David Butterfield

It's a well-worn complaint that universities are dishing out firsts as never before. Today, a report by the Office for Students (OfS) confirms the true extent of 'grade inflation' at our universities: 124 of the 148 higher-education providers they assessed in England show ‘a statistically significant unexplained increase’ in the proportion of firsts and 2.1s awarded, compared with figures in 2010-11. Between 2011 and 2017, the average percentage of firsts and 2.1 degrees rose from 67 per cent to 78 per cent. The figures uniformly document the same upwards trend.

Should university students really feel ‘satisfied’? Or would we rather they felt challenged? For the honchos of higher education, the answer is clear — and alarming. The National Student Survey (NSS), which was introduced in 2005, collects data that allows crude comparisons to be made between universities. The survey asks 300,000 final-year undergraduates to answer 27 questions about their experience of teaching, academic support, assessment and feedback. Some of these are entirely unproblematic: all universities should want students to find that ‘staff are good at explaining things’, or that feedback on work has been ‘timely’. But others are double-edged.

You know where you are with a British street name. I don’t mean literally. I mean there’s a tacit humility to our islands’ hodonyms: they are short, simple and unpretentious. Not for us the long-winded commemorations of national heroes or local worthies: no Avenue du Révérend Père Corentin Cloarec or Burgemeester Baron van Voerst van Lyndenstraat. Our street names are soundest away from the city. The High Street is thriving: it’s the commonest name in England and Wales, while Main Street leads the field in Scotland. Great Britain has some 3,600 of the two. A ‘street’ used to refer to a properly paved road, a practice imported by the Romans for their great connecting roads (Watling, Ermine, Stane, Dere).

Although The Spectator (literally) defined ‘The Establishment’, it has never been its organ. In fact, it was founded as a vehicle for root-and-branch reform that sought from the outset to upend the establishment. Its first editor, the Scottish firebrand Robert Stephen Rintoul, argued that, in spite of the magazine’s pointedly chosen title, ‘It is difficult to be a mere spectator in times like these.’ Its pages complained bitterly about an out-of-touch establishment: that too many ‘of the bons mots vented in the House of Commons appear stale and flat by the time they have travelled as far as Wellington Street’. The remedy it sought was the Great Reform Act, whose passage in 1832 it helped secure.

Those dread words ‘Grammar schools’ are back in the news again. The education secretary, Damian Hinds, has today announced a new fund that will allow established academically selective schools, i.e. the 163 grammars clustered around the country, to found new ‘satellite’ schools. The proposal could increase pupil numbers at grammar schools by 16,000 over the next four years. The news has been met with the typical mixture of surprise and outrage; amidst the tried-and-tested to-and-fro, it is hard to find much reasoned and sustained argument. Everyone, it seems, knows where they – and everyone else – stand. But, dig a little deeper into the issues at stake, and Hinds is found to be asking the nation the two difficult questions it needs to answer.

Few sights are commoner in the second-hand bookshop than battered sets of the eighteenth-century Spectator. Common enough too is the misconception that these elegant octavos formed the first instalment of the magazine you are now browsing. A moment’s investigation will prove that the two are entirely distinct. Look closer, however, and the modern Spectator reveals how much inspiration it drew from its predecessor – and not just in name. Although the original Spectator flourished so briefly, emerging on 1 March 1711 before disappearing on 6 December 1712, its influence was instant and immense. After the Bible, no prose work was as ubiquitous in Georgian libraries. The collection of 555 diurnal essays delighted readers with urbane observations on matters trivial and serious.

2018 will doubtless be a stiff test for the UK – but there’s nothing new in that. When The Spectator ushered in 1847, for instance, its founder and editor R.S. Rintoul (1787-1858) used that year’s opening column to outline the looming challenges and reaffirm the country’s urgent need of strong and capable leadership: The New Year opens for England with heavy clouds in the sky, but with no sunless horizon. Never did the country enter upon a year with more work to be done. Ireland alone presents a task without precedent: England has there to reorganize an old country... The progress of the new Free-trade policy has to be looked after. The public law of Europe is unsettled, and an eye must be kept on that.

'Since you’re here...we have a small favour to ask’. These words may ring a bell for you – or just sound the spam alarm, coming as they do at the end of any Guardian online piece. For times are hard in Graunville: in recent years, the Guardian has lost tens of millions annually and, as a result, the paper has got out the begging bowl. Now its editor, Katharine Viner, has announced the latest cost-cutting ruse: lopping the paper down – from January next year – to a tabloid format. This is a great shame. Viner claims that the shrinkage would preserve ‘the same amount of journalism’ and went on to justify the change by saying: The role of a newspaper in people’s lives is changing all the time.

Free trade hasn’t always been a British tradition. When the first issue of The Spectator hit the newsstands in July 1828, the country was firmly under the thumb of the Corn Laws. Introduced in 1815 to protect the vested interests of the land-owning classes, these measures propped up the price of British grain, artificially high since the disturbance of the Napoleonic Wars. Protectionism was proving profitable: in June that year, the palatial London Corn Exchange was opened; in July, Parliament readily approved the Duke of Wellington’s Corn Bill, which introduced a sliding scale of duties that continued to prohibit free access to foreign grain.

Founded in 1828, The Spectator has been proud to describe itself as ‘the oldest continuously-published weekly in the English language’. But this is rather modest, for it is both the oldest weekly magazine in the world, and the oldest general-interest magazine continuously in print. Yes, the internet is full of claims and counter-claims in this most competitive of fields, but the facts prove to be unambiguous. First things first. The oldest cultural and literary magazine that is still on the go is the Serbian monthly Letopis Matice srpske, which first appeared in 1825, three years before The Spectator. However, this magazine has had a number of breaks in publication: it didn’t appear in 1835-6, 1849 and 1942-5, a total of some six years.

Does anyone still care about handwriting? Although it was for centuries the medium and motor of daily life, handwriting has become, like public libraries and secondhand bookshops, a rare sight. One in three British adults now uses pens only to sign their names. Starved of opportunity, most people’s writing has regressed into a near-illegible scrawl. When even the leader of the opposition confesses that he can’t read his own writing, something is up. So should we cut our losses and follow Finland, which since 2015 has taught keyboard lessons in lieu of handwriting? Emphatically not. Handwriting remains the most cogent vehicle for personal expression. If we let the skill lapse, we all lose out.