THE PROFESSOR’S APPEAL.
Looking careworn and old, Professor Richardson called the first session
to order on Monday morning. The scholars and the two assistant
instructors were assembled in the big main room. Every one seemed to
feel that there was something unusual impending, and all eyes were
turned upon the sober face of the aged principal as he pushed his
gold-rimmed spectacles up upon his forehead and tapped gently but
authoritatively upon his desk.
“It becomes my duty to speak of an unpleasant matter,” said the
professor, in a voice a trifle husky from the effect of a cold. “For
some time I have felt that I would have to face this necessity. I have
held my present position with this institution for eighteen years, which
is a trifle more than one-fourth of man’s alloted span of life, three
score and ten—a very long time. When I took up my work here I scarcely
fancied it would continue so long, and at least twice in the earlier
years of my stay I had opportunities to go elsewhere in the same
capacity. One of these opportunities, the second which presented itself,
was very tempting, and I debated not a little with myself regarding the
advisability of accepting. At that time, however, I had just begun to
feel myself bound to Oakdale Academy by strong yet tender ties, and it
was my heart rather than my head which led me at last to decline the
alluring offer. I have now been here so long that Oakdale, more than any
other place I know, seems like home, and it is my hope to remain here
among my many kind friends as long as I live.
“Necessarily, there have been some unpleasant features in connection
with my services as principal of this academy, but, for the most part, I
am happy to say that pleasant memories predominate. Having felt that my
life work was to be teaching, I have ever sought to perform that work as
faithfully and thoroughly and conscientiously as possible. Nor do I
think I have neglected striving to enter into sympathy with my pupils; I
have always sought to understand their varying natures, to make
allowances for their natural faults and failings, and to encourage all
their worthy desires and ambitions. This is by far a more difficult
thing for a teacher than may seem possible to the youthful mind. The
difference in years, which must necessarily exist between instructor and
pupils, is bound to produce a pronounced difference in habits, methods
of thought and the viewpoint from which life in general is regarded, and
that instructor who has the ability always to put himself in sympathy
with the young mind beneath his guidance is indeed fortunate.
“In the last eighteen years athletics and allied sports, as relating to
schools and colleges, have made amazing progress. I will not enter into
a discussion as to whether such things have not obtained too powerful a
hold upon our modern institutions of learning, for that really has
little bearing upon what I wish to say. In my boyhood, baseball was,
indeed, a very crude sort of a game, and football was practically
unknown in this country. At the present time there is in America no
school or college of importance attended by males that does not have its
baseball and football teams; and other similar games, such as ice hockey
and basketball, have become amazingly popular, the latter even being
played by teams made up of girl students.
“I am aware that many young school instructors have fostered and
encouraged such tendencies, some of them even taking part in the
coaching of teams made up from their pupils. Nevertheless, had I myself
at one time been an enthusiast in such sports, I sincerely doubt if I
ever should have felt it either my duty or my place to follow the
example of such instructors. For it seems to me that there is, or should
be, a distinct dividing line over which the conscientious principal of a
school may not wisely step.
“I maintain that I am not prejudiced against any healthy, beneficial
sport or pastime in which students may indulge, unless it is carried to
that excess which threatens physical injury or infringes upon and
retards mental advancement. When, however, a student becomes so wrapped
up and absorbed in baseball that he neglects his studies and can seem to
think of nothing save the game that has fixed its subtle but damaging
grip upon him, I am of the firm belief that it is high time something
should be done. When I see naturally bright students falling back in
their classes, recklessly refusing to give a proper amount of time to
studies and openly declaring their resentment at the old fogy idea that
mental training is first and foremost the great object of all schools
for the young, I unhesitatingly assert that those boys are being injured
by the present craze for sport.
“It has been my purpose, as far as possible, to restrain such mistaken
fanaticism. As far as possible I have always tried to appeal directly to
the misguided boy himself, and up to the present term I pride myself
that I have succeeded fairly well. This spring, however, my task has
become more difficult, and my efforts have, I regret to say, produced
results far from satisfactory to me. I am aware that behind my back I
have been more or less derided by certain scholars. It has been all too
apparent that a new feeling of rebellion against interference from me
has crept into the school. This feeling has steadily increased, until of
late it has developed into downright defiance of my authority and
desires. It has affected discipline. It has led me at last to make this
direct appeal to you, scholars, as a body.
“Even if the day of corporal punishment had not practically passed, I am
sure, were I physically capable, I would not resort to such measures in
order to maintain discipline. Nevertheless, I will admit that there are
scholars to-day who cannot be reached by appeal or moral suasion, yet
who doubtless would be led to see the error of their ways by physical
suasion. They are generally the leaders in defiance of discipline; such
fellows as smoke upon the grounds and in the building, regardless of
rules or requests to desist; such as use bad language, absent themselves
from classes, or repeatedly appear in classes only to declare themselves
unprepared. With pernicious ingenuity they devise all sorts of methods
to break rules and regulations and to defy their instructors, whom they
foolishly seem to regard not as their friends but as their enemies.
“There are such boys in this school. They are fostering dissension,
defiance of authority, and are priming themselves and their associates
for downright and open rebellion. I think I know them all. If I chose, I
could give their names, but I will not do so—now. Not only is their
influence harmful in the classroom, but it is seriously injurious to
those with whom they associate outside the confines and hours of school.
One such lad may do an incalculable amount of injury to others. The
example of every human being is bound to have some effect upon those
with whom he associates, and they will be polluted, just as a clear
river is polluted by a foul tributary. Some of his worst self such a lad
pours into those with whom he comes in contact.
“There’s an old saying that boys will be boys. Boys can be boys and
still be decent. There is nothing reprehensible in the natural
boisterous high spirits of a vigorous young animal; it is only when such
high spirits and vigor is misdirected, that it becomes injurious. Many a
time, as I have watched a band of youngsters frolicking naturally in the
sheer joy of bounding youth, I have felt a tugging at my heartstrings
and a regret for that which the years have taken from me. Always,
however, when they have been my scholars, there has been a sort of deep
pleasure and satisfaction mingled with that regret; for it has seemed
that, in a way, they were a part of my life, and that my association
with them repaid me in a measure for the loss of that splendid thing
which time had filched from me.
“But when I have known that certain scholars were breaking rules and
defying authority with malicious perverseness, I have felt more than
resentment or anger—I have felt sorrow. When I have seen, as has
sometimes happened of late, my boys banding together at night upon
street corners, behaving offensively, moving surreptitiously, betraying
by unmistakeable signs that they were engaged in stealthy and secret
purposes, my alarm and distress has overcome both anger and sorrow. I
have not known just what was taking place, but I have felt that there
were things happening which ought not to happen. I have felt sure,
likewise, that something bad was bound to come of it.
“This brings me to speak of Roy Hooker. I am sure you all know about
him. Roy is not a bad boy, his inclinations are not pernicious, yet I am
aware that he has been associating with those who could do him no good.
On Saturday night, at a late hour, he met with an injury—an injury from
which, perhaps, he may never recover. This injury was inflicted by one
or more blows upon the head, and it seems to have deprived him of the
power of speech and memory. Since that time he has scarcely spoken half
a dozen coherent words. It is not at all probable that Roy was injured
in this manner while alone, yet up to the present time no associate of
his has had the manhood to come forward and tell precisely how it
happened.
“This seems to me evidence enough that Roy was hurt in a manner that was
regarded as shameful, if not actually criminal. Otherwise, why should
the person or persons with him at the time take so much pains to prevent
the truth of the matter from becoming known? Whoever they were, they
have shown a lack of courage that seems absolutely cowardly. I’m certain
there’s not one of them who does not carry in his breast a tortured
conscience, and this is one of the most certain punishments for
wrong-doing. The evil-doer, if he possesses any of the finer human
sensibilities, must always endure the writhings of a wounded conscience.
If Roy Hooker should not recover, those responsible for his condition
must bear all through life a sickening burden.
“Let us, however, hope for the best. I have talked with Dr. Grindle this
morning, and he encouraged me to believe that Roy would come through all
right. It is not impossible that he may recover sufficiently to-day to
tell precisely what happened. In that case, unless others come forward
without delay, it will be too late for them to escape the brand of
cowardice. It may require an amount of moral courage to confess the
truth, but such a confession will partly atone for the silence so far
maintained. Time is fleeting.”
But if Professor Richardson expected any of his scholars to come forward
at once with a confession he was disappointed; and, after several
minutes of waiting, during which he busied himself by pretending to
arrange some papers on his desk, he slowly returned his spectacles to
their usual place astride his thin nose and regretfully announced that
the regular course of the session would be taken up.