I.

"No reflections or opinions of a general character are to be entered in

the log-book."--Thus the Scotch Code.

I have resolved to keep a private log of my own. In the regulation

volume I shall write down all the futile never-to-be-seen piffle about

Mary Brown's being laid up with the measles, and about my anxiety lest

it should spread. (Incidentally, my anxiety is real; I do not want the

school to be closed; I want a summer holiday undocked of any days.) In

my private log I shall write down my thoughts on education. I think they

will be mostly original; there has been no real authority on education,

and I do not know of any book from which I can crib.

To-night after my bairns had gone away, I sat down on a desk and

thought. What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? These boys are

going out to the fields to plough; these girls are going to farms as

servants. If I live long enough the new generation will be bringing

notes of the plese-excuss-james-as-I-was-washing type ... and the

parents who will write them went out at that door five minutes ago. I

can teach them to read, and they will read serials in the drivelling

weeklies; I can teach them to write, and they will write pathetic notes

to me by and bye; I can teach them to count, and they will never count

more than the miserable sum they receive as a weekly wage. The "Three

R's" spell futility.

But what of the rest? Can I teach them drawing? I cannot. I can help a

boy with a natural talent to improve his work, but of what avail is it?

In their future homes they will hang up the same old prints--vile things

given away with a pound of tea. I can teach them to sing, but what will

they sing?... the _Tipperary_ of their day.

My work is hopeless, for education should aim at bringing up a new

generation that will be better than the old. The present system is to

produce the same kind of man as we see to-day. And how hopeless he is.

When first I saw Houndsditch, I said aloud: "We have had education for

generations ... and yet we have this." Yes, my work is hopeless. What is

the use of the Three R's, of Woodwork, of Drawing, of Geography, if

Houndsditch is to remain? What is the use of anything?

* * *

I smile as I re-read the words I wrote yesterday, for to-day I feel that

hope has not left me. But I am not any more hopeful about the three R's

and the others. I am hopeful because I have found a solution. I shall

henceforth try to make my bairns realise. Yes, realise is the word.

Realise what? To tell the truth, I have some difficulty in saying. I

think I want to make them realise what life means. Yes, I want to give

them, or rather help them to find an attitude. Most of the stuff I teach

them will be forgotten in a year or two, but an attitude remains with

one throughout life. I want these boys and girls to acquire the habit of

looking honestly at life.

Ah! I wonder if I look honestly at life myself! Am I not a very

one-sided man? Am I not a Socialist, a doubter, a heretic? Am I not

biassed when I judge men like the Cecils and the Harmsworths? I admit

it. I am a partisan, and yet I try to look at life honestly. I try ...

and that is the main point. I do not think that I have any of the

current superstitions about morality and religion and art. I try to

forget names; I try to get at essentials, at truth. The fathers of my

bairns are, I think, interested in names. I wonder how many of them have

sat down saying: "I must examine myself, so that I may find out what

manner of man I am." I hold that self-knowledge must come before all

things. When one has stripped off all the conventions, and

superstitions, and hypocrisies, then one is educated.

* * *

These bairns of mine will never know how to find truth; they will merely

read the newspapers when they grow up. They will wave their hats to the

King, but kingship will be but a word to them; they will shout when a

lawyer from the south wins the local seat, but they will not understand

the meaning of economics; they will dust their old silk hats and march

to the sacrament, but they will not realise what religion means.

I find that I am becoming pessimistic again, and I did feel hopeful

when I began to write. I _should_ feel hopeful, for I am resolved to

find another meaning in education. What was it?... Ah, yes, I am to help

them to find an attitude.

* * *

I have been thinking about discipline overnight. I have seen a

headmaster who insisted on what he called perfect discipline. His bairns

sat still all day. A movement foreshadowed the strap. Every child jumped

up at the word of command. He had a very quiet life.

I must confess that I am an atrociously bad disciplinarian. To-day

Violet Brown began to sing _Tipperary_ to herself when I was marking the

registers. I looked up and said: "Why the happiness this morning,

Violet?" and she blushed and grinned. I am a poor disciplinarian.

I find that normally I am very, very slack; I don't mind if they talk or

not. Indeed, if the hum of conversation stops, I feel that something has

happened and I invariably look towards the door to see whether an

Inspector has arrived.

I find that I am almost a good disciplinarian when my liver is bad; I

demand silence then ... but I fear I do not get it, and I generally

laugh. The only discipline I ask for usually is the discipline that

interest draws. If a boy whets his pencil while I am describing the

events that led to the Great Rebellion, I sidetrack him on the topic of

rabbits ... and I generally make him sit up. I know that I am teaching

badly if the class is loafing, and I am honest enough in my saner

moments not to blame the bairns.

I do not like strict discipline, for I do believe that a child should

have as much freedom as possible. I want a bairn to be human, and I try

to be human myself. I walk to school each morning with my briar between

my lips, and if the fill is not smoked, I stand and watch the boys play.

I would kiss my wife in my classroom, but ... I do not have a wife. A

wee lassie stopped me on the way to school this morning, and she pushed

a very sticky sweetie into my hand. I took my pipe from my mouth and ate

the sweetie--and I asked for another; she was highly delighted.

Discipline, to me, means a pose on the part of the teacher. It makes

him very remote; it lends him dignity. Dignity is a thing I abominate. I

suppose the bishop is dignified because he wants to show that there is a

real difference between his salaried self and the underpaid curate. Why

should I be dignified before my bairns? Will they scorn me if I slide

with them? (There was a dandy slide on the road to-day. I gave them

half-an-hour's extra play this morning, and I slid all the time. My

assistants are adepts at the game.)

But discipline is necessary; there are men known as Inspectors. And

Johnny must be flogged if he does not attend to the lesson. He must know

the rivers of Russia. After all, why should he? I don't know them, and I

don't miss the knowledge. I couldn't tell you the capital of New Zealand

... is it Wellington? or Auckland? I don't know; all I know is that I

could find out if I wanted to.

I do not blame Inspectors. Some of them are men with what I would call a

vision. I had the Chief Inspector of the district in the other day, and

I enjoyed his visit. He has a fine taste in poetry, and a sense of

humour.

The Scotch Education Department is iniquitous because it is a

department; a department cannot have a sense of humour. And it is humour

that makes a man decent and kind and human.

If the Scotch Education Department were to die suddenly I should

suddenly become a worse disciplinarian than I am now. If Willie did not

like Woodwork, I should say to him: "All right, Willie. Go and do what

you do like, but take my advice and do some work; you will enjoy your

football all the better for it."

I believe in discipline, but it is self-discipline that I believe in. I

think I can say that I never learned anything by being forced to learn

it, but I may be wrong. I was forced to learn the Shorter Catechism, and

to-day I hate the sight of it. I read the other day in Barrie's

_Sentimental Tommy_ that its meaning comes to one long afterwards and at

a time when one is most in need of it. I confess that the time has not

come for me; it will never come, for I don't remember two lines of the

Catechism.

It is a fallacy that the nastiest medicines are the most efficacious;

Epsom Salts are not more beneficial than Syrup of Figs.

A thought!... If I believe in self-discipline, why not persuade Willie

that Woodwork is good for him as a self-discipline? Because it isn't my

job. If Willie dislikes chisels he will always dislike them. What I

might do is this: tell him to persevere with his chisels so that he

might cut himself badly. Then he might discover that his true vocation

is bandaging, and straightway go in for medicine.

Would Willie run away and play at horses if I told him to do what he

liked best? I do not think so. He likes school, and I think he likes me.

I think he would try to please me if he could.

* * *

When I speak kindly to a bairn I sometimes ask myself what I mean (for I

try to find out my motives). Do I want the child to think kindly of me?

Do I try to be popular? Am I after the delightful joy of being loved? Am

I merely being humanly brotherly and kind?

I have tried to analyse my motives, and I really think that there is

little of each motive. I want to be loved; I want the bairn to think

kindly of me. But in the main I think that my chief desire is to make

the bairn happy. No man, no woman, has the right to make the skies

cloudy for a bairn; it is the sin against the Holy Ghost.

I once had an experience in teaching. A boy was dour and unlovable and

rebellious and disobedient. I tried all ways--I regret to say I tried

the tawse. I was inexperienced at the time yet I hit upon the right way.

One day I found he had a decided talent for drawing. I brought down some

of my pen-and-ink sketches and showed him them. I gave him pictures to

copy, and his interest in art grew. I won him over by interesting myself

in him. He discovered that I was only human after all.

Only human!... when our scholars discover that we are only human, then

they like us, and then they listen to us.

I see the fingers of my tawse hanging out of my desk. They seem to be

two accusing fingers. My ideals are all right, but.... I whacked Tom

Wilkie to-night. At three o'clock he bled Dave Tosh's nose, and because

Dave was the smaller, I whacked Tom. Yet I did not feel angry; I regret

to say that I whacked Tom because I could see that Dave expected me to

do it, and I hate to disappoint a bairn. If Dave had been his size, I

know that I should have ignored their battle.

* * *

I have not used the strap all this week, and if my liver keeps well, I

hope to abolish it altogether.

To-day I have been thinking about punishment. What is the idea of

punishment? A few months ago a poor devil of an engine-driver ran his

express into a goods, and half-a-dozen people were killed. He got nine

months. Why? Is his punishment meant to act as a deterrent? Will another

driver say to himself: "By Jove, I'll better not wreck my train or I'll

get nine months." Nine months is not punishment, but the lifelong

thought: "I did it," is hell.

I am trying to think why I punished Lizzie Smith for talking last

Friday. Bad habit, I expect. Yet it acted as a deterrent; it showed that

I was in earnest about what I was saying--I was reading the war news

from the _Scotsman_.

I am sorry that I punished her; it was weakness on my part, weakness

and irritation. If she had no interest in the war, why should she

pretend that she had? But no, I cannot have this. I must inculcate the

idea of a community; the bairn must be told that others have rights. I

often want to rise up and contradict the minister in kirk, but I don't;

the people have rights; they do not come out to listen to me. If I

offend against the community, the community will punish me with

ostracism or bitterness. We have all a right to live our own lives, but

in living them we must live in harmony with the community. Lizzie must

be told that all the others like the war news, and that in talking she

is annoying them. Yes, I must remember to emphasise continually the idea

of a corporate life.

* * *

I see that it is only the weak man who requires a strap. Lord Kitchener

could rule my school without a strap, but I am not Kitchener. Moreover,

I am glad I'm not. I do not want to be what is called a strong man. John

Gourlay, in _The House with the Green Shutters_ was strong enough to

rule every school in Scotland with Sir John Struthers superadded; yet I

do not want to be Gourlay. His son would have been a better teacher, for

he was more human. Possibly Kitchener is very human; I do not know.