The Renaissance of Girls' Education in England: A Record of Fifty Years' Progress

Yes, strange though it may sound, it was in truth a Renaissance—a revival of the past, and no new experiment. Or perhaps we should more fitly describe it as the realisation of an old dream, one that has been dreamed many times in the course of the ages, but has waited till the nineteenth century for its complete fulfilment. Two thousand years ago it was seen by Plato, that most practical of idealists, who maintained that it was for the best interests of the state that its men and women should be as good as possible. Therefore the education of both was a matter of public concern. In these latter days this doctrine has won acceptance, with an even wider significance, due to our democratic development. The treasures of learning are no longer the property of an exclusive few, and the privileges of class and sex are breaking down simultaneously. Education for all, boys and girls, rich and poor, is the modern demand, which no party dare now refuse to consider. We must cater not only for the ‘wives of the governors,’ but also for the children of the slums. All the daughters of all the households of all civilised countries are to enter into their heritage. The much-discussed ‘ladder’ from the elementary school to the University is becoming a fact; and its rungs are being widened, that the girls may ascend it side by side with their brothers. La carrière ouverte aux talents, with no distinction of class, sex, or creed, is the demand of the nineteenth century.

From Plato’s Utopian ‘Republic’ to London of the County Council is a far cry. Between the two, this question of girls’ education has many times been raised and temporarily solved. Socrates’ half-jesting dictum, that women are capable of learning anything which men are willing they should know, might stand as the motto for nearly every attempt to improve female education. The instruction given to women at different epochs has varied directly with the estimation in which they were held. When they were regarded as slaves or toys it was expedient to keep them in ignorance; when they were treated honourably as equals, the best gifts of learning were not thought too good for them.

It is not our place here to dwell on the bright examples of antiquity, the Neo-Platonist women and Hypatia, the beautiful mathematician of Alexandria, but rather, turning to our own country, to see how Christianity has touched the lives of women. Here, as elsewhere, it was the Church alone that kept alive the flame of knowledge during the Middle Ages. In the seventh and eighth centuries, that ‘nadir of learning,’ monks and nuns alike were occupied with literary studies. They read theology and classics, copied manuscripts, and corresponded in Latin. Their activity was in accordance with their social position. ‘The heads of the great religious houses were necessarily persons of importance, with privileges and great responsibilities. They had considerable wealth at their disposal, and in authority and influence they ranked among the nobles of the land, to whom they were often allied by birth.’[1] The name that naturally occurs first to our minds is that of the Abbess Hilda, ‘whose counsel was sought even by kings,’ and who ruled over a double monastery, which became a seminary of bishops and priests. Hers is no solitary instance. ‘In Anglo-Saxon England,’ writes Miss Eckenstein, ‘men who attained to distinction received their training in settlements governed by women. Histories and a chronicle of unique value were inspired by and drafted under the auspices of Saxon abbesses.’ And ‘the curriculum of study in the nunnery was as liberal as that accepted by the monks, and embraced all available writings, whether by Christian or profane authors.’ The convents were the colleges of Anglo-Saxon times. The nuns, who lived a life of seclusion and study, might be compared with the fellows; the students were the successive groups of girls who came there for education.

Among the many social changes brought about by the Norman Conquest, the most far-reaching, the introduction of feudalism, established a new centre of education, which henceforth flourished side by side with the cloister. The monks still taught the Trivium and Quadrivium—Grammar, Dialectic, Rhetoric, Music, Arithmetic, Geometry, Astronomy—though the instruction given deserved these high-sounding names little better than the so-called sciences taught in girls’ schools at the beginning of our own century. The castle could offer boys a more attractive programme. The seven knightly accomplishments were to ride, sing, shoot with the bow, box, hawk, play chess, and write verses. It had something for girls as well. While the young squires gained their training by service done to their lord, the châtelaine would gather about her a troop of gentle maidens, who learned to weave, spin, brew, and distil, and do various kinds of needlework. They learned a little reading and writing, and in these arts were somewhat in advance of their brothers, who were trained to look on books as monkish and womanish, and not quite suited to a knight and gentleman. The châtelaine herself held an honourable position. In her lord’s absence she must even take command of the castle, and the damoiselles must be prepared for their own coming responsibilities.

The thirteenth century brought a change. The political influence of the Church, which had been lessened by the Conquest, was revived by the preaching friars. They introduced a new ideal of monastic life; the spirit of devotion and asceticism drove out the old love of learning. New priories sprang up throughout England, but their aims were different. As the monasteries were more and more becoming centres of devotion, learning was being driven into the new universities, where the philosophy of the schoolmen now reigned supreme. Already some colleges with endowments for poor scholars had been founded at Oxford and Cambridge, and it was becoming the custom for the monasteries to send their most promising pupils there. Why did the nuns not follow this example? Probably the metaphysical disputations then in vogue had few attractions for them; and the presence of large numbers of men would be a sufficient reason for keeping aloof, for though the studies of both sexes might be the same, they were not pursued side by side. Whatever the cause, it is certain that while masculine learning showed an ever-growing tendency to leave the cloister, female scholarship was still closely confined to the convent. But it was degenerating for want of new life; the nunneries were a survival, not a living growth; their learning had become ‘poor in substance, cramped in method, and insufficient in application.’[2] The old order was changing, but somehow the nuns failed to perceive it. In Erasmus’ day, we are told, the really learned woman was to be found outside the convent walls, and he adds the significant remark that her husband approved of her studies. The wrong done to women by the dissolution was not so much the closing of the convents as the transference to men of their endowments. The most flagrant instance is the transformation of St. Radegund’s nunnery at Cambridge into Jesus College. That this and other instances of spoliation were possible shows how low the status of women had sunk, and it is not strange, therefore, that a period of neglected education should have ensued.

Whatever the cause, the Reformation does not seem to have assisted the development of women. Perhaps this was partly due to the removal of the one career that had been open to them, thus forcing all, married and unmarried, into a dependent position in the household. Luther’s views on women were not very elevated, and probably a good many of the Reformers shared them. It may be due to this Protestant influence that in England women profited less intellectually by the Renaissance than men, or at any rate in far smaller numbers. Thanks to the new grammar schools, learning was being made accessible to boys of all classes. When Sir Thomas More’s dream was realised, and the middle classes, from the squire to the petty tradesman, were brought into contact with ancient literature, the daughters were not as well provided as the sons. Some authorities are of opinion that the original foundations were meant for both sexes alike, but if so, very few girls of the middle class profited by their advantages, though some sort of education evidently came to all. Among the upper classes large numbers of women were carried away by the enthusiasm of the Renaissance, and learned to read Latin and Greek. The sixteenth century has always been celebrated for its learned ladies, as witness Wotton’s oft quoted remark thereon and his comment: ‘One would think by the effects that it was a proper way of educating them, since there are no accounts in history of so many great women in any age as are to be found between the years 1500 and 1600.’ Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey are sometimes called exceptions, but this is clearly an error. Learning was an expensive luxury for women, since it involved the services of a private tutor, but it had fashion and opinion on its side. To be learned was accounted a privilege, which called for neither arrogant boasting nor blushing concealment. Those who did study, would naturally turn to the best their age could offer them, i.e. the new editions of the classics and the fashionable modern literature. They set the fashion too as well as followed it. The success of Euphues was established by its lady readers, and in the domain of polite literature it was generally acknowledged that they created the standard. When Lyly wrote ‘Euphues had rather lie shut in a lady’s casket than open in a scholar’s study,’ he knew well enough that it was not the ladies who would neglect his book. He confessed as much in its dedication to the ‘Ladies and Gentlewomen of England.’ Nor was there anything new in this. The lady sat in her bower to read Sidney’s Arcadia as in olden times she had listened in the hall to the lay of the minstrel. It was still her part to assign the prize of romance as of valour. The leisure which made the enjoyment of tale and song possible was essentially the lot of the rich and noble lady, who neither toiled nor span, but did a more useful work as guardian of art and literature. The amazing discovery that ‘Books are a part of man’s prerogative’[3] had not yet been made; there is certainly not a hint of it in Shakespeare. Nor could such a doctrine possibly originate under a queen, who, whatever her faults, cultivated learning herself and honoured it in others. Our thoughts linger lovingly over that noblest age of English story, when romanticism and classicism joined their glories for a brief space; when the courtier was both knight and scholar, and the noble dame’s epitaph praised her as ‘wise and fair and good.’ Seen through the haze of the past, its splendours stand out in even greater dimension, while all that was small and weak is obscured to dimness. The very age that followed served as a foil to throw into yet brighter relief ‘the spacious days of great Elizabeth.’