We know almost nothing about Shakespeare’s life. At
least, considering he is the greatest writer that ever lived, we know
frustratingly little about most of it. And in the absence of concrete
information an entire academic industry has been built on where he might have
been and what doing when. Some of it verges on madness.
What seems almost certain, though, is that Shakespeare
went to school. And as educationalist and stand-up comedian Sir Ken Robinson
observed in a TED lecture, ‘Shakespeare was in somebody’s English class. How
annoying would that be?’ Apart from cracking a joke, Robinson was also reminding
his audience that Shakespeare wasn’t always the middle aged bloke with a bald
head, large cranium and pointy beard that is the familiar image. Once upon a
time he was a child who went to school.
Quite what Shakespeare made of the experience is of
course further conjecture, but in As You
Like It Jacques talks of the ‘whining school-boy, with his satchel/And
shining morning face, creeping like snail/Unwillingly to school.’ Romeo makes a
similar observation when he tells Juliet, ‘Love toward love, as schoolboys from
their books/But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.’
In other words, he wasn’t a big fan. This isn’t a
surprise. Schooling began at six o’clock in the morning in summer time (seven
in winter), boys were frequently beaten (there was no grammar school education
for girls) and learning was by rote. All of which prompts questions about the
nature of schooling and creativity. If we wish to produce another Shakespeare, should
we send our children to school earlier in the day, force them to memorize
large chunks of Latin and Greek and beat them when they don’t?
Creativity is Sir Ken’s big theme and he contends our
schools are designed to suppress it. One of his more engaging theories is that
dance should be put at the heart of the curriculum, contending that we all have
bodies and these should be more than just vehicles to move our brains from one
place to another. Dance would set us free.
It’s hard to imagine what a world would be like in
which dancing was the main focus of education. It’s also difficult to know what
conditions would best foster creativity. As Sir Ken pointed out in another of
his talks, the same music teacher at Liverpool Institute High School taught
both Paul MaCartney and George Harrison and failed to discern any ability in
either of them, yet along with John and Ringo they went on to form the biggest
band in pop history.
Would they have succeeded in the same way if their
talents had been spotted and nurtured? Would they have been even better if
they’d spent more of the school day dancing? Are there certain types of
creativity that require alienation and rejection to flourish? Were they just
lucky?
Humans are naturally creative. We’re innate problem
solvers and improvisers. But not much seems to be known about the creative
process. Where do ideas come from? Why are most of them rubbish? Can
creativity be taught in schools? Do Schools make any real difference? Would
most children be better off without them? Would Shakespeare have been
Shakespeare without the early morning beatings and the absence of dancing
lessons?
Although it’s not certain he attended the King Edward VI
Grammar School in Stratford, it’s likely he did since his father was a member
of the corporation that provided its finance. It dated back to the 15th
century and by the 1570s probably had about forty pupils. These were taught by
a single master, assisted by an usher. Parents were expected to equip their
sons with ink, paper, quill pens and candles.
Formal schooling for boys began at the age of seven, but
pupils were expected to be literate and numerate on entry, so young William must have
had some previous education. Since both his parents signed their names with a
mark, it’s unlikely either could write, but it’s equally probable both could
read since his father was a successful businessman and his mother executrix of
his grandfather’s will. Typically, a
child of his background would have attended petty school between the ages of
five and seven where he would have been taught simple arithmetic as well as to
read and write.
Teachers at petty school were commonly women and often
untrained. Those at grammar school would have been graduates and the curriculum
far tougher. Shakespeare would have begun with Latin primers, having to
memorize passages and study their grammatical construction, translate extracts
and imitate classical authors. By the age of eight or nine he would have moved
on to full texts by writers such as Ovid and might have acted in plays by
Terence and Plautus (both of whom are cited as sources for The Comedy of Errors).
Famously, Ben Jonson asserted that Shakespeare had
‘little Latin and less Greek’, but it’s reckoned he had at least as good an
understanding of Latin as a modern Classics graduate such as Boris Johnson, no
relation. This is hardly surprising since rhetoric was another key part of
grammar school education, taking in authors such as Cicero and Quintilian. Boys
as young as nine would also have had to engage in debate, speakers having to
attack or defend a proposition such as whether Brutus was right to assassinate
Caesar, in Latin.
In the upper forms pupils would have been required to
speak in Latin at all times and would have studied Virgil, Caesar and Horace
amongst other major authors. Shakespeare, however, probably left school before
those excitements. Up to the 1570s his father was a man on the rise. Then in
1576 his business collapsed and he was forced to sell his assets.
According to an early eighteenth century source, the
family’s circumstances obliged William to leave school at fourteen in 1578 as,
‘the want of his assistance at Home, forc’d his Father to with draw him from
thence.’ There is no more proof of when he left than that he ever went at all,
but this account seems plausible. With John’s business in crisis and five
siblings under the age of twelve, it’s highly likely that Shakespeare would
have had to find work to help support them all.
If there is no firm evidence of Shakespeare’s schooling,
there is circumstantially much in his plays to suggest he’d had a formal
education, not least a scene in The Merry
Wives of Windsor in which a boy is quizzed in the street by his school
master. It is irrelevant to the plot and inserted for its supposed comic value.
Suggestively though, the child’s name is ‘William’ and the humour is at the
expense of both his Welsh schoolmaster and the type of Latin exercises found in
the standard Tudor textbook, Lily’s
Grammar. This is about as hilarious as it sounds.
Ironically, children today must find studying
Shakespeare at least as dull as he found Lily, Cicero, Quintilian and the rest,
despite heroic efforts by the Shakespeare Comic Book Company. Quite what’s the
point of it all is open to question. After universal state education was
introduced by the Education Act of 1870, the aim was to provide working class
children with basic literacy and arithmetical skills before a life of drudgery
in factories or domestic service.
It’s obvious that one key aspect of modern education is
to keep children off the street and reasonably occupied while their parents are
at work. And for all their logos, mottoes and inspiring mission statements in
glossy brochures, it’s doubtful how much real learning takes place in schools.
Pupils today are relentlessly tested, their teachers’ role so prescribed that
there is little room for flexibility, innovation or fun.
Should schools be about fun? Mine wasn't. Sent to a
boarding school at the age of eleven I found it the usual combination of
freezing dormitories, ghastly food and routine bullying. Discovering AS Neill
and Summerhill, I decided I should have been sent there instead, but somehow
this never happened.
Summerhill was the experimental school set up by Neill in
the 1920s in which the child was autonomous, even the youngest having an equal
vote in the school council which determined basic policy. Lessons were optional
and children were left to occupy their days as they chose. In his late book, Summerhill, he argued that ‘a child is
innately wise and realistic. If left to himself without adult suggestion of any
kind, he will develop as far as he is capable of developing.’
He also took the view conventional schools with their insistence
on uniforms and regimentation with all their ‘interference and guidance on the
part of adults’ could ‘only produce a generation of robots.’ His ambition was
to produce happy children and Neill said he would rather a child grew up to
become a happy street cleaner than a neurotic scholar. He also said he would
consider himself a failure if any of his pupils went on to become prime
minister. So far this has yet to occur.
Much of his philosophy now seems slightly bonkers, but
Neill’s aim to produce happy children begins to seem more reasonable when
contrasted with the experience of modern school students – growing numbers of
whom are reported to become depressed, self-harm, develop eating disorders or
even attempt suicide, in part due to the pressures of continual testing.
Sir Ken has likened the system to a protracted process of
university entrance exam. Which is fine for academic children destined for
university, but inappropriate for those who would rather work with their hands,
play football or sweep roads.
Would society be better off if schools merely produced
happy adults rather than tormented individuals who hated themselves but
produced great art or a cure for AIDS? Under the present regime we might end up with a
generation of creative people who are balanced, happy souls. But what if all we
get is miserable men and women who hate the thought of art and never want to
look at a test tube?
Perhaps Sir Ken is right and schools should turn into
dance studios. On the other hand, anyone who has ever seen me dance might
favour a return to early starts, daily beatings and Quintilian.
