It would be a strange thing if the public schools of the country gave
entire satisfaction. They are so numerous, they cost so much, such large
hopes are built on them, they so pervasively affect the most sensitive
social regions—those of the family—that a very large amount of criticism,
a huge aggregate of discontent, would be properly and naturally expected.
The wonder is that there is so little dissatisfaction. Perhaps the
most sensitive spot just now is the pass examinations—or the system of
regulating the rise of pupils from one department to another. It is
affirmed, for example, that in New York and other cities the teachers
are constantly employed in coaching their pupils for examinations. It
is declared that there is very little of proper teaching, that most of
the work is simply cramming for the sake of passing, and that the pupils
really learn very little, and are not in any proper sense being educated.
The whole mass of these children are being crowded up a stairway—and the
getting up, by whatever means, into the higher grades is the sole object
of teachers and pupils.
It is easy to see that there must be much use of the spirit of emulation,
and the pride of standing, in teaching great masses of young people.
There are owlish philosophers who would have children and young people
act from the motives that are supposed to regulate the lives of their
grandfathers. A public school boy or a college boy is often, perhaps
commonly, spoken of as though he were a companion of Socrates and George
Washington. This kind of critic assumes that the lad knows all wisdom
and only needs to select some bits of knowledge and chew them with the
relish of a Plato. The critic can not put himself in the boy’s place.
He can not realize that the boy does not know everything, and does not
much care to learn anything. This critic has the practical teacher at
a great advantage; knowing boys and girls as saints and philosophers,
he can condemn the practical instructor who has never met any such boys
and girls. The teacher wants to get work out of his pupils; and he goes
about it practically, and does get the work done. At the end of his work,
the pupils are doubtless very unsatisfactory. In fact, we are all of us,
always more or less unsatisfactory.
In New York, there is no doubt that the pass system has developed
some bad features. Perhaps some trace of these features will be found
everywhere in graded schools. It would be difficult to secure ambitious
and industrious pupils without running some risks. You must awaken the
desire to rise, even though the desire to rise dishonestly may develop
itself in some pupils.
The gravest charge against the schools is that they kill the pupils with
hard work. Every city has its story of a pupil (always a girl) murdered
by the severe tasks of the school. The simple truth is that negligent
mothers are more guilty than the schools. It is a mother’s business to
know all about her children—to know when they are overworked—and it is
also the mother’s duty to put a stop to hurtful work. We do not hire
teachers to take the place of parents. We could not afford to pay enough
teachers for this service. The public school system assumes that mothers
attend to their duties, and retain their authority. If school work is
hurtful to a young girl, the mother has the right to remove the child
from the school. If _she_ does not find out that the work is too hard,
how can she expect the teacher to discover it? The general health of
public school children proves that the system is not too severe; but it
will often happen that young girls are physically unfit for study. It is
the business of their mothers—not of their teachers—to know when such
disabilities exist.