My old school took its civilizing mission very seriously: the slightest infraction of its rules earned the culprit a stinging slap in the face. Every morning at assembly, the teacher on playground duty, a retired sergeant major and former boxer, would stand on a wooden box, roaring over the heads of the neat rows of boys lined up in front of him: “You’ve all got shit in your shoes.” Oddly enough, the harsh regimen did produce a certain pride in wearing the school badge: we might well have shit in our shoes, but, as everybody knew, the paupers at the local municipal school were up to their necks in manure.
From day one, to instill politeness, drills were held requiring us to whip off our caps at the mere sight of a parent or teacher. But soon, blind obedience gave way to subtle class distinctions: Did the teacher with a slight regional accent really merit our respect? Having to salute the wife of a high court judge or an admiral was OK, but did the wife of the mere owner of a sweets factory deserve such high tribute? Snobbery certainly kicks in early.
Our school’s tireless efforts on behalf of the small savages in its care came to mind when reading Keith Thomas’s vivid In Pursuit of Civility: Manners and Civilization in Early Modern England, in which he examines the notions of civility and civilization as they affected England in the period stretching from the