One of the most pathetic spectacles in the world is that of grown-up persons legislating for the young. Listening to these, we are led to suspect that a certain section of the human race--the legislative section--must have been born into the world aged about forty, sublimely ignorant of the requirements, limitations, and point of view of infancy and adolescence. In what attitude does the ordinary educational expert approach educational problems? This question induces another. What is an educational expert? The answer is simple. Practically everybody. All parents are educational experts: we have only to listen to a new boy's mother laying down to a Headmaster the lines upon which his school should be conducted to realise that. So are all politicians: we discover this fact by following the debates in the House of Commons. So are the clergy; for they themselves have told us so. So, presumably, are the writers of manuals and text-books. So are the dear old gentlemen who come down to present prizes upon Speech Day. Practically the only section of humanity to whom the title is denied are the people who have to teach. It is universally admitted by the experts--it is their sole point of agreement--that no schoolmaster is capable of forming a correct judgment of the educational needs of his charges. He is hidebound, "groovy"; he cannot break away from tradition. "What can you expect from a tripe-dresser," inquire the experts in chorus, "but a eulogy of the stereotyped method of dressing tripe?" So, ignoring the teacher, the experts lay their heads--one had almost said their loggerheads--together, and evolve terrific schemes of education. Each section sets about its task in characteristic fashion. The politician, with his natural acumen, gets down to essentials at once. "The electorate of this country," he says to himself, "do not care one farthing dip about Education as such. Now, how can we galvanise Education into a vote-catching machine?" He reflects. "Ah! I have it!" he cries presently. "_Religion!_ That'll ginger them up!" So presently an Education Bill is introduced into the House of Commons. Nine out of its ten clauses deal purely with educational matters and are passed without a division; and the intellectual teeth of the House fasten greedily upon Clause Number Ten, which deals with the half-hour per day which is to be set aside for religious instruction. The question arises: What attitude are the youth of the country to be taught to adopt towards their Maker? Are they to praise Him from a printed page, or merely listen to their teacher doing so out of his own head? Are they to learn the Catechism? Is the Lord's Prayer to be regarded as an Anglican or Nonconformist orison? Everybody is most conciliatory at first. "A short passage of Scripture," suggest the Anglicans; "a Collect, mayhap; and a few words of helpful instruction--eh? Something quite simple and non-contentious, like that?"