THE TRUE ETHICS OF CRIBBING
The boy who thus exhausts in ragging the residue of energy that the
football field allows him, has, it follows, to be careful not to burn
the candle at both ends. He has to spare himself, and to spare himself
he abandons the spasmodic cribbing of his first year's summer
examination for sustained, systematic methods. Now the true ethics of
this subject are as little understood as those relating to any other
sphere of public school life. Cribbing is generally regarded as a
dishonest practice to which only the ignoble few have regular resort.
The habitual cribber is as morally lost as a thief. For what, after all,
is cribbing, say our aunts, but the stealing of marks from your
companions. 'When you crib,' they tell us, 'and say that you are not
stealing, you argue from the standpoint of the housemaid who would
return conscientiously the sixpence you have left on your
dressing-table, but would not think twice of filling a medicine bottle
with your best brandy and handing it over to her young man.' While we
are at our Preparatory Schools we are inclined to agree with this. We
ourselves would never think of cribbing. At a Preparatory School it is
not done. But at a Public School we learn otherwise. To the public
school boy cribbing is not dishonest. It is not wrong, because it is not
anti-social. There are no doubt somewhere, if we could discover them,
fixed immutable standards of righteousness. But we have not found them
yet. In the meantime we are content to frame conventions that alter with
each generation to safeguard what we consider to be our comfort. We put
a thief in prison because we are anxious to protect our property. His
actions are anti-social. They are only anti-social, however, because we
happen to value our property. We should not object if he took from us
what we did not prize. It is thus indeed that the dustman earns his
living. And the public school boy does not usually set much greater
value on his marks than the housewife on her egg-shells.
I remember reading several years ago a short story that appeared in _The
Captain_. It was about an American who came to an English Public School.
On the result of a certain examination depended the position of head boy
in the house, and the American broke into the head master's study and
extracted the examination paper. The theft was, however, discovered, and
the American summoned to the head master's study for an interview that
was the certain prelude to expulsion. This fact was made known to him.
'Waal,' he said, 'I guess that's fair. My father often said to me when a
big bluff fails, it's down and out for the guy that misses.' The head
master was surprised. He appreciated the difference between a big bluff
and a piece of calculated deceit. He saw that the American had, because
of the atmosphere of business in which he had been brought up, a
standard different from his own. The American had honestly believed
himself to be attempting 'a big bluff.'
Now, in the world at large, ignorance of the law is no excuse. If it
were, law court procedure would be infinitely complex. At school,
however, the intention matters more than the result. The means are set
before the end. The head master in the story realised that the
American's offence was actually far less serious than it appeared, and
the American was not expelled.
In this case, of course, the theft of the examination paper was
definitely anti-social. It was a real theft. The American was
endeavouring to acquire a position that others valued through means not
at the disposal of his competitors. But this story, which appeared in a
paper the moral tone of which has necessarily to be above suspicion,
establishes officially the principle that the seriousness of an offence
depends largely on the attitude adopted to it by the offender. And
therein lie the true ethics of cribbing. What public opinion approves
cannot be anti-social. Only a few recognise the distinction between the
immoral and the anti-social. And public opinion is, on the whole,
inclined to condone cribbing.
Every boy is anxious to be a power in his house; he wants to be a
prefect, he looks forward to the day when he will be safe from
authority, will be, indeed, authority itself. But he knows that, without
unduly exerting himself in the class-room, he will be able to achieve
prominence through success at football. A house cap has to sit at the Va
table: as a second, probably, and certainly as a first, he will be
raised to the dignity of the dais; thence the process of seniority will
carry him quickly to his prefectship. It is assumed that by that time
the same process of seniority will have carried him to the Upper Fifth.
(It is hard to avoid being promoted once a year.) The hours spent in the
class-room are a dull setting for the vivid hues of the life that lies
outside it. Occasionally the setting is relieved by a bright patch of
colour--an ingenious rag, a successful piece of cribbing--but, on the
whole, it is dull and monotonous. A boy works spasmodically, sometimes
to get a promotion, sometimes to secure the good-will of a master he
admires, sometimes to reach a form where it will be only rarely
necessary for him to prepare his work. And he cribs more or less
consistently out of laziness, to avoid being bottled, to save himself
trouble, to be able to devote as much of his evening as is possible to
more sympathetic forms of employment. He does not consider he is doing
anything wrong. He knows that, if he is caught, he will be punished. But
then he sees the relationship of boys and masters as a long,
intermittent struggle, a game played in good faith, with fixed rewards
and penalties. He does not expect his conduct to be condoned officially.
His form master has set him so many lines of Virgil to prepare. It is
assumed that he will take an hour to prepare those lines properly.
However, with the help of Dr Giles's translation, he has managed to
prepare those lines satisfactorily in twenty minutes. He has gained,
therefore, forty minutes; naturally the master demands, and exacts, a
reparation. But his companions do not mind. And he regards as
anti-social only what will offend them. If he were a thief it would be
in their eyes that he would be guilty. But a theft only becomes criminal
when the injured party has taken proceedings against the offender. In
this case no proceedings have been taken. He has not been reported to
the head master, nor has he been kicked round the cloisters. He
considers himself to be innocent. Indeed, popular opinion is far more
likely to be directed against the boy who is scrupulously honest. His
behaviour may be anti-social.
There was a form, for instance, in which it was the custom for the boys
to correct their own papers and give up their own marks. They would pass
their papers to the next boy but two. The answers would be read out and
the marks awarded. When all the answers had been given the marks would
be added up. 'Any one over 90?' a couple of hands would rise. 'Any one
over 95?' one of the hands would sink. 'Right,' said the master. 'Divide
all marks by 11.' The names of the boys would then be read out in turn,
and the marks earned by each would be delivered by the corrector.
Now the correction of exercises and the addition of marks entails a
measure of labour, and no one does unnecessary work. It had become the
custom, therefore, to doze pleasantly while the answers were being given
out, to insert various hieroglyphics in the margin, and to return at the
conclusion an average total. The system had been in existence a long
while, and it was known that the top mark usually lay somewhere between
100 and 90; a top mark of over 110 or beneath 80 would rouse comment,
perhaps inspire investigation, and that was, of course, the last thing
the form desired. So that, when the form master said any one 'over 90'
some one on the front bench raised a hand. It happened in rotation more
or less; at the end of the term there was little to choose between the
top ten in the marks for those particular exercises. Certainly whatever
difference there was could be easily counteracted by superior
proficiency in some other field.
All went well till a certain Miller was promoted into this particular
form. Miller was a prig: he came from an undistinguished house. He was
excessively industrious. He had the prude's morality. He was desperately
honest. He corrected the papers passed to him accurately and gave up the
right mark.
During his first week in the form, when the top mark was 91, Miller gave
up 63. The form master was surprised; Miller had corrected the paper of
quite a senior member of the form. 'Really, Jones,' he said, 'I'm
surprised.' Jones also was surprised. After the lesson he expressed his
surprise with a well-aimed kick that landed Miller at the foot of the
second landing. He considered that no further explanation was required.
He was wrong.
The next day, when the top mark was 103 he received 57. On the occasion
of this second essay in originality the whole form decided to interest
itself in Miller's welfare. There was an informal meeting at the end of
the hour, in which Miller was given to understand that on this system
exercises had been marked in the Middle Fifth for upwards of twenty
years. Tradition had approved the system. The form was conservative. It
meant to uphold that tradition. In earnest of its intention it proceeded
to demonstrate what defensive method it would adopt. Miller made no
answer, but the next day he not only returned Jones's paper with 65 at
the head of it, but when a certain Burton announced that the paper he
had marked was worth 103, Miller said something to the effect that the
maximum was 93.
Such a thing had never happened before in the Middle Fifth. It was an
orderly form, but there was very nearly a popular demonstration.
Burton's honour had been questioned. The form master agreed that such an
imputation had not been made upon a boy during the five-and-twenty years
that he had sat in that class-room. 'We'll go through the questions one
by one and see what the maximum is.'
Now, luckily for Burton, the master had not kept a check upon the marks.
He had gone through question after question, saying after each: 'Now
let me see, I think that should be worth 10,' or 'that 15.' So that,
when he went through the questions again, he appealed, on each occasion,
to the head boy of the form. 'How many did I give you for that, Evans?'
And, on each occasion, Evans was generous.
Once Miller timidly suggested that for Question 6, 15 marks and not 30
had been the maximum, but there was a complete unanimity of opinion
among the rest of the form. 'Thirty, sir, certainly it was 30. It must
have been--I've got 23 down to Firth for that, sir.' Miller was
overruled.
The maximum was finally discovered to be 130. 'So you see, Miller,' said
the master, 'you've not only questioned Burton's word, but you've been
inattentive during the lesson. You will do me 200 lines, and if you will
hand me up Jones's paper I will correct it myself.' With this generous
addition to the maximum Jones received a heavy mark.
After such a disaster the form felt certain that Miller would bow to the
convention; but there is no limit to the obstinacy of the martyr: Miller
continued to mark according to order. He was kicked, but kicking was of
no avail. His own paper was undermarked. This, too, was unavailing.
Finally the form decided to accept him as an inevitable affliction. They
ceased to kick him. Each of the ten top boys took it in turn to sit two
places away from him so that no one person should suffer unduly from the
general evil. And the one who sat two places on the other side of
Miller had instructions to over-mark his paper so that he should be got
out of the form as speedily as possible. At the end of the term Miller
was promoted; and the Middle Fifth relapsed into its placid communal
existence.
Now Miller's conduct would no doubt appear worthy of the most intense
approval. He had behaved like the hero of the school sermon. He had done
what every new boy is adjured to do. He had taken a firm stand against a
dishonest practice. He had been bullied, but he had remained firm. His
honour had withstood the shock of his opponents. Such a splendid example
would shine like a candle in a dark cathedral, and from this simile the
preacher, as a runner reaching the straight, can stride into the rounded
periods of his peroration. 'If only others of you would light your
candle from that flame; if only in that large cathedral there were a
hundred burning candles instead of one, how soon would not the whole
building be filled with light. The beautiful tracery of the roof would
emerge from shadow. A soft glow would be shed on the strong carved
pillars. The brasses would glimmer on the wall. The splendid
architecture of the building would be plain. So is it with the human
soul.'
We have heard that sermon many times. Miller is a splendid handle for
rhetoric, but his behaviour remains anti-social. If it is wrong to place
oneself in a position of inequitable advantage, it is equally wrong to
place a rival in a position of inequitable disadvantage: and that is
what Miller had done. Jones had done his work as thoroughly and as
conscientiously as the others, but he had received lower marks for it,
because Miller had chosen to apply to it a standard that was not imposed
on that of his companions. It is not unfair in a hundred yards' sprint
to start a second before the pistol is fired if you know that the other
runners are going to do likewise, but it is hard lines on the one runner
who is compelled to wait for the proper signal. True morality plays an
insignificant part in business and competition. We all have different
ideas of what is sport. If W. G.'s much-criticised running out of Jones
in the Test Match of 1880 had taken place at a house match at school, we
can assume that W. G., whatever his batting average, would not have been
invited to play for the school again. What is moral and what is
anti-social become practically synonymous terms as long as every one
starts fair and plays the game by the same code of rules. No one must be
allowed opportunities that are not at the disposal of his opponents.
And, in the case of the Middle Fifth's corrections, the rules of the
game ordered generous marking and no great gulf between the first and
last. Miller played the game by different rules. The form was
righteously indignant. It is doubtful even whether Miller's immortal
soul drew sustenance from the conflict. It was probably confirmed in its
priggishness. Certainly Miller became, in the course of time, a highly
officious prefect. I do not know what fortune the 'romance of destiny'
may hold in store for him, but I can imagine that he will occupy some
post of prim, precise officialdom. He will create nothing. Whereas
Evans's opportunism is largely responsible for the rapidly increasing
market for Messrs. ----'s patent cookers.
The schoolmaster asserts that between himself and his form there exists
a compact of square dealing. But the signature of the form has not been
obtained, and it is an agreement every clause of which is very clearly
to the advantage of the schoolmaster and to the disadvantage of the
form. The form does not recognise the treaty. It refuses to commit
itself, and indeed in this singular document the true nature of cribbing
has not been defined. The exact line between cribbing and co-operation
has not been drawn. We are safe when dealing with 'con,' that is to say,
the translation of Greek or Latin into English. We know, for instance,
that boys are allowed to prepare their work together. Two brains are
better than one. Well and good. But, if two soldiers have to dig a
trench one uses the pick and the other the shovel. So it is with Latin
'con.' One boy looks up the meaning of the words in a dictionary; the
other unravels the sense. That means that the boy who looks up the words
never brings his mind to bear on the translation of the text. Yet such a
combination is accepted as fair by any master. And, once this
combination has been accepted, a master's position becomes logically
impossible. For it must be remembered that a schoolboy has a fairly
sound grasp of consecutive reasoning. He studies the theorems of
geometry. He struggles with the dialectic of Plato. He is capable, that
is to say, of following out to their logical conclusion such lines of
argument as will, in the end, assuage his conscience. He could
construct, for instance, an imaginary conversation between Socrates and
his form master.
_Soc._: You object, Mr. Featherbrain, to the cribbing that is prevalent
in your form?
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: Now, as I am inexperienced in this matter, never having been
myself to a Public School, perhaps you will be so kind as to make me
better acquainted with the methods adopted by these members of your
form.
_Mr. F._: Certainly. Some of the boys use English translations with
which to prepare their Virgil and Homer. Others copy the Greek prose of
their more clever companions, inserting, from time to time, certain
gross errors that they expect will throw me off the scent.
_Soc._: I understand. Now, in this matter of English translations: you
expect each boy to prepare his Virgil by himself, and to produce in form
the results of solitary unaided labour?
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: If, therefore, you discovered one boy asking another to explain
to him a difficult passage, you would punish him severely?
_Mr. F._: No. You have misunderstood me. I should not.
_Soc._: But how is that? Have you not just told me that each boy must
produce in form the results of solitary, unaided labour?
_Mr. F._: Certainly, but we allow boys to prepare their 'con' together.
_Soc._: I understand. On the assumption that two brains are better than
one, you permit two boys to unravel the sense together.
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: Now, if two people attempt a certain task, what procedure would
they follow? Would they not divide the task into two portions. If two
men are building a house one man stands at the top of a ladder and lays
the bricks that his companion, who is standing below, throws up to him.
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: Time would be wasted were each man to do the same work: that is
to say, were two ladders to be placed against the wall and were the two
men to descend and ascend the ladder carrying bricks to the top?
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: Therefore, we may assume that in all tasks that are undertaken
by two persons, the work is divided into two duties?
_Mr. F._: But I do not see, Socrates, that this line of reasoning has
any bearing on the subject we are preparing to discuss.
_Soc._: That may very well be, for, as I have told you, I am ignorant of
these matters and have come to you for guidance. It does seem to me,
however, that in this matter of translation, which is the discovery of
an unknown thing, the unknown may be divided into two parts.
_Mr. F._: How is that?
_Soc._: When a boy reads over the passage that he has to translate, two
things are unknown to him: the general meaning of the passage and
certain words in the passage. That is so, is it not?
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: Then do you not think that two boys, before setting out to
translate a passage, would make some arrangement by which one of them
should be responsible for unravelling the sense, while the other should
look up the unknown words in a dictionary.
_Mr. F._: It is possible.
_Soc._: And to which of the two would be entrusted the task of
unravelling the sense.
_Mr. F._: To the cleverer, undoubtedly.
_Soc._: Therefore the less clever would do the drudge work: that is to
say, he would never bring his mind to bear upon the passage: and the
imaginative work would be done for him by his companion.
_Mr. F._: It would seem so, Socrates.
_Soc._: Yet the system is approved as an honest one by the authorities
and the work of the drudge is accepted as solitary and unaided labour.
_Mr. F._: That is so, Socrates.
_Soc._: Now, is this task of translation limited to the co-operation of
two persons, or may three or more persons take their share in it?
_Mr. F._: As many persons may take their share in it as may
conveniently be crowded into a study measuring eight feet by four.
_Soc._: I understand. Suppose now that three persons are preparing a
passage together. We have agreed, have we not, that this work can be
divided into two duties only?
_Mr. F._: That is so.
_Soc._: Then what share of the work will the third partner take?
_Mr. F._: He will act as a reserve and will bring assistance to either
party when it is necessary.
_Soc._: But, to whom have we allotted the task of unravelling the sense:
to the cleverest, have we not? If the help of the third party, then, is
only requested when the cleverest finds himself in difficulties, does it
seem to you likely that the third party will succeed where one cleverer
than himself has failed?
_Mr. F._: It is unlikely.
_Soc._: And, if this third party is higher and more important than the
second party, it is unlikely, is it not, that he will content himself
with what we have admitted to be the drudge's work of looking up words
in a dictionary?
_Mr. F._: It is unlikely.
_Soc._: Then the third party will do nothing save profit by the industry
of his two companions, and the work that he will produce in the
class-room next day will, strictly speaking, be not his at all, but
theirs.
_Mr. F._: It would seem so, Socrates.
_Soc._: Now, let us take a further example. For I am anxious to discover
at what exact point the work that a boy produces in form will cease to
be, in the official eye, the result of solitary and unaided labour.
Suppose that the third party is a member of the Eleven, who has various
social duties: it is possible, is it not, that he would prefer to spend
over his translation less than the three-quarters of an hour that his
two companions require?
_Mr. F._: It is possible.
_Soc._: Then, is it impossible that he might arrange for the cleverer of
the two to come to him after breakfast and explain to him in twenty
minutes the meaning of the passage?
_Mr. F._: It is possible.
_Soc._: And such an arrangement would be accepted by you?
_Mr. F._: I do not see that I could object.
_Soc._: Now let us suppose that the cleverer of the two finds that he
will have to clean his corps clothes during the twenty minutes between
breakfast and chapel. He will feel himself bound in honour, and also by
fear, to translate the passage to the third party, but he will obviously
be unable to do it in person. Is it not likely, therefore, that he will
write out the meaning of the passage and hand it to the third party?
Would such conduct be unacceptable to you?
_Mr. F._: I do not know, Socrates.
_Soc._: But, surely in your own mind you have clearly defined the line
that separates what is honest from what is dishonest. Surely that is
your profession--to teach the young to distinguish between what is good
and what is not good?
_Mr. F._: That is so, Socrates.
_Soc._: Then do you see any real difference between hearing a
translation and reading a translation? Is there any difference between a
meaning that is apprehended through the ear and a meaning that is
apprehended through the eyes; for are not both eyes and ears channels
through which meanings are carried to the brain?
_Mr. F._: It would seem so, and, when you put it that way, I can
distinguish no essential difference.
_Soc._: Very good: then we have established that it is fair for a boy to
come to his study after breakfast, find in his hand a written
translation of his Virgil, and, with that written translation, prepare
in twenty minutes his morning's lesson.
_Mr. F._: It would seem so, Socrates.
_Soc._: If, however, he were to take from his drawer a printed
translation of Virgil, and with that prepare his morning's lesson, you
would consider him capable of dishonest behaviour and you would report
him to the head master.
_Mr. F._: Most certainly, Socrates.
_Soc._: In what, then, lies the essential difference between the printed
translation and the one that was copied out for him by his companion?
_Mr. F._: But that is surely obvious.
_Soc._: It is not to me, and it is for this reason that I seek
enlightenment of you. For to me it seems that the work produced in form
by the boy who has studied the printed translation is every bit as much
the result of solitary and unaided labour as that which is informed by
the study of a written translation. But is it that you appreciate a
difference between the written and the printed word?
_Mr. F._: Perhaps that is it, Socrates.
_Soc._: Then would you allow a boy during the holidays to copy out one
of Dr. Giles's aids to the classics?
_Mr. F._: Most certainly not.
_Soc._: Then it is not between the written and the printed word that the
difference lies?
_Mr. F._: It would seem not.
_Soc._: Then where does it lie?
_Mr. F._: I do not know, Socrates.
_Soc._: Then we must surely assume that there is no difference; and we
must further add that you have not dealt honestly with your form in so
severely punishing them for conduct that you, yourself, are not able
logically to condemn.
_Mr. F._: As ever, Socrates, you have succeeded in making me say what I
did not mean to say.
_Soc._: Then, in order that you may extricate yourself, let us consider
this question of the prose.
_Mr. F._: Certainly. For, here at least, my position is impregnable.
_Soc._: I, too, am certain of it, and, in order that I may know the true
nature of the offence, you will, I hope, permit me to ask you certain
questions. You say that the more stupid members of your form are in the
habit of copying the exercises of their more clever comrades?
_Mr. F._: That is so.
_Soc._: Now is it a rule that a boy may not give another assistance in
his Latin prose?
_Mr. F._: Certainly.
_Soc._: The position is not the same as that of the Latin translation,
where two boys were permitted to co-operate?
_Mr. F._: Certainly not.
_Soc._: I presume that you have explained to your form the essential
difference that exists between the nature of Latin 'con' and Latin
prose.
_Mr. F._: How do you mean, Socrates?
_Soc._: Why, surely, if in the preparation of Latin 'con,' which is the
translation of Latin into English, two boys are allowed to co-operate,
and, if in the preparation of Latin prose, which is the translation of
English into Latin, they are not allowed to co-operate, it follows that
there must be some essential difference in the nature of the two
studies.
_Mr. F._: It would seem so, Socrates.
_Soc._: It would certainly seem so, and this difference you have, no
doubt, made clear to your form, for, at present, I must confess myself
unable to discover in what it consists. The exercise of Latin prose as
of Latin 'con,' for each study is the translation of a language and the
correct rendering of the idiom of that language into the language and
idiom of another tongue, is no doubt intended to train, inform, and
quicken the intelligence. Each would appear to be branches of the same
study, and for each the same method of instruction should be employed.
You tell me, however, that there is between these two branches an
essential difference.
_Mr. F._: You are right, Socrates, and, though I cannot explain the
difference in so many words, its nature is plain to me.
_Soc._: Of that, Mr. Featherbrain, I am certain. I understand that you
apprehend this fine distinction as you apprehended the fine distinction
between the written and the printed 'crib.' We should consider, though,
whether this distinction is equally plain to your form. Such intuitive
knowledge may be denied to them, and, if they sin through ignorance,
their sin is slighter than if they sinned through knowledge. Tell me,
now, whether, if you overheard one member of your form say to another on
the way to chapel: 'I'm absolutely tied up with that piece of prose.
Shall I put it in O. R. or O. O.?' would you immediately report that boy
to the head master?
_Mr. F._: I should not.
_Soc._: You would no more report him than if you had overheard him
asking his friend to make clear to him a passage of Virgil that had
puzzled him.
_Mr. F._: That is so.
_Soc._: Do you not think, therefore, that the boy who knows he is
allowed to ask for help in his Latin 'con,' and who does not know for
what reason he is not allowed to ask for help in his Latin prose, who
has never, that is to say, been able to apprehend the fine difference
between the nature of the two studies, is likely to consider that the
same technique is permissible for both branches, and would not that
third party of whom we spoke and who is in the habit of getting his
Latin 'con' done for him by his friend, consider himself morally
justified in accepting the same assistance in his Latin prose?
_Mr. F._: But I have told him that it is not allowed.
_Soc._: Certainly, but good can only come from a reasoned knowledge of
what is good, and you have not explained to him in what his fault
consists. Moreover, if you have granted him permission to seek advice in
small matters, you must tell him at what exact point the thirst for
information becomes dishonest; a line must be drawn between what is good
and what is bad. Is a boy responsible for a percentage of his prose,
and, if so, for what percentage. Have you made these things plain to
him?
_Mr. F._: I have not, O Socrates.
_Soc._: Then how do you expect the unformed mind of a boy to draw this
line for himself. It would seem to me, Mr. Featherbrain, that you are
not training the youth as it should be trained, when you order its
conduct not by the results of logical deduction but by arbitrary ruling.
For if in your own mind you are not certain at what exact point the good
becomes the bad, and indeed are not certain of what the bad consists;
what confusion must you not expect to discover in the minds of those
that are taught by you. You must remember that on the football and
cricket field a boy is under orders which he accepts, but of whose moral
nature he is ignorant. He knows that if he is offside in football a free
kick is awarded to the other side; he knows that if he knocks the ball
forward with his hands a scrum is given. He has made a mistake. He has
committed a tactical, but not a moral offence. The rulings of the Rugby
Union are arbitrary and subject to frequent alteration; whereas the
rulings concerning what is good and what is bad are fixed and
irradicable. Is it not likely, therefore, that a boy will come to regard
your rulings in these matters of cribbing as arbitrary rulings that may
be altered. His life is a game, you must always remember that, and it is
on that basis that he accepts it. He knows that he will be punished if
he uses a crib; he knows that you appear to apprehend a distinction
between the written and printed word; he knows also that you have
discovered a difference in the nature of the studies of translation and
prose, and that while you will allow him to ask advice on certain points
you will not allow him to seek advice on the whole, though at the same
time you do not define the point at which these same certain points
cease to be certain points and become sufficiently part of the whole to
be called the whole. Can you expect him, then, to regard such a system
as anything but the complicated rulings of a game played between you and
him. And can you expect him to attach to these regulations any moral
significance. On the cricket field he places his leg in front of the
wicket and tries to hit a short length ball over square-leg's head. If
he misses the ball he is leg before, and goes to the pavilion. In his
study he prepares his translation with a crib; he is discovered by his
house master; he goes to the head master. And it is in this spirit, Mr.
Featherbrain, that your form deceives you. You have to make clear to the
young many things before you can expect them to attach a moral
significance to what has no logical proof.
There may be flaws in the argument, for the Socratic method is
insidious, but I have not, myself, been able to discover them. The
ethics of cribbing from the master's point of view are illogical. The
exact point where co-operation starts and cribbing begins is not fixed.
Cribbing goes by form and houses. Its activities expand and contract
according to the demands of popular opinion. It is always communal.
There is a conscription of intellect and knowledge. No boy would
prejudice his chances of winning his house cap; but most boys would
assist their most dangerous rivals in promotion. We hear in chapel sad
stories of the large and brutal bully who cribs steadily throughout the
term and wrests the prize from the pure innocent who looked up every
word in a large Lewis & Short. But it rarely happens like that. No one
cribs for a prize, because few really want a prize. Occasionally
cribbing wins a prize, but it is usually through a fluke.
A boy is particularly nervous about the results of a certain paper. He
takes elaborate precautions to make sure that he will not have to spend
the last Saturday of term rewriting the paper, and, in consequence,
unexpectedly discovers himself at the head of the list. I recall one
such instance in particular, and, because it seems to me so singularly
appropriate, I may be pardoned, I trust, for retelling a story that I
have incorporated elsewhere.
Divinity in the army class was a casual affair; a knowledge of the Old
Testament not being considered a necessary part of the intellectual
equipment of a subaltern, the Sandhurst authorities did not examine
candidates on the subject, and both the form and its master regarded the
hour's lesson on Sunday morning as a pause in the exertions of the week.
The yearly divinity examination always occasioned, therefore, a measure
of panic among the soldiers, for the form master, when confronted with
irrefutable proofs of his own indolence, was in the habit of punishing
not only the form but himself by keeping in for two hours on the last
Saturday those of the form who had failed to score an adequate
percentage. During the preceding days feverish and spasmodic attempts
were made to cope successfully with the complicated relations of kings
and prophets. One year, however, the form was fortunate.
A certain Mallaby, while searching in the class-room just before lock-up
for a book he thought he had left there, saw lying among the papers on
the master's desk, the rough draft of the questions for the divinity
exam. In surprised delight he copied them all down. According to the
popular conception of schoolboy honour, Mallaby, being a potential
thief, would have kept the information to himself. Being a boy, however,
he imparted it to his companions. The form entered the examination room
in a mood of quiet confidence, and left it in a mood of deep content.
Two days later, however, it was announced that this year the annual
interest of a bequest would be devoted to a series of divinity papers
throughout the school. The next day Mallaby learnt that he was head of
the army class in divinity.
His conscience was fluttered. He could not, he felt, take a prize which
he would have won through cribbing. It would be dishonest. It would be
stealing. He announced his intention of explaining matters to the chief.
This announcement was not, however, received with the enthusiasm that
should have welcomed the imminence of so noble, so disinterested, so
sacrificial a performance. The form was indeed seriously perturbed. It
explained to Mallaby that, if he went to the chief, he would be queering
not only his own pitch, but theirs as well, and that there were certain
members of form who did not stand well enough in the eyes of authority
to be able to risk such an addition to their score of discovered crimes.
'And, after all,' they said, 'why shouldn't you take the prize? We all
knew the questions; you took the trouble to prepare them. You worked
hard, and prizes are the reward of hard work. You've worked for the
prize, harder than we did. Therefore you deserve the prize. And let's
have no more of this nonsense about confession.'
In these matters each form and each house works out its own salvation.
In some houses cribbing is not general, and in some forms cribbing is
not general; and, in such cases, cribbing is anti-social. It might be
urged that boys from houses that do not crib find themselves at a
disadvantage in relation to boys from houses that do. But life usually
manages to adjust itself, and a boy's position in form is chiefly
important as regards the relation it bears to that of the other members
of his house. It does not matter much to a boy in the school house if he
is passed by a boy in Buller's. It will not affect his seniority in his
own house, and it is his seniority in his own house that matters. Only a
very few are concerned with the specialised rivalry of the Upper Sixth
that decides who will be the official head of the school. Scholastically
the ambition of few passes outside their house. In games it is
different. But then the eleven is not a fluid body like the Sixth; it is
a close corporation, and once the reputation of being the best slow
left-hand bowler is lost, the chance of a ribboned coat grows distant.
I remember once a parson from the East End preaching a sermon in the
school chapel, in which he intimated that in comparison with the
loathsome atrocities that had for setting the Mile End Road, a schoolboy
merely played at sin. This was reassuring to certain genial sportsmen
who had hitherto been unable to view with any confidence the prospect of
immortality: and the phrase 'playing at sin' passed into the vocabulary
of the school. To such an extent, indeed, that the head master was
forced to deliver a special midweek address, in which he pointed out
that the degree of sin was relative to environment, and that the moral
offences of a man who had been nurtured in surroundings of bestiality
and filth were less grave than those of the boy who had spent his
childhood in the clean atmosphere of a decent home. The complacence of
the aforesaid sportsmen was broken. Not only were their offences as
serious as those of their less fortunately placed brethren, they were
actually more grave: a disquieting reflection. But I have often felt
inclined to question, not the irrefutable logic of the head master's
sermon, but the truth of that original contention about 'playing at
sin.' Are, that is to say, the vices of the lower orders actually more
startling than those of Mayfair? Are they more startling? I wonder: a
higher standard of civilisation refines our pleasures, quickens our
powers of appreciation, makes us more subtle, more complex; does it not
also sharpen the edge of misbehaviour? It is a point on which perhaps
Casanova would be able to enlighten us. But, certainly, in the matter of
cribbing, the methods of the lower forms are clumsy, unimaginative,
bourgeois in comparison with those of the Fifths and Sixths.
A master who expects to discover in the Third the guile of the Fifths
will be disappointed; and, equally, the master who has successfully
combated the guile of the Lower Second may discover himself completely
outwitted by the Middle Sixth. In the Lower School the use of the actual
crib is rare. It is easy for the Sixth Former to possess himself of a
translation. The Everyman series contains excellent renderings of
Thucydides and Plato. The Loeb library is not useless. Gilbert Murray
may be a poet, but his translations of Euripides have proved of
assistance to many a harassed student. Jebb's version of Sophocles is to
be found in the shelves of the school library. It is a different job to
find a crib of Ovid and Livy. Dr. Giles has done some excellent research
work, but questions are apt to be asked about bona fide students; an
address such as 'The School House, Fernhurst,' is likely to wake
suspicion, and the Third Former has not read enough French novels to
appreciate the value of the _poste restante_. He considers that a crib
is more trouble than it is worth. And what is cribbing but laziness!
Moreover, he has a distrust of cribs. He is naturally stupid or he would
be higher in the school, and he knows that when a boy gives the right
meaning to the wrong words there are unpleasant investigations. He
prefers to rely on the inspiration of the moment: as a result the
offences of the Lower Second are trivial. They rarely reach the green
baize of the head master's study. One boy looks over another's paper,
another is prompted during 'con,' there is a strange similarity between
two Latin proses, an unusual mistake is repeated in several exercises.
The offender is beaten afterwards, and no more is heard about it. As a
matter of fact there is less cribbing in the Lower School than in the
Upper. Opportunities are rare and the example of hardened criminals is
absent. The second yearer only becomes a practised deceiver under the
influence of his seniors, and there are not many third yearers in the
Lower School. Higher up it is different. But it is to be doubted whether
the effects of cribbing are as serious as they are depicted.
The case against them comes under two main headings: (1) The moral
issue; (2) The expediency issue. With the moral issue I have already
dealt. Most boys crib at school, but the public school man is straighter
in business than the self-made man and the American. Nearly all men will
boast in their clubs of the way they bamboozled 'old Moke,' of how they
pinned up the rep. on the back of the boy in front, and of how they used
to strip off the cover of the translation book and sew it round one of
Dr. Giles's publications; but the man who has forced a young inventor
into a hard contract remains silent. It is a matter that he prefers to
keep to himself. I do not believe that cribbing saps the moral sense.
The expediency issue is more complicated. And, on the surface, it does
seem that the use of a crib is the very worst thing for a boy who hopes
to win scholarships and fellowships. It is a short cut. He does not
need to use his brain. His thinking is done for him. That is true, but
there are points on the other side. He is set fifty lines of Virgil to
prepare. If he comes into form next morning with those lines half learnt
he will derive little benefit from the hour's lesson. The whole time he
will be worrying at the sense. He will not be able to give his full
attention to the points of grammar and history that will arise in the
course of the hour. If, on the other hand, he is free from the anxiety
of failure he is able to give his full attention to what is perhaps the
more important part of the lesson. Also a boy remembers what he has
worked out for himself; and a crib used intelligently provides just
enough struggle to impinge the result of the effort on the memory. And
the wise do use a crib intelligently. They not only want to know their
'con' for the next day: they also wish to be able to remember it for the
examination. They, therefore, read a sentence over first in the
original. Some one wonders what a certain word means. The word is looked
up. Then a shot is made at the sense, not a very serious shot perhaps,
and speedy reference is made to the crib. The English is read out loud.
'Now, how does he get that out of it?' some one asks. There is a minute
of tussle and explanation--then all is clear. And the next sentence is
read out loud.
That is the way to use a crib. And if one has worked out for oneself,
even if it be with the aid of a crib, the meaning of a long passage of
Virgil, one remembers that passage. I have forgotten now nearly all my
Greek and Latin, but I can still read currently and with pleasure the
Eclogues, for which I used a crib. Whereas the memory of other books,
through which I struggled honestly, but less successfully, has faded
altogether. For the average member of the Sixth I believe the
intelligent use of a crib is to be recommended. A greater number of
lines could be prepared at one time, and there would be leisure for
acquiring that knowledge that comes to us indirectly from the classics.
Plato is a window through which we see the gymnasiums of Ancient Greece.
But it will be shuttered for those to whom the struggle is ever with
correct rendering and syntax.
The real scholar, whose life will be spent largely with the classics,
must avoid short cuts; he should glory in difficulties that will quicken
his wits: he has his whole life before him. He does not have to pass, as
the rest of us do, swiftly into a world of politics and business. And,
indeed, the real scholar realises this. I can recall few instances in
which a boy with a really fine brain has deadened his perceptions by the
use of translations. The scholar, when he reaches the Sixth, and is no
longer forced to write the proses and prepare the translations of his
less clever comrades, prefers to work alone, if not in the company of
boys who are equally brilliant.
But the real scholar is the exception. This book is written for, and
about, the average schoolboy. I know that in the matter of cribbing I
am pleading a lost cause. Cribbing will always, of course, be a
forbidden thing; therein lies its charm. But it is important that master
and parents should realise in what light these questions appear to the
boy. A boy is frequently misunderstood. He is accused of dishonesty. He
resents the accusation, but he is unable to explain why his offence does
not deserve so stern a label. He is tempted to lose heart, to console
himself with the reflection that 'they don't understand,' and so further
estrange himself from sympathy and mutual understanding. The boy stands
before the house master and lets the wind of words flow over him. What
use is it for him to attempt an explanation. If he argues his punishment
will be increased. It is better to assume contrition; to say, 'Yes, sir,
I hadn't seen it in that light before,' and to be more clever another
time. It would be far more just were the master to regard cribbing as a
boy regards it: as a game, to be punished effectively when discovered,
but not to be associated with the welfare of the human spirit.
If school authorities wish, however, to find a lasting cure they have in
their own hands the remedy. They will not achieve their ends through
increased vigilance; that will only make the boy more clever. They
should make work more interesting. There is little cribbing in form
where boys are interested in what they are learning. Boys are not
anxious to learn what a master is not anxious to teach. Laziness begets
laziness, and cribbing is a form of laziness.
Systematic cribbing will not disappear till popular opinion regards as
important success or failure in the class-room. Success at games is
considered important; games are, in consequence played fairly. But, as
popular opinion sets no value on school work, it does not seem to matter
much what happens in school hours. Success in form needs to be brought
into some sort of relationship with success at football. Athletic
prowess will always, naturally, and perhaps rightly, be rated more
highly than intellectual achievement. But that is no reason why
intellectual achievement should be disparaged in the case of all save
the brilliant few whose feats are received with a mild enthusiasm. At
Sandhurst we used to have weekly examinations, and, as far as I
remember, there was no cribbing at all in these exams. To a certain
extent promotion depended on one's performance in them, and each G. C.
was anxious to work out the problems for himself so as to be able to
judge how much, or how little, progress he had made. This did not mean
that we were more interested in topography than late cuts, but that we
realised that, at this stage of our career proficiency in topography
would be of service to us. I believe that a similar state of affairs
would exist at a Public School were the social values to be readjusted.
Cribbing, like so much else in public school life, is a side-shoot of
athleticism.