“By juries and committees, by marks, and by appeals to a sense of honour, discipline was maintained. But this was done, I think, at too great a sacrifice. The thoughtlessness, the spring, the elation of childhood, were taken from us; we were premature men.... The school was, in truth, a moral hot-bed, which forced us into a precocious imitation of maturity. I have heard an Oxford friend say that Arnold’s men had a little of the prig about them. I know too well that some of us had a great deal of the prig about us. I have often wished that I had the ‘giftie to see ourselves as others see us;’ but I have comforted myself with observing that in later life my schoolfellows (perhaps, therefore, I myself) outgrew this unamiable character. The Hazelwood constitution, discipline, instruction, were in a perpetual flux: the right to-day was wrong to-morrow; we learnt to criticise and doubt everything established; ‘whatever is, is wrong,’ might have been our motto. We had a conceit that we could amend everything, from education to driving a horse. This constituted our priggism.” Rowland Hill as a schoolmaster was, in his way, as stern as Arnold. He voluntarily, indeed, gave up power, but he constantly held that a master must be first feared and then loved. He was certainly always feared by his pupils, and always respected; but he was never loved. Tender though his inward nature was, yet for their love he cared but little. He aimed at their welfare. In the discharge of the duty which he owed them, he was willing to make any sacrifice of his time, his liberty, and his pleasures. He ever strove to treat them with the strictest justice. But he asked for no return of their affection. Should he receive it, he was gratified; but was it refused him, he could do without it. No small insight into his character is given by the following passage in “Public Education”:—