes Academy, near the capital, Hamilton. By the time of their arrival, however, the Irish Regiment had been withdrawn, and the sisters found that the majority of the students who enrolled in their school were non-Catholic.6 For a generation Mount St Agnes met adequately the needs of those Bermudian Catholics, white and relatively well off, who sought a formal education for their daughters. In 1927 the school began to admit boys as well.7 Few complaints were received from the remainder of the Catholic population, poor whites, Portuguese agricultural labourers, mostly from the Azores, who began arriving in large numbers in the 1880s,8 and a small number of coloured Catholics, descendants of former Bermudian slaves and West Indian immigrant construction workers. The sisters served this part of the populace by visiting the sick and providing some catechetical instruction. Mother Mary Cleophas Connors, the first superior of the community, undertook some missionary work to those Portuguese who did not send their children to the sisters' Sunday school, training two Portuguese girls to assist her and offering special classes in the Portuguese district. She also opened a small school for coloured girls in a cottage near the Academy in 1891, having been informed that integration of the races in schools would not be tolerated by the local [185]

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population. This school operated until 1897, when internal divisions in the coloured community led to its demise. Again in 1917 another small coloured school was opened, but it soon closed through lack of financial support.9 Pastoral care for Bermudian Catholics in the nineteenth century was provided primarily by chaplains attached to the British forces. In 1907, however, the Archdiocese of Halifax sent a resident priest, Father Isaac Daly Comeau, an Acadian, to take charge of the mission. Serving, at times alone, in Bermuda from 1907 to 1915 and again from 1923 to 1937, Comeau oversaw a period of growth in the Catholic community from under 1,000 to nearly 3,000 souls and paid off a large part of the debt related to the expansion of the mission. During his tenure, claimed one writer, 'the Church ceased to be a foreign element imposed on the Colony and assumed its rightful place as an important part of colonial life'.10 In part, Comeau's success reflected his own accommodating and unassuming manner as representative of a minority faith and the contributions of the Sisters of Charity, whose school offered its Protestant majority, many from the islands' most influential families, some of the highest educational standards in the colony without any attempt at proselytisation.11 Less successful was the Church's mission to the Portuguese and coloured communities. The majority of Portuguese families did not practise their faith and were indifferent to a Church which could not serve them in their language. Father Comeau was able occasionally to bring in Portuguese-speaking priests to give missions, and by 1910 he had himself begun to study the language.12 This solution was not satisfactory, however, and proved less so as Protestant sects began to evangelise among the Portuguese in their own language, while the Archbishops of Halifax failed repeatedly to persuade the Portuguese hierarchy, rebuilding their own Church after a long period of anticlerical repression, to spare even one priest to the Bermuda mission.13 The resident priests, most of whom had had only limited contact with non-white peoples, were frequently insensitive to the needs and desires of Bermuda's coloured population, itself divided between mutually suspicious Bermudians and West Indians. Denied meaningful political representation, as were most Portuguese and poor whites, by a franchise based on substantial ownership of real property, the coloured population experienced systematic discrimination in housing, education and employment opportunities and almost total social segregation.14 While the Irish-Canadian hierarchy at Halifax were unwilling to make allowance for those local customs of Bermudian Catholics which were at variance with those in Nova Scotia,15 orders were given to priests not to compromise with local prejudices. In 1934, for example, Archbishop [186]

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Thomas O'Donnell wrote to Father Comeau after receiving complaints of discrimination by one of his priests against a group of coloured Catholics: The Catholic Church in Bermuda or Halifax cannot make any distinction of race or colour. All Catholics as such must be treated alike as members of the same church... Should it happen that 'white' Catholics protest and even threaten that they will not go to church if the coloured people are treated as other Catholics, point out the error and the lack of charity in their action or threat. If 'whites' retire then, it is their fault not yours.16

Such a policy was easier to state than to implement. A visitor to the colony in 1934 reported to the Archbishop that coloured Catholics were 'given the cold shoulder' at Mass and excluded from some Church activities; Father Comeau was trying to improve relations, 'but his best efforts are frustrated by the Bermudian Whites who dislike the Coloured people'.17 Archdiocesan proclamations of equality ran counter to the policies of the colonial government and the white ruling class in general. In 1935 the House of Assembly passed a resolution on 'the relief of unemployment' which called for the sterilisation of criminals and those judged mentally deficient, the establishment of birth-control clinics, and legalised abortion. Father Basil Martin, whose parish included a large number of coloured members, observed, 'This all proves that the coloured are the great stumbling block, and nothing is going to be left undone to destroy them as a race.' The priests had written and preached against the measure, however, and Martin believed that many coloured Bermudians had begun to look to the Catholic Church as a protector.18 The British government intervened to prevent these measures being implemented but, in general, were content to allow the Bermudian oligarchy wide latitude in the administration of internal affairs. It is against this background, then, that attempts to establish new Roman Catholic schools in the colony must be seen. In 1934 Fathers Martin and Comeau and Archbishop O'Donnell discussed the need to open a school for coloured children. The Church was faced with the anomaly of its Sisters maintaining a school attended largely by wealthy Protestants while non-white and poor white Catholics had minimal opportunities for religious education. Father Martin warned the Archbishop. 'The Coloured people are beginning to realise that the Church has neglected them, and it cannot be denied', as parents complained of the 'revolting situation' in the few schools which were open to them and of the 'immorality... especially that of a sexual nature, which is going on unnoticed'.19 The School Act of 1926, passed in response to fears that coloured followers of militant religious leader Marcus Garvey might open a [187]

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number of schools, forbade the establishment of any new school without the consent of the colony's Board of Education.20 No prohibition of religious schools was contained in the Act, and, following several requests from coloured Catholics for a school for their children, the nowMonsignor Comeau made formal application to the Board to open such a school in March 1935. Almost three months later Comeau received a terse rejection from C.G.G. Gilbert, the Director of Education, informing him that the Board 'do not think it advisable to have denominational schools in Bermuda'.21 Comeau was not anxious to press the matter, despite the obvious inconsistency of the Board's position, given that one of the largest and most highly regarded schools in the colony was maintained by Roman Catholic nuns and that several other private schools were conducted by Church of England clergy along pronounced Anglican lines.22 Archbishop O'Donnell proposed instead that a private, non-denominational school, supported if necessary by contributions from Catholic parishioners, be established. 'The negro children,' he wrote, 'in the eyes of the Church have exactly the same right to a Catholic education as have the white children. . .'23 While anti-Catholicism played a rôle in the Board's decision, racialism too underlay their opposition. Father Basil Martin maintained that the whole problem 'in a nutshell is that the government is afraid of the steady increase of the Coloured, and they want to keep them as ignorant as possible...'.24 Furthermore, a number of smaller evangelical sects, most notably the American-based African Methodist Episcopal (AMG) Church,25 had begun to win converts from the Established Church, especially among the coloured community, and government no doubt feared a proliferation of sectarian schools outside their control serving a subject but growing population. To counter fears that the Church was planning to educate coloured Catholics beyond their station, a complaint which had led to the strangulation of at least one Church of England school in the nineteenth century, 26 Monsignor Comeau appealed in November 1936 to the Colonial Secretary, the Honourable A.W. Grantham, assuring him that the school's purpose would be to 'turn out pupils well adapted to local living conditions', that he intended to follow the children's elementary instruction with 'vocational training', and that Sisters of Charity, who would operate the school, would emphasise 'the development of character, respect for authority, and good citizenship'.27 This appeal was simply passed along to the Board of Education, which in January 1937 again refused permission. Monsignor Comeau was recalled to Halifax in 1937, having run foul of the new Archbishop John T. McNally, who sent the Reverend Dr John Burns to head the mission in Bermuda. With the blessing of the new [188]

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prelate, Dr Burns in June 1938 forwarded to the governor of the colony a petition from the coloured members of St Theresa's Church in Hamilton, requesting permission to open a school for their children under the supervision of the Sisters of Charity, but the governor only offered his regret 'that nothing can be done in this matter'.28 In November 1938 Dr Burns again wrote to the Board of Education, asking them to reconsider in light of the 'stringent economy . . . forced on the Government' and the undeniable overcrowding of existing schools. Reminding the Board that 'the wishes of the coloured petitioners have, under our British laws and traditions, every right to consideration', Burns argued that the school would relieve pressure on other schools and the government of some of the cost of educating the children, while the Church would assume full financial responsibility for 'an institution, staffed by highly competent teachers, whose chief purpose will be that formation of character so necessary for a law-abiding... citizenry'.29 The Board's reply ignored Burns' arguments and merely repeated its refusal to allow the opening of the school. In 1939, facing a serious shortage of priests in Halifax, Archbishop McNally contracted with the Congregation of the Resurrection, whose provincial house was in Kitchener, Ontario, to supply priests for the growing mission in Bermuda. The adjustment of the new pastors to their environment and the outbreak of war in September 1939 led to the suspension of further agitation on the school question. Roman authorities, however, had long been concerned about the ability of the Archdiocese of Halifax to administer the affairs of Bermuda, especially with respect to the coloured and Portuguese communities.30 When Archbishop McNally learned that the Resurrectionist priest in charge of the mission, Father Robert S. Dehler, had met secretly with the Apostolic Delegate to Canada and discussed those concerns, he terminated the contract with the Resurrectionist Fathers in 1944 and replaced them with a team of diocesan priests, whose mandate was to preserve the mission as a part of the Archdiocese of Halifax.31 Father J. Nil Thériault, a young Acadian priest of exceptional energy and ability, was placed in charge of the mission. Recognising that not only were coloured Catholics without a school, but with rising costs and serious overcrowding at Mount St Agnes, growing numbers of white Catholics were being denied a religious education, Thériault outlined a plan for educational expansion which included a school for coloured children at Hamilton, a school in rural Warwick to serve the largely Portuguese parish of St Anthony, and a programme of scholarships for Catholic children whose parents could not afford the fees of the Academy.32 In 1942 the Board of Education had permitted the Seventh-Day Adventist Church to open a school at Southampton,33 but had done so [189]

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on the curious ground that its opposition to denominational schools would not preclude the re-opening of a school which had been established prior to the enunciation of the Board's policy but which had subsequently closed. That decision and the admission by government officials that they were unable to provide adequate schools for the growing population of the colony led Thériault to prepare a new assault. In August 1947 a number of Catholic and non-Catholic parents, representing the St Anthony's School Guild in Warwick, petitioned the Board of Education for permission to open a private school under the direction of the Sisters of Charity.34 A representative of the Board enquired of Thériault the proposed racial composition of the new school and was informed that no determination had yet been made with regard to admissions policy.35 After two weeks the Board informed the St Anthony's School Guild that permission had again been denied, arguing that schools which segregated pupils according to religious beliefs were not in the best interests of the colony.36 Immediately the Guild decided to appeal to the Governor, who, with his Executive Council, received a deputation from the group in early September. On the following day the governor responded that he was not prepared to intervene in the dispute. Citing the Board's 'unfettered discretionary power with respect to the opening of new schools' in Bermuda, he added a further objection that the establishment of additional independent schools, denominational or otherwise, 'would tend to dissipate and so to prejudice the general educational efforts of the Colony'. The only course open to the Guild, he concluded, was an appeal to the Legislature for a change in or an exemption from the existing laws and regulations.37 Guild members were bitterly disappointed at the response, having worked throughout the summer months preparing the school for classes to begin in what was now less than one week. Monsignor Thériault decided to test the Board's resolve. On 15 September 1947 St Anthony's School opened in defiance of the Board's ruling; on the same day, however, the Guild addressed a letter to the Board of Education agreeing to close the school under protest, but asking permission to operate for sixty days in order to allow for accommodation to be made for the children at Mount St Agnes Academy. Having sent the Attendance Officer to the school on its first day to take down the names of children in attendance, the Board sent him back on Wednesday 17 September, with an order that the school close by 3.00 p.m. that day.38 On Monday next arrangements were made for the thirty-four children of the school to be brought by train from Warwick to Hamilton. Despite written requests from the Board to parents asking that they send their children back to their previous schools, none agreed to do so. Makeshift [190]

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classrooms were set up in the former rectory of St Theresa's Church, across the street from Mount St Agnes, which provided two sisters to teach the six grade levels. Although school was conducted in crowded and unsatisfactory conditions, no further attempt to molest the school was made by the government and no parents withdrew their children.39 Early in 1948 two petitions, one from the Sisters of Charity and another from the alumnae of Mount St Agnes Academy, were addressed to the Board of Education, requesting permission to use the St Anthony's School site in Warwick as an annex to the Academy to relieve overcrowding at the Hamilton site. This plan, too, was rejected quickly by the Board, which maintained that the distance between the two sites would make the new building a 'branch school' rather than a mere annex to an existing institution.40 Monsignor Thériault decided that only through an appeal to public opinion and to the House of Assembly could the Catholic Church obtain relief from the rulings of the Board of Education. He formed a Council of Catholic Men to study the school question and make recommendations. The weekly tabloid Catholic newspaper, the Bulletin, carried articles and editorials in support of Catholic education, and Thériault often used the weekly Catholic radio programme The Ave Maria Hour to comment on the school question.41 An amendment was drawn up to the School Act of 1926, proposing that any legitimate group be permitted to open private schools, subject only to inspection by Board officials and the requirement to meet any educational standards established by the Board, was presented in the House in December 1949 by Fred Misick MCP, a non-Catholic supporter of the Catholic position. Immediately a motion to table, and thus effectively to kill, the proposal was made and was passed by a margin of almost two to one.42 In 1950 the Council of Catholic Men petitioned the Board for permission to open St Anthony's School in Warwick and were again refused, whereupon they forwarded a petition directly to the House of Assembly asking for an exemption from the Board's policy. The petition was defeated, this time by sixteen votes to nine, and the House at the same time rejected a compromise Bill which would have allowed religious instruction during school hours in all schools in Bermuda.43 Thériault responded with a public statement charging the government of Bermuda with 'religious persecution', the promotion of 'secularism in education', and a 'creeping state-socialism' which was leading 'quietly but surely to the complete absorption of the liberty of the individual by the almighty state'.44 In a report to Archbishop McNally, he argued for permission to carry the struggle outside Bermuda, to the Secretary of State for the Colonies in London, to Catholic Members of Parliament at Westminster, and to the Committee on Human Rights of [191]

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the United Nations, and raised the possibility of reopening St Anthony's School in defiance of the law and paying whatever fine was imposed for so doing.45 The archdiocese discouraged these plans, perhaps for fear of rousing more intense anti-Catholic feeling in Bermuda, perhaps because of a major internal struggle within the Archdiocese of Halifax between English- and French-speaking Catholics over plans to undertake the costly rebuilding of the English St Mary's University at Halifax while making no provision for the struggling French Collège Ste-Anne in south-western Nova Scotia.46 In any event, Archbishop McNally ordered that the Bermuda school question be left alone for a while, 'reculer pour mieux sauter'. 47 Thériault agreed to adopt a quieter posture, continuing the meetings of the Council of Catholic Men, promoting informal contacts with members of the Board of Education, nonCatholic members of the legislature and other leaders of opinion to win their support. He had, however, without the knowledge of the Archbishop, made a full report on the school question to the Apostolic Delegate to Canada, Archbishop Ildebrando Antoniutti, who in turn asked the Apostolic Delegate to Great Britain to take the matter up with the British authorities in London.48 In October 1952 Archbishop McNally lay near death in Halifax, and it had already been determined that, as soon as possible after his death, Bermuda was to be separated from the Archdiocese of Halifax and made a quasi-independent ecclesiastical entity. At the same time, the Catholic laity in Bermuda wished again to petition the House of Assembly for permission to open Catholic schools in the colony. Although he admitted that such a petition might arouse 'bitter animosity'.49 Monsignor Thériault agreed to support its presentation. On 1 December Fred Misick MCP presented a petition calling for an exemption for the Roman Catholic Church from the provisions of the School Act of 1926. After acrimonious debate, a motion to send the petition to a joint select committee of the legislature was rejected by one vote, when a supporter of the Catholic position was caught accidentally on the wrong side of the House after voting had begun. His protests to the Speaker, Sir John Cox, a determined opponent of the Roman Catholic Church in Bermuda, were rejected, and the petition was lost.50 Perhaps because, but for a momentary error, the petition would have been given serious study, its supporters determined to present it again to the spring sitting of the legislature. On 27 April 1953, only two weeks before Monsignor Thériault and the other Halifax priests were due to leave the colony, to be replaced by a team of Resurrectionist Fathers, the petition was presented to both chambers of the legislature. At last agreement was reached at least to refer the petition to a joint select [192]

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committee. That committee, appointed in May 1953, held a number of meetings and was addressed by Monsignor Robert Dehler, who had returned to Bermuda as Apostolic Administrator. In June 1954 a divided committee presented a majority report rejecting the petition on the grounds that its acceptance could leave the educational system 'splintered and diversified', while the minority report, stopping short of endorsing the blanket exemption from the School Act which had been requested, recommended that the petition be granted for a school at Warwick and a second at Hamilton. Seventeen of thirty-one members present spoke in the debate, which ended with the majority report being accepted by a vote of twenty-two to nine.51 No record exists of any further appeal by the Roman Catholic community. After nearly twenty years of seemingly fruitless effort, it may have seemed futile to continue the struggle.To this day the only recognised denominational schools in Bermuda are Mount St Agnes Academy and the Seventh-Day Adventist school. In the 1970s, when Black Muslims sought permission to open a school, ironically, on the former site of Mount St Agnes, only the Roman Catholic Church supported its unsuccessful efforts.52 St Anthony's School continued to operate as an annex to Mount St Agnes Academy until the school's major physical expansion in the 1960s, while coloured Catholics were first accepted for admission to the Academy in 1961.53 Any analysis of the failure of the Church's effort to establish denominational schools must consider not only the arguments which were presented publicly by government officials for their opposition but also the racial and religious intolerance which permeated Bermudian politics during the period and the divisions among the supporters of the Church's position. The refusal of the various branches of the Bermuda government to tolerate the opening of further denominational schools was based, according to its official responses at various times, on the fears that a denominational school system would create divisions in the community by segregating students along denominational lines, encourage a proliferation of small and inadequate private schools, and undermine the efforts of the government to develop a public school system. At no point, however, were government spokesmen able to cite specific evidence to lend credibility to their objections. Bermudian schools, during the period under study, were already divided into three categories: 'vested schools', which were essentially private schools which received substantial operating grants from the state; 'non-vested schools', which were completely owned and operated by the government; and 'non-aided schools', like Mount St Agnes, which were conducted privately and received no public assistance. Until 1949 all schools charged [193]

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tuition fees, and those fees helped maintained clear class divisions among schools. Furthermore, all Bermudian schools were segregated by race until the 1960s, and some were segregated by sex. Indeed, it appears that religious belief may have been the only characteristic which government deemed inappropriate as a basis for dividing pupils. The fear that a growing number of religious denominations and sects in Bermuda would soon demand the right to establish their own denominational schools would have sounded persuasive to anyone unfamiliar with the local situation. Following the passage of the School Act in 1926 only the Seventh-Day Adventist Church had requested permission to establish a denominational school. Most of the smaller denominations had neither the money nor a pool of qualified teachers to enable them to establish schools that would meet Board of Education standards. So small was the likelihood of the government's fear of a rapid growth of competing confessional schools that the Church of England, early in the 1950s, made a pro-forma application to open a denominational school, without any clear intention of so doing, only in order to lend credibility to government arguments.54 Finally, the fear that the opening of Catholic schools might undermine the development of a public school system was plausible in the abstract. As the children of the colony's élite had long been educated in private schools in Bermuda or abroad, little attention had been given historically to public education. A rapid rise in population after the Second World War increased the pressure on especially the small, underfunded, often unsanitary non-vested schools. One could imagine that Roman Catholics, for example, having secured and agreed to maintain their own schools, would be indifferent or hostile to efforts to spend public money on schooling for other children. There is no evidence, however, to support this belief, and it seems far more likely that the government feared that their educational efforts would be shown wanting in comparison with the proposed schools. For example, the Board of Education had only begun to formulate plans for expanding educational services at Warwick, while Monsignor Thériault and the St Anthony's School Guild had, in less than a year, prepared a school for operation which would have far exceeded the public standard. Were there, then, hidden reasons which underlay the intransigence of the government of Bermuda on this issue? Statements during and after the events under study suggest that mistrust and fear of the Roman Catholic Church as an institution played a major rôle in the official response to the various petitions for schools. Secondly, hostility toward coloured and Portuguese-speaking people, for whom at least the first schools were intended, is evident in government policy. Finally, a developing siege mentality on the part of the islands' élite, one which is [194]

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less obviously but undeniably still present, dictated that public institutions in such sensitive areas as education should, as far as possible, be controlled by the government, which remained firmly in the hands of that élite. To some extent, of course, local and personal politics influenced the course of events. The Chairman of the Board of Education until 1947 was the determinedly anti-Catholic Sir John Cox, who, upon moving to the powerful post of Speaker of the House of Assembly, passed the Board chairmanship to a relative, Hereward Watlington. Not only had Cox's brother, William, an ordained minister of the Church of England, scandalised the family by converting to Roman Catholicism and being ordained as a priest in that Church,55but the property at Warwick, which the Roman Catholic Church had purchased for St Anthony's Church and School grounds, had long been coveted by Cox.56 On the other side, the Roman Catholic position was supported by Dr E.F. Gordon, a nominal adherent to the Church, who had roused the hostility of many Bermudians by acquiring the reputation as the colony's chief illegal abortionist and, more seriously, by helping to establish the Bermuda Industrial Union to represent the community's poorest workers.57 On its face, the charge that anti-Catholic bigotry and fear of the Church was a major feature in government educational policy seems questionable. Roman Catholics comprised about 10 per cent of the population of Bermuda in the early 1930s, and while their absolute numbers continued to grow, they remained only about 10 per cent of the population at the final defeat of their educational drive. While the Church claimed some members of social prominence in colonial society, they were few in number and not at all at the core of Bermuda's ruling élite. Certainly a long history of anti-Romanism, rooted perhaps in the essentially Presbyterian religious outlook of the community's earliest settlers, conditioned popular perceptions of the Church, and a relish in fighting repeatedly the intellectual battles of the Reformation is evident in the correspondence pages of local newspapers and in the debates of the House of Assembly during this period. Two factors seem to have contributed to the belief that the Church constituted a growing threat to the community. The first was the adoption of a more militant and aggressive posture on the part of the Roman Catholic authorities, especially Monsignor Thériault. Prior to 1944, while individual priests had spoken out on public issues on occasion, the Roman Catholic mission was not highly visible. It maintained two churches, held relatively little property, tended to accommodate itself to the colony's racial and social mores, and did little active proselytisation. The members of the archdiocesan team which replaced the Resurrectionists in 1944, however, did adopt a more assertive [195]

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posture than their predecessors. They had been sent to Bermuda in part to demonstrate to the Roman authorities that the Archdiocese of Halifax could maintain an effective presence in the colony, promote the growth of the Church, and serve the interests of coloured and Portuguese Catholics more satisfactorily than had been the case to date. Furthermore, they arrived at a point in the colony's history when its demographic and economic character was undergoing major changes. The establishment of two major American military bases during the Second World War, a scramble for property by expatriate Britons and Americans after the war, and economic transformation of the colony from an essentially agricultural, fishing and trading economy to one based almost exclusively on tourism and service presented a challenge to the traditional élite. The second factor which aroused suspicion of the Catholic Church was its growth in size and wealth in relation to the established Church. From 1944 to 1953 the Church not only acquired more members, it acquired substantially more property, opened four new churches or chapels, and did so without a crushing burden of debt. On the other hand, the Established Church of England, while still claiming the largest membership and the most property in the colony, was not growing. The Catholic Church was gaining adherents in the white community at the expense of the Established Church, while the latter's coloured communicants were abandoning it for the AME Church or other evangelical sects. Finally, the establishment by Monsignor Thériault of a weekly newspaper, the first regular series of religious broadcasts in the colony, a new organisations for young people, major public fund-raising activities, and his own vocal and militant defence of the educational rights of religious minorities, opposition to population control proposals, and advocacy of the rights of immigrant workers gave the Roman Catholic mission an image of aggressiveness. Those who believed already that papism was but a sinister conspiracy to undermine and enslave other Christians saw the physical effects of its growth. To allow Roman Catholics additional schools, then, would not only contribute to the solidification of those gains and provide a base for possible proselytisation in the future.58 The issues of race and class, too, permeated consideration of the school question. The efforts to establish new Catholic schools were aimed at providing religious instruction and improved educational opportunities to coloured, Portuguese and poor white Catholics who were barred, either by segregationist admissions policies or by lack of money, from Mount St Agnes Academy. While it would not have been likely that new Catholic schools for these children would have been as fully endowed as the Academy, they would have offered better accom[196]

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modation and a higher quality of teaching than would have been provided in public schools. Indeed, during the 1930s, the Governor, Sir Reginald J.T. Hildyard, indicated to Catholic authorities that approval of private schools to serve these disadvantaged groups would have provided them with greater prestige than was desirable for the social relations of the community.59 The Sisters of Charity had not challenged the social and racial customs of the colony - their school was providing subsidised and high-quality education for many white, non-Catholic children who could not have obtained comparable schooling elsewhere. The proposed new schools, while to be conducted at least initially by the same Sisters, were to be owned and operated either by the Church or by private groups reflecting the wishes of the Church and the parents of the children. Furthermore, not only had the Archbishops of Halifax attacked the segregationist character of Bermudian society, but the mission under Monsignor Thériault went further than ever before in attempting to promote the interests of non-white and Portuguese Catholics and to integrate religious services and social organisations. In short, while Theriault eventually agreed to accept, under some protest, demands coming in part also from white Catholics for segregated schools, government authorities obviously could not and did not fully trust the Church in matters of racial policy. Ironically, several coloured members of the House of Assembly who voted repeatedly against the various school petitions claimed to have done so in protest against the Church's acceptance of the government's insistence on racially segregated schools. To what extent such sentiments were sincere is questionable, since no one doubted for a moment that demanding the right to open schools to all races would have doomed any chance of success from the outset. It appears to be the case, rather, that most of the non-white supporters of the Church's stand, and indeed most coloured Bermudian Catholics, were of West Indian background, while Bermudian coloureds tended to be opposed.60 Despite the fact that the Church was making greater inroads in the white than the non-white communities, no doubt the coloured Churches, too, feared the rivalry of a growing, increasingly wealthy Church with clear missionary intention among their members. Finally, although the Bermudian government was unwilling or unable to provide sufficient or satisfactory school places for all children required by the colony's compulsory attendance law to attend school, neither was it eager to see schools conducted by any groups which might act independently of government. Even though the petitions for Roman Catholic schools originated with Bermudian Catholics, a traditional suspicion of Catholics being agents of a foreign prince, that is, the Pope, contributed to the reluctance of the Bermudian élite to acquiesce quietly [197]

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in any extension of Catholic power or privilege in the colony. Fear was expressed openly that new Roman Catholic schools would be controlled, ultimately, from outside Bermuda. Whether officials foresaw conflict with authorities in Halifax or Rome is not clear, but with a growing population, especially among non-whites, a rising tide of both racial and class discontent, and greater international visibility as a result of post-war economic changes, the Bermudian élite sought to control, as far as possible, the pace and direction of social change, in part through expanded control of the educational system. The drive to build new schools, the removal of school fees for elementary students, and pressure put on parents to send their children to public schools rather than independent non-aided schools reflect a new commitment to use schools as agents of social control in the colony. Schools which would not be dependent upon government assistance, which could call upon potentially vast external resources should it be deemed necessary to do so, and whose existence would constitute a viable and attractive alternative to government schools, especially for the poor, could well be seen as potentially subversive of social unity, at least of the distorted vision of social unity of the islands' political oligarchy. Similar concers surrounded debate over the grant of permission to Seventh-Day Adventists to reopen their school at Southampton in 1942, but during the post-war period that group was refused permission to build additional schools or even to move from its existing site.61 It is unlikely that any course of action which might have been pursued by the Church could have produced its desired outcome. During Monsignor Comeau's time, quiet and accommodating persuasion failed to win permission for Catholic schools. While Monsignor Thériault was able repeatedly to outpoint his opponents in various public fora, his arguments failed to persuade either the Board of Education to change its policies or the House of Assembly to exempt the Church from them. Various strategies discussed but never adopted seem no more likely to have been successful. Thériault's plan to appeal to the British government would probably only have irritated his Bermudian opponents without effecting any change. The quiet contacts with the Secretary of State for the Colonies through the Apostolic Delegates for Canada and Great Britain produced only calculated diplomatic obtuseness from London.62 The British appear to have been very reluctant to interfere with Bermuda's internal self-government. Similarly, an appeal to the United Nations Committee on Human Rights would have had great potential for embarrassing the British government, especially as Western governments and journalists were attacking Eastern European governments for their hostility toward independent or religious schools, but it is unlikely that the United Nations would have been able to take [198]

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any effective action on the issue. Proposals to discourage tourism to Bermuda and to blacken the colony's image in the British and, especially, the North American press were discussed and even hinted at publicly,63 but such actions would have seemed to confirm anti-Catholic charges that the Church was a dangerous and disruptive element in the community, antagonised friendly or neutral parties, and had a negative economic impact upon the very citizens for whom the school fight was being waged. Finally, it had been suggested by both supporters and opponents of the Catholic position that Mount St Agnes Academy be used to challenge the educational status quo by denying places to non-Catholic students and admit in their place any Catholic students who wished to attend.64 Mount St Agnes was owned at the time however, not by the Roman Catholic Episcopal Corporation of Bermuda, nor by the Archdiocese of Halifax, but by the Sisters of Charity. That order had, less than a century earlier, been involved in a fierce and bitter battle for survival against a hostile Archbishop of Halifax,65 and objected to interference on the part of the local Church in its affairs. Perhaps they believed that they served that Catholic cause in the colony better by their quiet service to nonCatholic families than by severing those contacts to serve only the relatively uninfluential Catholic minority. Perhaps they feared that becoming too closely aligned with Monsignor Thériault's challenge to authority would lead to restrictions on their school or possibly to its closure by the Board of Education. In any event, Thériault often found them reluctant partners,66 and the reluctance to integrate more closely the students of St Anthony's School, in the old Rectory across the street from the Academy, into the life of Mount St Agnes during the years of its operation as a so-called annex to the main school supports his suspicion that they were more concerned with the affairs of their own school than with the overall advancement of Catholic education in Bermuda.67 The different parties to this dispute believed, with some justification, that their opponents did not or would not understand their positions. The Catholic petitioners were, perhaps naively, shocked that they would be the only subjects of the British Crown forbidden by law to establish Catholic schools at their own expense. The Canadian clergy who served the islands were generally not well prepared to work in the peculiar political and social climate of Bermuda. Objections to what seemed to them clear cases of religious or racial discrimination were met most often with claims that they did not understand the delicate demographic and ecological balance which prevailed in the tiny colony or with the demand that, if they were dissatisfied with the laws or customs of a community which had governed itself for over three [199]

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hundred years, they should leave. It is likely that, had any of the petitions for Catholic schools been granted, neither the hopes of their advocates nor the fears of their opponents would have been realised. Within ten years of the failure of the last petition, the Roman Catholic Church was about to begin a long period of introspection from which it has yet to emerge and which has led to a dramatic decline in the importance of formal education in the Church's mission. At the same time, Bermuda's oligarchic political and economic structure and rigid code of racial segregation was beginning to unravel. The events surrounding the failed attempts to establish Catholic schools in Bermuda, then, are perhaps most important as illustrations of the nature of the politics of both a unique small society and the proconciliar Roman Catholic Church, of the deep cleavage of cultural assumptions among North American British subjects, whose common language, heritage, parliamentary system and extensive commercial, social and military contact tended to mask them, and the importance placed historically on education and schooling as instruments for cultural expression and social control.

Notes 1 John M.McCarthy, Bermuda's Priests, Quebec, P. Larose, 1954, pp. 8–9. 2 See Robert Nicolas Bérard, The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Halifax and the Colony of Bermuda, 1832–1953', Collections of the Royal Nova Scotia Historical Society, Vol. 42, 1986, pp. 121–2. 3 Sr Jean de Chantal Kennedy, Mother Mary Cleophas: A Study in Humility, Bermuda, Mount St Agnes Academy, 1969, pp. 75–8. 4 See Sr K. Fay Trombley, Thomas Louis Connolly [1815–76], the Man and His Place in Secular and Ecclesiastical History, Louvain, Catholic University of Louvain, 1983, pp. 327–33. 5 Kennedy, Mother Mary Cleophas, pp. 32–3. 6 Ibid., p. 40. 7 'Bermuda' file, Archives of the Sisters of Charity, Halifax, Nova Scotia (hereafter ASCH). 8 Clarence Terceira, The Portuguese in Bermuda, 1849–1900', unpublished paper delivered to the Bermuda-Canada 1609–1984 Conference, Bermuda College, Paget, Bermuda, 24 February 1984. 9 Sr Jean de Chantal Kennedy, 'Assignment in sub-tropica: an account of the founding of Mount St Agnes Academy', unpublished mss (ASCH). 10 McCarthy, Bermuda's Priests, p. 106. 11 Interview with Mgr J. Nil Theriault, 19 January 1984, Halifax, Nova Scotia. 12 3 October 1910,1. D. Comeau to Edward McCarthy, Archbishop J. T. McNally Papers, Archives of the Archdiocese of Halifax, Nova Scotia (hereafter AAH), f. 2592. 13 13 November 1930, Richard Pittini to I. D. Comeau, Archbishop Thomas O'Donnell Papers (AAH), f. 57. 14 See Eva Hodgson, Second Class Citizens, First Class Men, Bermuda, Amalgamated Bermuda Union of Teachers, [1967], passim. 15 In 1931, for example, FrI.D. Comeau failed to secure a dispensation to allow a marriage of first cousins in an area where nearly all Portuguese Catholics were related. 26

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16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

February 1931,1. D. Comeau to Thomas Curran, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2601. A year earlier Fr Basil Martin had sought unsuccesfully to set aside diocesan rules which required marriages to be solemnised only at nuptial masses, which had to be celebrated in the morning, to accommodate the West Indian custom of afternoon marriages. 6 August 1930, Basil Martin to Thomas Curran, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2598. 19 March 1934. T. O'Donnell to I. D. Comeau, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2624. 8 June 1934, J. H. Dwyer to T. O'Donnell, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2624. 7 June 1935, B. Martin to T. O'Donnell, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2638. 20 June 1934, B. Martin to T. O'Donnell, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2627. See the Royal Gazette, Hamilton, Bermuda, 20 September 1947. 'Summary of the Catholic school question in Bermuda [1950]', McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2634. See, for example, 'Somers College', Bermudian Magazine, August 1930, p. 16. 11 June 1935, T. O'Donnell to I. D. Comeau, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2634. 7 June 1935, B. Martin to T. O'Donnell, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2638. See Hodgson, Second Class Citizens, pp. 128–9, and Graeme S. Mount, 'Atlantic Canada: unwitting midwife at the birth of a Bermudian denomination', unpublished paper given at the Bermuda-Canada, 1609–1984 Conference, Bermuda College, Paget, Bermuda, 23 February 1984. See Henry C. Wilkinson, 'Dowding's College', Bermuda Historical Quarterly, Vol. 20, No. 2, 1963, pp. 44–51. 'Summary of the Catholic school question [1950]', pp. 1–2. Ibid., p. 2. Ibid., pp. 2–3. Bérard, 'The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Halifax', p. 129. 27 August 1944, J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, J. N. Thériault Papers, Archives of the Diocese of Hamilton in Bermuda (hereafter ADHB). 18 January 1945, J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2680. Nellie Musson, The Missing Mr. Read: The Story of Bermuda's Adventists, Bermuda, privately published, 1984, pp. 149–55. The Bulletin, Hamilton, Bermuda, 17 August 1947. The Recorder, Hamilton, Bermuda, 27 August 1947. 15 August 1947, W. P. Mayne to T. Stroje, Theriault Ps (ADHB). Royal Gazette, 13 September 1947. Mid-Ocean News, Hamilton, Bermuda, 19 September 1947. Sr Alice Walker, 'St Anthony's School', unpublished mss (ASCH). 'Summary of the Catholic school question [1950]', pp. 6–7. On 14 September 1947, for example. Thériault used the broadcast to charge that the Board of Education's exercise of its powers 'smells more of fascism than Il Duce's boots'. The Bulletin, 21 September 1947. The Bulletin, 18 June 1950. Royal Gazette, 13 June 1950. The Bulletin, 18 June 1950. Bérard, 'The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Halifax', p. 133. J. Brian Hanington, Every Popish Person: The Story of Roman Catholicism in Nova Scotia and the Church of Halifax, Halifax, Archdiocese of Halifax, 1984, pp. 212-19. 13 September 1950, J. T.McNally to J. N. Thériault, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2704. 17 August 1950, J. N. Thériault to I. Antoniutti, Theriault Ps (ADHB). The Recorder, 14 August 1952. Mid-Ocean News, 2 December 1952. Royal Gazette, 15 June 1954. Interview with Bishop Brian Hennessy CR, 22 March 1987. Bishop R. S. Dehler, 'Annals of the Prefecture of Bermuda', unpublished mss (ADHB), p. 42. Only Catholic coloured children were to be admitted and only in the first two grades. Integration would then move gradually up through the school. Royal Gazette, 22 November 1952. Fr Cox served until his death in 1953 as a priest in the Diocese of Charleston, South

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56 57 58 59 60

61

62

63

64

65 66

67

Carolina. His bequest of the bulk of his estate to the Catholic Church in Bermuda for the construction of a church, recreation ground and school for coloured children was contested by the family and ultimately overturned by the colony's High Court. 3 August 1945, J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, McNally Ps (AAH), Thériault later characterised Cox as 'an evil genius whose attitude is mostly responsible for our miseries'. 16 May 1948, J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2693. Interview with Mr D. J. Williams (former Director of Education), 20 March 1987. See Hodgson, Second Class Citizens, passim. Mid-Ocean News, 2 December 1952. See 28 April 1951, J. McNally to I. Antoniutti, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2713h. Royal Gazette, 10 June 1950; Mid-Ocean News, 17 June 1954. See also Frank Manning. 'The black experience in Bermuda and Canada: ethnicity, culture and immigration', unpublished paper given at the Bermuda–Canada 1609–1984 conference, Bermuda College, Paget, Bermuda, 24 February 1984, in which he outlines the historical rivalry between 'Onions' (coloured Bermudians) and 'Jump-ups' (West Indians). Musson, The Missing Mr Read, p. 155. A member of the colonial legislature, Mr George Williams, feared that granting permission to open schools to a 'rich and powerful organization' like the Catholic Church would lead to an aggressive campaign to open a network of schools which would 'solicit the attendance of all children' and would aim, ultimately, at their conversion. Royal Gazette, 10 June 1950. A comprehensive memorandum on the school question prepared by Monsignor Thériault was forwarded by the Apostolic Delegate to the Colonial Office. Colonial Secretary Alan Lennox-Boyd's reply merely parroted the line of the Bermudian government that the School Act of 1926 and its interpretation were not aimed at Roman Catholic schools in particular. 8 April 1952,1. Antoniutti to J. N. Thériault, Thériault Ps (ADHB). The Catholic weekly, the Bulletin, ran a letter in 1947 from Canadian resident Max Rupp of Montreal, indicating that he had shown several friends copies of Monsignor Thériault's statements on the school question. Rupp claimed that 'they have a good notion to make a big noise about your problem. Some of our regular Bermuda vacationists may well take such steps as might be distasteful to the officials of your Tourist Bureau down there.' Clippings File (ADHB). In September, Thériault asked in a major article in the Bulletin, 'What sort of reading will the story of the stubborn antagonism displayed here . . . make with the 22,000,000 American Catholics, 5,000,000 Canadian Catholics, and 2½ million English Catholics?' The Bulletin, 21 September 1947, p. 4. The Royal Gazette asked rhetorically how the Colony would cope with a decision to expel the 450 non-Catholic children at Mount St Agnes Academy (26 September 1947). Monsignor Thériault complained four years later that the Sisters were turning down all new applicants and were maintaining a waiting list of over seventy names, nearly all Catholic, for places at the Academy, while nearly three-quarters of their student body was non-Catholic. J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, 6 September 1951, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 1946. Hannington, Every Popish Person, pp. 140–9. When Thériault decided to challenge the government's prohibition on private education, he expressed doubts about the support of the Sisters of Charity: 'Now the Sisters are getting cold feet: they feel it is better for them to keep out of it completely.' 16 May 1948, J. N. Thériault to J. T. McNally, McNally Ps (AAH), f. 2693. 28 January 1949, J. N.Thériault to J. T. McNally, Theriault Ps (ADHB). A correspondent to the coloured newspaper, the Recorder, attacked the Sisters for having 'slurred the coloured people in the Colony' for years, noting that the failure of earlier attempts by the order to provide schooling for non-whites was due to their having 'the stamp for so-called inferiors'. The Recorder, 23 August 1947.

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CHAPTER TEN

Examinations and Empire: the Cambridge Certificate in the colonies, 1857–1957 A. J. Stockwell

The history of school examinations is usually told in the context of educational developments at home or domestic administrative needs rather than with reference to imperial management. However, during the century from 1857 to 1957, the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES) emerged in the colonies as the most prominent body awarding school-leaving certificates which became the passport to local employment in government, commerce and the professions. This chapter starts with an account of the foundation and growth of UCLES in the UK and then proceeds to survey the expansion and pioneering problems of the Syndicate overseas. During the inter-war period there was a reassessment of UCLES's colonial rôle and guidelines were set regarding the adjustment of examinations to local conditions and regarding liaison with educational authorities in the colonies, the Colonial Office and other examining boards in the UK. The educational expectations raised in the 1940s and 1950s meant that, as decolonisation approached, the Syndicate was playing a larger rôle than ever in Africa, Asia and the Caribbean. Neither Cambridge nor the schools examination system are immediately resonant of imperialism. Apart from references to notable individuals like Nehru and Smuts, to graduate recruits to the Indian Civil Service (ICS) and various colonial civil services, to the missionary products of theological colleges or to Andrew Cohen's summer school on African administration in August 1947, Cambridge usually gives place to Oxford and London when the relationship between British universities and the Empire is discussed.1 Similarly, the history of school examinations is usually told against the backdrops of wider educational developments and the periodic reform of the Home Civil Service rather than in the context of imperial management.2 Nevertheless, during Britain's imperial century between the Indian Mutiny and [203]

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the achievement of independence by Ghana and Malaya, the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES) was the most prominent body awarding school-leaving certificates in the colonies, while in the post-colonial era UCLES has adapted to circumstances, entering into partnership with independent examining authorities and offering a range of consultancy and training services in Africa, Asia and the Caribbean.

UCLES at home During the period between 1853, the year of the Northcote-Trevelyan Report on the Civil Service, and 1870, which saw both the introduction of open competition into the Home Civil Service and the Forster Education Act, boards for the conduct of public examinations were formed by the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge, Durham and London. On 4 June 1857, following the lead of Oxford and in response to petitions from schoolmasters anxious to improve the efficiency of 'middle-class education', the Senate of Cambridge University appointed Syndics to consider the question of establishing a system of examinations, and on 11 February 1858 Senate approved their recommendations for a scheme to examine students not belonging to the University, to hold examinations either at Cambridge or elsewhere (hence the term 'Local Examinations'), and to award certificates to those who passed with proficiency. Regulations were issued on 25 March and in December the first examinations were written by 370 candidates, of whom 73 (being over sixteen years of age) took the Senior examination and the rest sat the Junior.3 Women were admitted to examinations in 1865 and in 1869 the Higher Level Examination was devised for women over eighteen. In 1895 the Preliminary Examination was started. The system of public examinations for English schools was remodelled in the inter-war years: the Preliminary was discontinued in 1920, the Junior was abolished in 1939, and in 1923 the Senior Local and Higher Local were replaced by the School and Higher School Certificates. Until 1951 all examinations were 'certificate examinations', that is to say, successful candidates were those who satisfied examiners in a range of subjects classified in groups. In 1951, however, the GCE was introduced as a 'subject examination' by the newly constituted Secondary Schools Examinations Council, upon which the Minister of Education had conferred considerable powers. The GCE Ordinary and Advanced Levels were the lineal descendants, through the School and Higher School Certificates, of the Senior and Higher Local examinations.4 Originally called the Cambridge Local Examinations and Lectures [204]

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Syndicate, the seat of UCLES's operations was for many years a don's college rooms. By the end of 1874 business had increased to the extent that the Secretary, a Fellow of St Catharine's, was obliged to seek more spacious accommodation in college and his UCLES stipend was raised from £400 to £600 (while the Clerk's annual salary stood at £60).5 The secretariat acquired permanent premises in Mill Lane in 1895 whence it moved to its present site on the corner of Hills Road and Harvey Road in the 1950s. The Syndics, chaired by the Vice-Chancellor, met at regular intervals. The terse entries in the Minute Books of the early years mention matters that were to become routine as the organisation took root, such as amendments and additions to syllabuses. In May 1882, for example, a new group of Historical Subjects was formed to be called Group H and to comprise (1) General English History, (2) the Constitutional History of England to 1760, and (3) the General History of one of the Western states of Europe. Candidates were required to sit at least paper (1) and one other or to take all three if they wished to be considered for a 'first class'.6 Then there were matters related to the appointment of examiners and the principles governing their fees and expenses. In February 1873 the Syndics confirmed existing practice by which examiners were paid according to the poundage of their allocation: 'The papers of answers sent to each Examiner are weighed, and the fee is calculated from year to year according to the weight and the relative difficulty of examining answers in different subjects.' This formula distributed rewards as follows: arithmetic 9s 6d per lb, history 12s per lb, and classics 18s per lb.7 Historians may be gratified to learn that fourteen years later: It was agreed that in the case of subjects such as History, where the amount written by the candidates in answer to the questions appears to have increased considerably, some addition to the fee as calculated on the scale might properly be made.8

When Mr Finlaison's bill for personal expenses was laid before the Syndics on 24 October 1876, it was decided 'to disallow a charge of 15/ - for cabs in Southport, and to allow 16/6 a day for hotel expenses'.9 On the credit side of the Syndicate's balance sheet, the Vice-Chancellor would periodically report, and seek discretion in the investment of, a healthy financial surplus. Another area that needed to be regulated was the conduct of examinations at the growing number of centres. Cases of suspected dishonesty and abusive language soon cropped up. One conscience-stricken certificate-holder wrote in with a confession of cheating several years after the event and the Syndics decided to downgrade rather than annul the certificate that had originally been awarded. In an instance where [205]

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examiners had rejected a girl for 'a gross impropriety', the Syndics concluded that, since 'the impropriety might have been unconscious', she should be allowed her certificate.10 At their meeting on 22 February 1888 a considerable number of letters and postcards from a Mr Gregory of Southport were read and, because some contained 'abusive language', the Syndics asked the secretary to consult a lawyer on whether they had 'the legal right to refuse to admit Mr. Gregory to further Examinations'. At their next meeting they agreed to let him enter provided he withdrew his 'offensive' remarks and refrained from similar communications in the future.11 Applications for the establishment of new centres are dealt with ad hoc in the Minute Books. A clearer picture of the expansion of the Syndicate's catchment is derived from the Annual Reports. The first examination in December 1858 was, as we have seen, taken by 370 candidates; in 1877 there were approximately sixty schools, eighty boys' centres and seventy girls' centres in the UCLES network; by 1957 the entry topped 120,000.

Expansion of UCLES overseas to 1918 Although the Oxford Delegacy and the Oxford and Cambridge Board operated overseas and London exported its Matriculation Examination and External Degree, UCLES won the lion's share of the imperial market. The first record of colonial interest in the Syndicate's exams is a cryptic minute of a meeting held on 11 December 1862: The Vice-Chancellor read a letter begging for some extension of University action to schools in the Colonies: the Syndicate seemed to consider that the difficulties in the way of such extension were insurmountable.12

Be that as it may, ten candidates from Trinidad sat the 1863 examination. In November 1869 a request for examinations in Natal was received from HM Inspector of Schools South Africa. Again the Syndicate responded cautiously; it was not until the following October that it was determined 'to extend the Local Examination to Natal'. 13 Thereafter, a steady trickle of applications from overseas was approved year by year: from the Rector of the Royal College, Mauritius (1873); Wellington, New Zealand, and Georgetown, Demerara (1874–5); the Straits Settlements (1891); and Jamaica, where the Locals were first held in 1882 and the Higher Local ten years later. Although the Minute Books do not provide an exhaustive list of new centres, it is clear that India and Ceylon were major customers, while outposts were scattered throughout the tropics. During the 1890s, the decade of 'constructive [206]

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colonialism', there was a surge of overseas interest; in 1898 some 1,220 colonial candidates at thirty-six centres wrote Cambridge examinations. The Cambridge Review celebrated this expansion in verse: Though Roman legions ruled the world, Though Britain's thunderbolts are hurled At monarchs in Ashanti plains; The Locals Syndicate preside O'er realms more gloriously wide, Broad as the sky are their domains Black babes or yellow, brown or white, Cram manuals from morn to night.. .14 Its influence spread beyond the Empire too; there were requests for a lecture course in Valparaiso (1884), for a contribution to an educational exhibition in Osaka (1904) and for examination centres in Shanghai (and elsewhere in China), Argentina (1917) and Constantinople (1923). The first half-century of UCLES's overseas expansion is punctuated by crises associated with the tyranny of distance and the turbulent frontier. The late arrival of New Zealand scripts delayed the payment of all who examined the December 1875 session until well into the following year. Although examinations were reported to have been held in the Gold Coast in December 1897, no scripts had arrived in England by March 1898 and the Syndicate proceeded to issue the colonial class list without the Gold Coast entries. Then, the following month, the Crown Agents received a package and an explanatory letter from the Acting Colonial Secretary of the Gold Coast: In explanation of the non-transmission of the examination papers, I am directed to inform you that at the time the exam, was held, Mr. Brown, the Acting Director of Education, was seriously ill and incapable of presiding (He died on 21 December); the Revd. A.T. Pallister, M.A., Acting Colonial Chaplain, was therefore directed to conduct the examination, which he did. He, however, also died very shortly after and on enquiry being made as to the whereabouts of the examination papers no trace of them could be found nor could any information be obtained as to whether they had been already forwarded to Dr. Keynes [Secretary to UCLES] or not. On receipt of your telegram all hope of finding the papers had been given up and my telegram of this morning was sent to you; however, this afternoon, in searching about for another paper the Clerk to the Acting Chaplain accidentally found a key put away among a heap of papers in a pigeon hole. This key opened a box in which Mr. Davies, Colonial Chaplain, used to keep some of the Church things and there the missing papers were found.15

In May 1875 it was agreed to prepare the December question papers before the end of the summer term so that parcels could be despatched in September or early October. However, although it was vital to enforce [207]

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a common examination timetable for both home and colonial centres, sometimes alterations were unavoidable. In 1898 the start of 'the Cambridge week' in the Mauritius was postponed from 17 to 27 December because the steamer carrying the question papers had been delayed. This mishap encouraged an anonymous mischief-maker to lodge the 'wildly improbable' charge that in the interim two papers had been cabled to a Mauritian candidate from another centre.16 In October 1911 the examination schedule for December had to be revised on account of public holidays declared in India during the Royal Durbar in New Delhi. The entry forms for the December 1915 examinations in Jamaica were lost when the steamer carrying them, aptly named the Candidate, was torpedoed, and scripts from West Africa were lost after that same examination when the SS Appam was captured by the Germans. On hearing this news the Syndics resolved to repay candidates their fees should their scripts not reach Cambridge! Wartime dislocation affected the distribution of question papers for December 1917 with the result that the Syndics agreed to reimburse those colonial centres which had failed to receive papers in time for the examination. Sometimes earthquakes, in Jamaica in 1926, or hurricanes, as in Nassau in 1928, impeded preparations for 'Cambridge week'; but usually the show went on. The reputation of the examinations system depended in large measure upon the probity of local supervisors and secretaries. When the Syndicate approved the application from a Congregationalist minister in Demerara for a centre in Georgetown they placed the management of the examination 'in the hands of Graduates of Cambridge resident there'.17 Forty years later the local secretary in Georgetown was faced with an awkward problem: a certain Mr E.B. Hazlewood, who had been dismissed from the colony's Primary Education Department 'for immorality with seduction of one of his girl pupil teachers ' , had nonetheless set up his own Collegiate School with the intention of entering students as official candidates for Cambridge examinations. The local secretary reported that he had explained to Hazlewood that the pupils of the Collegiate School could write the examinations only if they entered as private candidates and that, in taking this line, he had secured the support of the colonial authorities.18 Indeed, in mounting their examinations overseas the Syndicate relied upon colonial recognition and assistance. The very first examination of colonial students in Trinidad (1863) was made possible partly 'by the great assistance rendered by the Governor of the Colony, and the gentleman he appointed to superintend the examination; and partly by the courtesy of his Grace the Secretary of State for the Colonies, the Duke of Newcastle, who permitted the Examination papers to be sent in sealed parcels to the Governor through the Colonial Office'.19 [208]

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As colonial administrations grew more sophisticated and acquired a departmental structure, so UCLES dealt directly with departments of education and came to rely upon these to process entries from the dependencies; for example, in May 1905, while the Syndics did not themselves feel in a position to ban all private candidates from entering exams, they informed the Director of Public Instruction in Ceylon that they would accept only those students who were recommended to Cambridge by his Department. A similar ruling was despatched to the Director of Public Instruction, Bombay, in October the following year.20 When the Ceylon Social Reform Society wrote direct to UCLES requesting the recognition of the Tamil and Sinhalese languages in Local examinations in order to resuscitate decaying oriental learning, the Syndicate were sympathetic but sought the advice of the Director of Public Instruction and, in any case, insisted that the Ceylon Social Reform Society should petition Cambridge through the government department in Colombo. In this particular case, the Director of Public Instruction favoured the proposal since the addition of Tamil and Sinhalese to the syllabus 'would undoubtedly be a great help towards the solution of educational difficulties here in Ceylon', but he lacked confidence in the neutrality of the local official who would be called upon to administer the scheme.21 On this occasion the Syndics regretted that 'for practical reasons' they could not comply with the Society's wish, although, as we shall see, twelve years later in 1918 they did decide to include Sinhalese and Tamil in the Junior and Senior examinations for Ceylon. Colonial governments, for their part, came to esteem the Cambridge Local Examinations. When asked to investigate allegations of cheating during the session of December 1898, the Governor of Mauritius, Sir Charles Bruce, who had in his time been Professor of Sanskrit at King's College London, Rector of Royal College Mauritius and Director of Public Instruction Ceylon, wrote to the Secretary of State: The Syndicate are quite right in thinking that I am much interested in the development of their system of local examinations, a system which I introduced in Mauritius and Ceylon, and did my best to encourage in the West Indies. I should consider it nothing less than a public calamity were anything to occur to weaken the confidence, felt in the Colonies, in the system.22

On the whole, governments welcomed the improvement of English education which external examinations stimulated and, for as long as demand for them outstripped supply, believed that the 'English school product' fulfilled a useful rôle in colonial society. The 'Cambridge certificate' was recognised as a passport to employment in government and commerce. In the Federated Malay States, for example, the qualifi[209]

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cation for a probationership in the Malay Administrative Service (which consisted of Malays and ranked well below the prestigious Malayan Civil Service, MCS) was raised from a pass in standard VII to the Cambridge Junior certificate in 1921 and, in 1930, to the Senior certificate at a time when the total number of Senior Cambridge holders in the FMS increased from 47 in 1919 to 671 in 1938.23 In addition to their own Local examinations or school-leaving certificates, UCLES also serviced examinations which led to higher education abroad like the Barbados Scholarship, the Jamaica Scholarship and the Queen's Scholarships of Malaya, which were tenable at British universities.

Trusteeship, 1919–1939 Four factors contributed to a reassessment of overseas examinations during the inter-war period. First, developments in the English system parted company from that which had taken root in the dependencies. Although the Preliminary examination was discontinued at home in 1920 it survived in the colonies until 1939, and the Junior, which ended in England in 1939, would last for overseas centres until 1953. Meanwhile, the Senior Local and Higher Local were replaced by the School and Higher School Certificates in 1923. Consequently, concern was expressed in some quarters that steps should be taken to bring the overseas examinations into line with 'modern educational standards' or the principles and practices obtaining in Britain. Secondly, and conversely, there was a renewed commitment in government circles to respect different conditions in each colony and uphold the autonomy of education departments throughout the Empire.24 In 1924 the Secretary of State for the Colonies set up the Advisory Committee on Native Education in the Tropical African Dependencies (reconstituted as the Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies or ACEC in 1928), which included among its members the doyen of 'native administration' in Africa, Sir Frederick (later Lord) Lugard. The government statement on education policy which this committee prepared declared, 'Education should be adapted to the mentality, aptitudes, occupations and traditions of the various peoples, conserving as far as possible all sound and healthy elements in the fabric of their social life.'25 The third factor that had a bearing upon education policy in the colonies during the 1920s and 1930s was the fashionable caricaturisation of the 'educated native' as a miscreant; some certificate-holders certainly became important cogs in the colonial machinery but those with nationalist aspirations could throw spanners in the works. It was [210]

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also argued that the 'uncertificated', and hence 'unemployable' and potentially discontented school-leavers might have been better off with a more practical education.26 Finally in this period we see closer and more formalised relations between the examining boards in the UK and the authorities in London and overseas which were responsible for education policies in the Empire. During the inter-war years considerable thought was given to the problem of striking the right balance between uniformity and variety in school examinations. On the one hand government, commercial and professional bodies valued the Cambridge certificate as an objective, consistent and constant method of assessment; on the other hand, they recognised the importance of adapting both the syllabuses and administration of overseas examinations to non-British cultures. In no case, it was held, should change be allowed to obscure comparability between home and colonial centres. The question of the suitability of the examinations of a UK board to the conditions of a tropical dependency had arisen in Malaya in 1902 when a local commission had observed that many favoured dropping the Cambridge connection because it had led to the cramming of a number of useless subjects by boys who should rather have been preparing themselves for a Malayan career. The commission had concluded, however, that these examinations had resulted in improvements in English education and that internal certification would never carry the same worth as a Cambridge qualification.27 In fact, the Syndicate proved responsive to applications from dependencies for modifications and additions to the Junior and Senior syllabuses, particularly when they emanated from departments of education. Although requests from Ceylon for papers in Tamil and Sinhalese and from Darjeeling for the inclusion of Indian history were turned down in 1906–7, the former were approved for the 1918 examinations while the latter appeared in the School Certificate regulations of 1931. In 1910 the Syndics agreed to add Arabic, Sanskrit and, in response to a submission from the Shanghai centre, Chinese as options instead of Greek. In 1919 Hindi and Urdu were made available to Senior Candidates in India and the next year a proposal from R. O. Winstedt, Director of Education Straits Settlements and Federated Malay States, for the addition of Malay to the Junior and Senior syllabuses was approved. At the same time the requirement for a second European language, such as French or Latin, was dispensed with and exams for Malaya and elsewhere were framed so as to encourage the study of English language, proficiency in which was regarded locally as of supreme importance for students contemplating administrative, business or professional careers. The Syndicate relied on advice from directors of education or from the School of Oriental Studies (SOS), [211]

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London (founded 1917 and renamed the School of Oriental and African Studies in 1938), as regards the appointment of examiners in nonEuropean languages who were both expert and resident in the UK. In 1920, Winstedt, for example, recommended C O . Blagden, ex-MCS and Reader in Malay at SOS, to examine candidates in Malay. Similar adjustments to local interests were made in other fields; in 1916 Cambridge accepted a proposal for a special needlework examination for Ceylon and in 1933 an art syllabus appropriate to the tropics was devised for West Africa. By the end of the 1930s agricultural science and four African vernaculars were on offer to Gold Coast candidates and special botany papers, mentioning only local plants, were being set.28 Indeed, UCLES prided themselves on the 'fact that the adaptation of the Syndicate's examinations to local needs now tends to be due as much to stimulus given on the initiative of the Syndicate as to pressure that might be brought to bear upon the Syndicate by local authorities ' and the Colonial Secretary's Advisory Committee on Education professed themselves to be 'well satisfied with the special efforts made by the Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate to adapt their requirements and syllabuses to local overseas need and conditions'.29 Syllabus reform was associated with fresh thinking on the organisation of overseas examinations. In the inter-war period, when constitutional experiments in the decentralisation of power, or at least of administrative tasks, were occurring in India, Malaya and West Africa, parallel schemes for devolution in the management of colonial examinations were suggested, like proposals to set up local boards charged with conducting and certifying local examinations. The first hint of insecurity in Cambridge's imperial position appears in the Syndicate minutes of 19 February 1919 when correspondence with the India office was discussed: J.W. Holderness of the IO had written to the Vice-Chancellor suggesting that, while the excellence of the Syndicate's record in the sub-continent was incontestable, the practical problems of administering a UK-based examination at some 6,000 miles' distance warranted a reconsideration of their rôle in India. To the relief of the Syndics, however, the government of India decided to retain Cambridge examinations for European schools provided that entries continued to be regulated by the various Indian education departments.30 Essential for the launch of a genuinely local and self-sustaining examinations system was, Whitehall believed, the existence of a local university or some other reputable institution of higher education. In India universities had been founded at Bombay, Calcutta and Madras in 1857 and at Allahabad in 1887, and a dozen more were inaugurated between 1917 and 1927. Colonial Office dependencies were in a much weaker position; Malta's university dated from 1769, in Palestine there was the Hebrew Univer[212]

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sity in Jerusalem, Hong Kong University (founded 1911) was still dependent upon London for the authentication of its degrees, as was the University College at Colombo (1921). Elsewhere, institutions like Prince of Wales College, Achimota (Gold Coast), or Raffles College, Singapore, as yet lacked the staffs large enough to provide examining bodies for English schools. Nevertheless, the criticism by Ormsby-Gore, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary, of the 'distorting and harmful' effects of external examinations upon the educational systems of Ceylon and Malaya triggered discussion within the Colonial Office of the Syndicate's rôle in the tropical dependencies.31 The advantages of external examinations were readily appreciated: first, experience 'particularly in India' suggested that internal examinations allowed local influence to lower standards; secondly, it was believed that local amour propre was fed by association with a distinguished foreign board; and, thirdly, there were few difficulties in achieving adequate recognition of Cambridge qualifications from British universities and professional bodies.32 That said, the Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies, in a memorandum which the Secretary of State circulated to all dependencies in October 1929, suggested that examining bodies and colonial authorities be encouraged to 'explore the possibilities not only of purely local examinations, but of external examinations adapted in syllabus to local conditions, and employing as far as is possible local examiners [author's emphasis]'.33 Meanwhile, UCLES were taking Ormsby-Gore's strictures to heart. For the first time the Minute Book records a formal resolution encapsulating the Syndicate's strategy overseas: Mr Welbourne moved that arrangements should be made, whenever possible, for members of the Syndicate or other members of the University to extend to some important Overseas Centres tours already undertaken in connection with their own work. The importance was stressed of the study of local educational conditions at close quarters, and of thus learning something which might be communicated to the Syndicate as to the special nature of the requirements of such Centres.34

In fact, two alternative co-operative ventures of the kind envisaged by the ACEC were already on the tapis for Nigeria. One, proposed by Nigeria's Principal of Secondary Schools, would involve an examination on a syllabus drawn up locally but marked in the UK; the other was a joint scheme in which some subjects would be dealt with according to the Junior and School Certificate regulations and others by papers set and marked locally. The Syndics insisted that, whatever scheme was eventually chosen, four conditions, which were later to guide post-war localisation programmes, should be observed: (1) all examinations [213]

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should be moderated by Syndicate appointees; (2) locally marked scripts should be revised in the UK; (3) the dependency should meet the Syndicate's overheads; and (4) the Syndicate should retain the authority to recognise and attest certificates. As these discussions with Nigeria were progressing, UCLES approved a special examination in English literature for Malayan schools; this was based on a locally constructed syllabus, marked for the first time in Malaya in 1930 and then revised in England.35 In December 1928 Cambridge entries from overseas were approximately 12,000 and the Syndicate recognised the importance of good relations with the departments of education in the colonies and with the ACEC in London. In 1930–3 UCLES devised a Joint Committee for Overseas Examinations consisting of Syndicate and colonial representatives. The ACEC accepted an invitation to participate, as did nominees put forward by the Directors of Education in Ceylon, Malaya and India. The Joint Committee met for the first time on 16 November 1933.36 Another aspect of co-ordinating examinations overseas came to a head in the mid-1930s, namely, the partition of the examinable Englisheducated world between four major UK boards. Although UCLES had the largest stake in the colonies, the Oxford Delegacy and the Oxford and Cambridge Board also held their Locals abroad, and in 1936 the London University Schools Examinations Council, whose constitution had hitherto prevented it from offering its school examinations overseas, broke into the colonial market. London had, however, already established a reputation in the Empire through its external degrees, to enter which a candidate had first to pass the London Matriculation or gain exemption by securing the required number of credits in the schoolleaving examinations of other boards. London's decision to export its school examinations as well as its external degrees clearly meant that the proven attractions of the latter 'might popularise its school leaving certificate examination to the detriment of the other examining bodies ' . 37 London first raised the matter of overseas school examinations in principle and in particular (it proposed a centre in British Guiana) in April 1934. Perturbed by the prospect of precipitate action on the part of London, the CO convened a conference of representatives from the examining boards and the ACEC with a view to setting up in the UK 'some central body, in touch with overseas education problems and competent to apply general principles to their solution, which would bring local needs and conditions to the attention of examining bodies, and would advise upon measures proposed locally or in this country for meeting such needs'.38 The conference was held at the CO on 5 December 1935 and all appeared to go well; the proposal to constitute a joint advisory [214]

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board was accepted nem. con. UCLES, however, were alarmed by the possibility of 'their domains being invaded by the London University Schools Examinations Council'.39 The Syndicate protested to the CO, contemplated alliance with Oxford and Oxford & Cambridge against 'the common enemy' and refused to participate in the advisory board. However, the Syndicate were eventually persuaded by the CO to attend the first meeting of the Joint Advisory Board for Schools Examinations in the Colonies and Dependencies (chaired by Sir John Shuckburgh, Deputy Under-Secretary at the CO) on 5 June 1936, when it was agreed that the principle guiding the conduct of school-leaving examinations should be 'one Dependency, one examining board'.40 Although UCLES rather sniffily maintained that 'our "effective co-operation" with Oxford is totally unconnected with the Joint Advisory Board for School Examinations', J. Roach (UCLES Assistant Secretary) did perceive a 'new spirit of cooperation' in London's attitude.41 The inter-war assessment of overseas examining coincided with the wider debate about colonial development but, though important guidelines concerning the adaptation of syllabuses and marking to local conditions had been laid, some felt that the changes were as limited and as unsympathetic to non-European needs as the provisions of the Colonial Development Act of 1929. Education in Africa, particularly in East Africa, lagged behind Asia, while throughout the Empire external examinations placed constraints upon secondary education, emphasising English language and restricting it to 'a small class of selected students'.42

Partnership, 1940–1957 Examinations were not immune from wartime dislocation; London's Schools Examinations Council shifted its secretariat to Royal Holloway College, Englefield Green, and UCLES abandoned the School Certificate overseas in July 1940. More significant for the future were two major wartime initiatives. The Asquith Commission on Higher Education in the Colonies, 1943-5, set in train the post-war creation of university colleges which were vital to the provision of self-governing institutions, including local examinations boards, and which stimulated the expansion of English-language secondary schools in the dependencies.43 The Butler Education Act of 1944, and particularly the provisions raising the school-leaving age to fifteen and dividing secondary education between grammar, technical and modern schools, also had implications for the Empire. In January 1948 a subcommittee of the ACEC was formed under [215]

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W.E.F. Ward, Deputy Education Adviser at the CO. Its task was to consult with colonial educationalists and formulate general ideas on secondary education in the colonies. There was concern, first, 'that virtually all secondary education at present in the Colonies is of the "grammar school" type', and, secondly, that there was a 'strong prejudice in favour of this type of education and of "white collared" employment in the minds of the Colonial public'.44 However, although the Colonial Office, in concert with colonial educational departments, encouraged the introduction of technical and modern schools and the extension of public examinations in technical and commercial subjects as provided by the Royal Society of Arts, the City and Guilds Institute or the Corporation of Certified Secretaries Ltd,45 UCLES were enjoying a large slice of the expanding cake of secondary education. Once again the Syndicate adjusted to circumstances; for example, the CO Education Adviser, Sir Christopher Cox, 'was sure that the Cambridge syndics were approachable [on the matter of liberalising the syllabus and examinations] and that the door was wide open for modifications to be suggested which would allow full play being given to teachers; the colonies should realise that, and make the necessary approach'.46 Meanwhile, administrative changes were taking place that were very much in tune with the new 'partnership'. In 1948 Cambridge and London discussed with the West African departments of education the future of school examinations in the area with particular reference to the proposed General Certificate of Education in England. The result was a full enquiry (the Jeffry Report) into the feasibility of a regional examinations council which would, in partnership with UK bodies, conduct examinations best suited to local needs. The West Africa Examinations Council was inaugurated in Accra in March 1953 and held its first examinations in co-operation with UCLES in December 1955. Candidates had already sat papers under the auspices of the Sudan Examinations Council the previous year and in 1957 the Federation of Malaya's Certificate of Education was launched, again in co-operation with UCLES. At headquarters four area committees were set up in 1955 to cover the affairs of India and Pakistan, the Caribbean, Malaya, and East and Central Africa. In addition annual conferences on overseas examining were held in Cambridge at which Syndics with a wide knowledge of the non-European world, such as Ivor Jennings and Percival Spear, played a prominent part.47 The developments of the 1940s and 1950s, which require fuller treatment than is possible here, grew in part out of the principles and practices established in the inter-war period and in part form the challenges and expectations of a new world. As decolonisation approached, the Syndicate's commitments were growing in Africa, Asia [216]

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and the Caribbean. In 1957, excluding Service candidates and those from the Sudan, there were 48,000 who sat UCLES examinations at home. Moreover, the trend continued with the result that in 1983, three years after Zimbabwe achieved independence, six million copies of over 1,200 question papers were despatched to examination centres in more than one hundred countries. The overseas expansion of UK examination systems was an aspect of the dissemination of English language, Western values and British power to the non-European world. Some may, indeed, argue that the export of British educational standards fell into the category of 'cultural imperialism' on the following grounds. First, UK-controlled examinations came to determine both the content and the method of Englishmedium education in the colonies. Secondly, these examinations performed an important administrative function; for, without the army of clerks who were recruited locally from those holding 'the Cambridge certificate', colonial rule would have been less secure, and the process of decolonisation more disruptive, than was generally the case. Thirdly, inasmuch as they were part of the onslaught of Western culture upon non-European peoples, examinations had a social influence that stretched beyond the small minority of certificate holders to inculcate a general respect for literacy and for successful candidates. Examining boards were the final arbiters in the assessment of new knowledge. Like some other metropolitan institutions which were associated with imperial power yet nonetheless aloof from it, UCLES won a reputation for impartiality, incorruptibility and infallibility in their awards. As a consequence the recipients of certificates not only gained qualifications for employment but also added to their standing in their own communities. In some instances English education reinforced a pattern of social stratification and the position of existing élites; in others it contributed to social mobility and the emergence of new élites, helping, as Professor Ali Mazrui has written with regard to the impact of Western culture on Africa, 'to redefine the pecking order in African societies'. Instead of status based on, say, age there emerged status based on literacy. Instead of classes emerging form the question, 'Who owns what?', class formation now responds to the question, 'Who knows what?' The knowledge may indeed be merely literary, but the colonial impact certainly distorted reality both in a Marxist materialist sense and in an African normative sense. The very process of acquiring aspects of the imperial culture came to open the doors of influence, and later of affluence itself.48

The 'competition wallahs' of the new intelligentsia were not only necessary auxiliaries of the colonial system but also its most obvious legatees after the Second World War, when colonial civil services were [217]

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'localised' and embryonic nation-states needed modern leaders. The contribution of public examinations to social, political and cultural change in colonial dependencies requires an investigation to an extent that is beyond the scope of this chapter. So too is a discussion of the part played by examinations in sustaining colonial regimes and as agents of neo-colonialism. This account of the expanding overseas activities of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate would suggest, however, that, while the development of public examinations partly assisted in the projection of Britain's global influence, they were largely a reflection of the needs and the nature of successive ages of imperialism.

Notes I wish to acknowledge with thanks the help received from Messrs H. R. Beck, R. B. Howarth and G. N. Lacey of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate in preparing this paper, for whose views I am of course entirely responsible 1 However, Andrew Porter has argued that in the field of missionary service Cambridge graduates surpassed the total of graduates from all universities throughout the nineteenth century and particularly after 1874. 'Cambridge, Keswick and late-nineteenth century attitudes to Africa', Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, Vol. 5, 1976, pp. 5–34. 2 See R. J. Montgomery, Examinations: An Account of Their Evolution as Administrative Devices in England, London, Longman, 1965, and John Roach, Public Examinations in England, 1850–1900, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1971. 3 University of Cambridge, First Annual Report of the Syndicate presented to the Senate, 1859, and One-hundredth Annual Report to the University, 1958 [for 1957] hereafter Annual Report, 1957). 4 Annual Report, 1957. 5 University Library Cambridge, UCLES Minute Books, LES 1/2, 1 Dec. 1874. 6 Ibid., 26 May 1882. 7 Ibid., 24 Feb. 1873. 8 LES 1/3, 1 Feb. 1887. 9 LES 1/2, 24 Oct. 1876. 10 Ibid., 18 Mar. 1875. 11 LES 1/3, 22 Feb.and 3 Mar. 1888. 12 LES 1/1, 11 Dec. 1862. 13 LES 1/2, 16 Nov. 1869 and 24 Oct. 1870. 14 28 Nov. 1895, quoted in Roach, Public Examinations, p. 172. 15 LES 1/4, 27 Apr. 1898. 16 LES 1/4, 15 Feb. and 18 May 1899, and Public Record Office (Kew), CO 167/721 [7649 & 10302] and CO 167/727 [4273]. The other incidents which are related in this paragraph are all referred to in the UCLES Minute Books at the appropriate dates. 17 LES 1/2, 18 Mar. 1875. 18 LES 1/6, 12 May 1915. 19 UCLES, Sixth Annual Report, 1864, quoted in Roach, Public Examinations, p. 146. 20 LES 1/5, 3 May 1905, 24 Oct. 1906. 21 Ibid., 22 Nov. 1905, 7 Feb. and 24 Oct. 1906. 22 CO 167/1721 [10302], Sir Charles Bruce, confidential, to Joseph Chamberlain, 27 Mar. 1899, Cf. LES 1/4, 18 May 1899. 23 Philip Loh Fook Seng, Seeds of Separatism: Educational Policy in Malaya, 1874–1940,

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24

25

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27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41 42 43

Kuala Lumpur, OUP, 1975, p. 108, and Khasnor Johan, The Emergence of the Modern Malay Administrative Elite, Kuala Lumpur, OUP, 1984, p. 72 ff. In 1911 the government had introduced a special class at the Malay College, Kuala Kangsar ('the Malay Eton') to train Malay Probationers in the MAS; in the late 1930s the curriculum was brought up to date because, as a College history puts it, 'Examinations, particularly public examinations, were becoming more important and with the gradual expansion of education in Malaya, College boys were finding that employment was becoming more competitive. As well as the Cambridge School Certificate examination, the boys now sat for the Cambridge "Junior" a year earlier.' Malay College, 1905–1965, Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, Straits Times Press, 1965, p. 45. Both principles were stated in the 'Memoranduam of the Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies regarding the Educational value of the Junior and Preliminary Examinations conducted in the Colonies, as approved at the meeting of the Advisory Committee on 18th July, 1929', which was enclosed in the Secretary of State's circular despatch to governors, 3 Sept. 1929, CO 323/1025/8. Quoted in Lord Hailey, An African Survey, London, OUP, 1938, p. 1229. Cf. the memorandum on education drafted in connection with the Southern Provinces of Nigeria and appended to the minutes of the meeting of the Advisory Committee on Native Education in Tropical Africa, 28 Jan. 1925, Papers of Sir Hugh Clifford (private ownership). Official opposition to universal education was, for example, stated by the Straits Settlements government in 1923 ('universal free education in English is not the immediate aim') and has been discussed in Loh Fook Seng, Seeds of Separatism, and Lilian Passmore Sanderson and Neville Sanderson, Education, Religion and Politics in Southern Sudan, 1899–1964, London and Khartoum, Ithaca Press, 1981. CO 323/1029/1 pt 4, 'Education in Malaya: Memorandum by Mr. A. I. Mayhew CLE.', Mar. 1929. LES 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/10; Hailey, African Survey, p. 1254. C0323/1315/1224,General SecretaryUCLEStoUnder-SecretaryofStateCO, 11 July 1935; CO 323/1252/30089. LES 1/7, 19 Feb. 1919. Report by W. G. A. Ormsby-Gore, on His Visit to Malaya, Ceylon, and Java, 1928, Parliamentary Papers, Cmd 3235, p. 47. CO 323/1030/6, note by Mayhew on English university external examination tests in tropical colonies, Feb. 1929 (incomplete). 'Memorandum of the Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies', 18 July 1929. LES 1/9, 28 Feb. 1929. Ibid., 9 May 1929. LES 1/9, 30 Jan. 1930; LES 1/10, 9 Feb. 1933; CO 378/80/10072. CO 323/1417/1224, draft circular despatch from Parliamentary Under-Secretary to Governors, 14 June 1937. CO 323/1315/1224, CO to secretaries of UCLES, Oxford Delegacy and Oxford & Cambridge Board, 8 July 1935. Ibid., minute by Mayhew (CO), 16 Dec. 1935, on letter from W. N. Williams (General Secretary UCLES) to Under-Secretary CO, 12 Dec. 1935. See also CO 323/1354/1224 pt 1 and CO 323/1355/1224 pt 2. CO 323/1417/1224. It was also agreed that if two or more bodies were already established in the same dependency they should continue to coexist, that the Department of Education of each colony should select the examination best suited to local circumstances, and that the Higher School Certificate should lie outside the scope of the concordat. CO 859/3/8, Roach to Mayhew, 11 Jan. 1939; CO 323/1355/1224 pt 2, Roach to F. J. Pedler (CO), 30 July 1936. Hailey, African Survey, p. 1254. For the Asquith Commission and the development of higher education in the colonies see D. J. Morgan, The Official History of Colonial Development, Vol. 1, London, Macmillan, 1980, pp. 108–17.

[219]

MAKING IMPERIAL MENTALITIES 44 CO 859/166/5, report of the ACEC's subcommittee on secondary education, enclosed in circular despatch of Secretary of State to Governors, 14 Oct. 1950. See also CO 859/ 167/1. 45 CO 859/169/7 46 CO 859/166/5, minutes of meeting of subcommittee, 21 June 1950. 47 Annual Report 1957 and The West African Examinations Council Annual Report for 1972–73. 48 Ali A. Mazrui, The African Condition: The Reith Lectures, London, Heinemann Educational Books, 1980, p. 63.

[220]

INDEX

Aborigine Report (1873),164 Adelaide,Queen,30 Advisory Committee on Education in the Colonies (ACEC),179,211-13 Advisory Committee on Native Education in the Tropical African Dependencies, 210 Africa,164,203-5,208-13,215-17 African Methodist Episcopal Church (AME), 196 Allahad University,212 Allen,Charles,46 Amstutz,Celeste,59 Andrews,C. F . ,1 3 ,135-8 Anguilla,35 Antoniutti,Ildebrando,192 Apple,Michael W . ,13 Argentina,207 Argyll,George Douglas,Duke of, 115 Arnold,Thomas,127-8 Ashwell,B. Y.,167,170,173 Asiatic Exclusion League,157 Asquith Commission on Higher Education, 215 athleticism,48 Auckland,172-3,176,178 Australia,164,175 Ave Maria Hour, The, 191 Baden-Powell,Agnes,9 7 ,100-1 Baden-Powell,Olave,6 1 ,9 8 ,100-1,104, 107 Baden-Powell,Robert,62, 75, 96, 100-3, 107 Baldwin,Stanley,129 Ballhatchett,Kenneth,46 Barbados,3 5 ,40 Barbados Scholarship,211 Baring-Gould,Sabine,87 Beidelman,T. O.,4 ,10 Bellford,James,185 'Benefits Bestowed'!, 1 Bentinck,William (Lord),112 Berbice,2 6 ,2 8 ,3 3 ,39 Bermondsey University Settlement,88 Bermuda,16-17,184-200 Board of Education,188-92,194,198 Executive Council,190 House of Assembly,187,191-2,197-8 School Act (1926),187,191 Bermuda Industrial Union,195

biculturism,181 Bird,William,177 Blackmore,Sophia,51 Black Muslims,193 Blagden,C. O . ,212 Blue Triangle News, 57 Blue Triangle Pioneers,57 Blyton,Enid,92 Board of Education,7 5 ,82 Boer War,9 8 ,149 Bombay University,213 Boy Scouts,9 6 ,100-3,106 Association,107 see also scouting Brent,Richard,129 British Columbia,13-14,144-57 Britannia,8 8 ,9 2 ,106 British Empire Union,106 British Guiana,28-9,3 5 ,3 9 ,214 British Israelite Movement,140 British North America A c t ,146 Brownies,6 3 ,103 Bruce,Charles,209 Buckland,T . ,85 Buddie,Thomas,171 Bulletin, 191 Burke,Edmund (Bishop),184 Burns,John,188-9 Butterfield,H . ,130 Calcutta University,212 Callaway,Helen,7-8 Cambridge Certificates,203-18 Cambridge Local Examinations and Lectures Syndicate,204 Cambridge Review, 207 Cambridge University,204 Canada,7 5 ,144-57,164,185 Canadian Civics, 152 Canadian Pacific Railroad,145 Canadian Readers, 148,153 Caribbean,see West Indies Carleton,Henry,175 Cavell,Edith,152 Cavendish,Jean,65 Ceylon,206,209,211-14 Ceylon Social Reform Society,209 character-training,9 6 ,102,151-3 Cheltenham College,134 Children's Aid Society,74,87

[221 ]

INDEX Children's Country Holiday Association, 105 China,153-4,207 Chinese Immigration A c t ,146 Chirol,Valentine,135-6 chivalry,8 8 ,101 Christianity,4-6, 12-14,23-42,67, 8 0 ,1274 1 ,164 Churchill,Winston,129,134,139-40 Church of England,4, 166,168-9,184,188, 194,196; see also missionaries Church of England Temperance Society,8, ou

Church Missionary Society (CMS),2 4 ,41, 134,137,166 Church Times, 138 City and Guilds Institute,216 CivitasDei, 1 2 ,133 Clapham Sect,30 class,196-8 Clement,W. H. P . ,155 Cohen,Andrew,203 Collier,William Francis,149 Colonial Development Act (1929),215, Colonial Office,5 0 ,165,203,208,213-16 Colonial Service,50 Comeau,Isaac Daly,186-8,198 Commission on Higher Education in India (1931),1 2 ,129 Commonweatth of Nations, The, 133 communism,121 Communist Party of India (CPI),121 Communist Party of India (CPI-M),121-2 Conference on Christian Politics,Economics and Citizenship (COPEC),107 Congregation of The Resurrection (Resurrectionists),189,192,196 Congress Party,119-20,122 Connors,Mary Cleophas,185 Constantinople,207 Cook,Sophia,57 Cornwallis,Lord,114 Corporation of Certified Secretaries Ltd, 216 Council of Catholic M e n ,191-2 Country Dance Book, The, 84 Country Life, 87 Cowper,H . ,91 Cox,Christopher,216 Cox,John,192,195 Cox,William,195 Cromwell,Oliver,152 Curtis,Lionel,1 2 ,129-30,133-5 Curzon,Lord,112,116

Davies,John,28 Dehler,Robert S.,189,193 Demerara,2 5 ,4 1 ,206,208 Dewey,John,180 Dictionary of British Folk-Lore, 87 Dominion Education Association,155 Dominion School Geography, The, 155-6 Dominion Year Book, The, 91 drill,8-9,7 8 ,81-2,90-1 Durham Report (1839),164 Durham University,205 80 Dyhouse,Carol,4 8 ,62 East Africa,217 East India Company,112-14 Charter,114 Education,Act 1944 (Butler),1 9 ,108,215 Eduction Act (Forster),203 Education Gazette, 179 Empire Day,8-9,74-93,106-7,129 Empire Day Books of Patriotism, , 91 Empire Day Movement,74-6,78-9,93 Empire Exhibition,9 1 ,106 Empire League,102 English Folk Dancing Society,9 ,86 Episcopalian Methodists,51 Esperance Guild of National Joy,87 Essays on Duty and Discipline, 81 Essequibo and Demerara Royal Gazette, 29, 39 Everett,P. W . ,100 examinations,18-19,203-18 Family Planning Association (FPA),61 Farquhar,J. N . ,131-2 Farrell,Christian,39-40 Federated Malay States,209-14,216 see also Malaya Federation of Malaya Certificate of Education,216 Fidler,William,40 Fifty Years Against the Stream, 134 First World War,103-4,107-8,149 Fitzroy,Robert,166 Foot,Isaac,139 Franco-Prussian War,81 Gage,W. J. and Company,148-9,153 Gandhi,Mahatma,1 3 ,110,118,135-8 Gandhi,Rajiv,111 Garling,Daniel,26 Garvey,Marcus,187 Geddes,Patrick,98 General Certificate of Education (GCE),206, 916

dance,9 ,74,82-91 Darjeeling,212

Germany,8 1 ,86 Ghana,204

[222 ]

INDEX Gilbert,C. G. G . ,188 Gilgrass,William,35 Gillis,J.,97 Girl Guide Handbook, 103 Girl Guide Movement,7, 9-10, 51, 56, 61-5, 96-108 Girl Guides Association,96-108 Girl Guides: A Suggestion for Character Training for Girls, 100 Girl Guides Gazette, 106 Girl Guides: What They Are and What They Are Not, The, 102 Girl Guiding, 104 Girls' Brigade,9 7 ,107 Girls' Friendly Society,9 7 ,100,107 Goethe,Johann Wolfgang von,86 Gold Coast,207,212-13 Golden Bough, The, 87 Golden Rule, 100,103 Gomme,Alice,87 Gordon,E. F v 195 Gore,Charles,1 3 1 ,139 Gorst,J. E . ,173 Government of India, The, 131 Grant,Charles,113 Grant,W. L.,149 Grantham,A. W . ,188 Great War Brings it Home: The Natural Reconstruction of an Unnatural Existence, The, 105 Grenada,35 Grey,George,1 5 ,166-9,174 Grigg,Edward,133 Guardian, 139 Guild of Play,88-90 Guild of Play Book of National Dance, The, 90 Hadfield,Octavius,166 Haileybury,134 Halevy,E . ,130 Halifax (Nova Scotia),Archdiocese of, 184, 186,189,192,196,199 Hall,G. Stanley,84 Hampden,John,25 Handbook for Girl Guides or How Girls Can Help Build the Empire, The, 100 Hargrave,John,105 Harker,Richard,175 Harrison,Brian,97 Hastings,Warren,113 Havelock,Henry,151 Haywood,Samuel,40 Hazelwood,E. B.,208 Health for the Maori, 177 Hebrew University,Jerusalem,213 Henry,William,39-40

Hichens,Lionel,130 Hildyard,J. T . ,197 Hinduism,12-13,117,131-3,135-6 Hirtzel,Arthur,129 History and Geography of British Columbia, .A,151 History of Agathon, The, 86 History of Canada, 149 History of Canada, The, 155 History of England for Public Schools, 150 History of the British Empire, 149 Hoare,Samuel,129,140 Hobson,J. A.,81 Hobson,William,165-6 Hodge,John,3 5 ,39 Holderness,J. W.,212 Holland,W. E. S.,1 2 ,134 Home Civil Service,203-4 Home Notes, 100 Hong Kong University,212 How Shall I Help My Daughters!, 104 Howe,James,30 humanitarianism,2 3 ,3 0 ,6 7 ,164-5,179 Hunter Commission,116 Hyman,Herbert H.,34 India,10-11,6 4 ,110-24,127-41,150,164, 206,208,212-14 India Defence League,134,140 Indian Act (Canada),145 Indian Army,140 Indian Civil Service (ICS),114,118, , 134, 140,203 Indian Empire Review, 140 Indian Mutiny,2 0 3 ,see also Sepoy Insurrection Indian National Congress,1 1 0 ,1 1 2 ,114, 116-19 Indians,North-American,145-6, 150-1, 1545 Indian Unrest, 135 Industrial Christian Fellowship,1 2 ,131 International Council of Women (ICW),50 internationalism,6 ,10,5 6 ,59-60,6 2 ,1068 Irish Regiment,185 Irwin,Lord,1 3 ,129,136-8 Islam,128,1 3 1 ,134 Jamaica,2 9 ,3 4 ,207-8 Jamaica Scholarship,210 Jansen,Alex,39-40 Jeffry Report,216 Jennings,Ivor,216 Joint Advisory Board for Schools Examinations in the Colonies and Dependencies, 215

[223 ]

INDEX Joint Committee for Overseas Examinations,214 Judge,R.,85 Karakariki,173 Kaum Ibu,8 ,56 Kerr,Rose,102 Ketley,Joseph,41 Kimmins,Grace T . ,88-91 King Movement,173,178 Kipling,Rudyard,1 3 ,140 Komagata Maru, 157 Labour Party (UK),135 Lads' Drill Association,81 Lang,Cosmo Gordon,136-8 language, African,212 Arabic,211 Chinese,211 English,1 1 ,111-24,167-80,217 Hindi,11, 111-12,119-20,211 Indian classical,113,115,118 Indian vernacular,1 1 1 ,116,121-4 Malay,212 Maori,177,180 oriental,211 Sanskrit,118,123 Singhalese,211 Tamil,211 Urdu,211 Lawson,Maria,151 leisure,10,9 9 ,107 Lewis,Thomas,37 Lim Ming T e ,67 Lindsay,A. D . ,1 2 ,1 2 7 ,129-31,1 3 3 ,139, 141 Lloyd,George,129 London Methodist Society,35 London Missionary Service,131 London Missionary Society (LMS),2 5 ,28, 3 4 ,39-41 London University,204 External Degree,206,214 Matriculation Examination,206,214 London University Schools Examination Council,19,214-16 Lord Meaih, Youth and Empire, 75 Low,D. A . ,128 Lucas,Bernard,131 Lugard,Frederick,211 Macauley,Lord,110-14,116,124,168 Minute of, 111-14,168 MacDonald,Ramsey,1 3 1 ,136 McKenzie,J. D. S.,175 MacKenzie,John M . ,8 5 ,93

McNally,John T . ,188-9,191-2 Madras University,212 Malay Administrative Service,209 Malaya,6 - 7 ,46-67,2 0 4 ,211-14,216 see also Federated Malay States Malayan Civil Service (MCS),210 Malayan Headquarters Council (Girl Guides),63 Malaysian Message, 51 Malta University,213 Manchester Guardian, 135,138 Manderson,Lenore,56 Mangan,J. A.,5 2 ,81 Maning,F. E . ,176 Maoris,163-81 Marsden,Samuel,164,167 Martin,Basil,187-8 Mason,Phillip,2 ,47 Matata School,176 Maunier,Rene,3 Maunsell,R.,167,170-2 Mauritius,207,210-11 May Day,9 ,85 Mayhew,Arthur,179 Mayo,Katherine,135 Mazrui,Ali,217 Meath,12th Earl of, 74-6,79-81,90-3,128 Melioration Act (1824),2 6 ,28 Meston,James,133,137 Methodist Girls' Schools (MGS),5 1 ,54 Methodist Recorder, 139 Methodist Society,2 6 ,40 militarism,81-2,102,106,108 Mill,James,113 Mill,John Stuart,85 Milner,Lord,131 Minto,4th Earl of, 113 Misik,Fred,191-2 missionaries,4 - 6 ,14-15,23-42,51-2,11415, 127, 129, 138, 145-6, 163-6, 170, 174, 203 Montagu,E. S.,133 Morgan,John,167,170-1 Morris Book, The, 84 Mother India, 135 motherhood,10,97-9,100,102,104,107-8 Mount St Agnes Academy,Bermuda,185, 189-91,193-4,196,199 multi-racialism,10,64-5,106,108,175-6, 179 Mumford,Bryant,179 Musgrove,F . ,18 Naidu,Sarajini,60 Natal,206 National Message, 140 National Service League,81

[224 ]

INDEX nationalism,128-34,136,149,173,210 Native School Primer, 177 Native School Reader, 111 nature study,105,108 Neale,Mary,87 Negro Education Grant,37 Nehru,Pandit Jawaharlal,203 Nelson,Horatio,151 New Abbey Girls, The, 86 Newcastle,5th Duke of,208 New Marriage Legislation,59 New Physical Geography, 156 New Zealand,14-17,163-81,207 Education Act (1867),1 5 ,175 Education Act (1877),1 5 ,175 Education Department,178 Education Ordinance,168 House of Representatives,175 Legislative Assembly,164 Legislative Council,166,168 Native Land Court,173 Native Schools A c t ,1 5 ,173,177 Native Trust Ordinance,166 Nigeria,213-14 Nightingale,Florence,152 Normanby,Lord,165 Northcote-Trevelyan Report on the Civil Service,204 Nottingham,76-9,9 0 ,92 Oddfellows Society,40 O'Donnell,Thomas,187-8 Oliver,Caroline,6 Ormsby-Gore,W. G. A v 213 Oxenham,Elsie J.,86 Oxford and Cambridge Board,19, 206, 21415 Oxford Delegacy,19,206,214-15 Oxford Mission,Calcutta,139 Oxford University,204 Page Croft,Henry,1 3 ,135,139-40 Pakistan,216 Parkin,George R.,148,152 patriotism,9-10,101-2,148,152 Patterns of Dominance, 2 Patterson,Orlando,2 3 ,30-2 physical education,7 5 ,9 9 ,101 see also drill; sport Pinang Gazette, 64 Policy, Organisation and Rules, 104 Pope,J. H . ,176-8 Practical Infant Teacher, The, 91 Prince of Wales College,Achimota,213 Prinsep,Henry Thoby,113 Public School History of England and Canada, 150

public schools,111,120,127,134-5 Queen's Scholarships of Malaya,210 race adaptionism,180 amalgamation,15-16,163,166-72,1749 assimilation,see amalgamation intermarriage,179 racism,1 4 ,16-17,3 6 ,3 8 ,46-7,8 1 ,112-13, 144-57,175,179,183,188,194 Raffles College,Singapore,213 Rangers,6 3 ,103 Ray,Siddharta Shankar,122 Recessional, 1 3 ,140 Renaissance in India, The, 137 Richards,Audrey I . ,1 Richmond,J. C , 174 Riel Rebellion,150 Ripon,Lord,116 Roach,J.,215 Robertson,W. J.,150 Roman Catholic Church,184-200 anti-catholicism,16-17,188,199 Roman Catholic Episcopal Corporation of Bermuda,199 Ronaldshay,Earl of, 135-6 Roof,Madeleine,99 Rose,Henry,39 Roseberry,Lord,152 Rosenthal,M.,97 Round Table Conferences,136 Round Table Group,129-30,133 Round the Empire, 148,152 Roy,Ram Mahun,113-14,132 Royal Colonial Institute,92 Royal Holloway College,215 Royal Readers, 111 Royal Society of Arts,216 Rules of the Native Teachers' School, 170 Ruskin,John,139 Russell,Lord,165 Sacred Congregation of the Propagation of the Faith,184 Sahaj Path, 122-3 St Anthony's School,Warwick,Bermuda, 190-3,195,199 St Anthony's School Guild,190,193-4 St Catherine's College,Cambridge,205 St John's College,Agra,130,133-4 St John's College,Waimate,170 St Mary's University,Halifax,192 St Stephen's College,Delhi,130,137 St Theresa's Church,Hamilton,Bermuda, 189,191

[225 ]

INDEX St Vincent's,2 6 ,30 Sanskrit College,Calcutta,113 Schiller,Friedrich,86 School of Oriental (and African) Studies, 211 scouting,10,6 2 ,102 for girls,9 9 ,101-2 Scott,C. P . ,135 Scouting for Boys, 9 9 ,101-2,108 Secondary School Examinations Council, 204 Second,Laura,152 Second World War,157 Seeley,John,137 Selangor,Sultan of, 63 Selwyn,G . A . ,166-7,170 Sepoy Insurrection,114 see also Indian Mutiny Seventh Day Adventist Church,190, 193-4, i.yo

sexuality,98-9,108 Sharp,CecilJ.,8 4 ,87 Shrewsbury,William,35 Shuckburgh,John,215 Simon,Brian,157 Simmel,G.,3 Sinclair,Keith,165 Singapore,51 Sisters of Charity,185-91,197,199 slavery,5-6,23-42 Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study, 43 Smith,John,25 Smuts,Jan Christiaan,204 Socialisation: The Approach from Social Anthropology, 1 Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG),51 Somervell,David,133 South Africa,163,169,175,180,206 Southern Cross, 169 Spalding,J. T . ,8 ,76, 78-9 Spear,Percival,217 sport,7 ,5 4 ,5 7 ,107,176 Springhall,J. O . ,7 5 ,8 2 ,97 Stewart-Smith,Cicely,106 Straits Settlements,206,211 see also Malaya Straits Times, 48 Strong,T. B . ,180 Sudan Examinations Council,216 Sullivan,Harry Stack,38 Sunday schools,107 Syllabus of Physical Exercises for Public Elementary Schools, 1909, The, 82 Tagore,Rabindranath,122 Taranaki,173,178

Teachers and Texts: A Political Economy of Class and Gender Relations in Education, 13 Teall,D. G.,85 Temple,William,127,130,133 TeWhiti,178 textbooks,1 5 ,144,147-56,176-7 Theriault,J. N i l ,189-92,194-9 This England, 93 Thomas,B.,63 Thompson,J. Arthur,98 Thornton,A. P . ,23 Tilak, B. G., 116,118,130 Times, The, 8 0 ,133 Tobago,26 T o m ,Cik,5 4 ,63 Trinidad,2 6 ,206,208 Turner,A. B.,93 Tyndale-Biscoe,C.IQft E . ,1 2 ,134 Union Jack,8 ,7 4 ,7 6 ,78-9,90-3 United Malay National Organisation,8 ,56 United N a t i o n s ,Committee on Human Rights,192,198 United States of America,175 Unversity College,Columbo,213 University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES),18,203-18 Annual Reports,206 Minute Books,205-6,213 Unto This Last, 139 Valparaiso,207 Vercheres,Madelaine d e ,152 Victoria,Queen,74 Victoria School Board,157 Victoria Trades and Labour Council,157 Vivekananda,Swami,130 Voyage round the World, A, 153 Waddington,Joseph,40 Wagner,Richard,86 Waikato,171-3 Waitangi,Treaty of, 175,179 Walsh,William,184 Ward,Alan,174-5,178-9 Ward,W. E. F.,216 Watlington,Hereward,195 Wedgwood,Josiah,136 Weiland,C. M . ,86 Wellington,206 Wellington Independen, , 174 West African Examinations Council,216 West Bengal,1 1 ,121-3 Western Women in Colonial Africa, 6 West Indies,4-6,23-42,164,203-4,216 Whiteley,J.,166

[226 ]

INDEX Wiggins,John,29 William IV,30 Winks,Robin W.,6 Winstedt,R. O . ,211-12 Wirinaki,176 WiTeHakiro,178 womanliness,4 8 ,9 6 ,1 0 1 ,104,108 women,6-7, 99100 , 3 ,46-67,, 6-108,204 Women's League of Empire,106 Wood Despatch,114-15 Wray,John,2 5 ,27-8

Wray,Rebecca,34 Young Imperialist Clubs,106 Young Men's Christian Association (YMCA),5 7 ,131 Young,Rosalie Watson,151 Young Women's Christian Association (YWCA),7 ,4 9 ,5 1 ,56-61,9 7 ,103 Zain, Ibu, 5 1 ,6 3 ,67 Zimbabwe,217