A Junior Inspector called to-day. His subject was handwriting, and he
had theories on the subject. So have I. We had an interesting talk.
His view is that handwriting is a practical science; hence we must teach
a child to write in such a way as to carry off the job he applies for
when he is fourteen.
My view is that handwriting is an art, like sketching. My view is the
better, for it includes his. I am a superior penman to him, and in a
contest I could easily beat him. I really failed to see what he was
worrying his head about. What does the style matter. It is the art that
one puts into a style that makes writing good. I can teach the average
bairn to write well in two hours; it is simply a matter of writing
slowly. I like the old-schoolmaster hand, the round easy writing with
its thick downstrokes and thin upstrokes. I like to see the m's with the
joinings in the middle. The _Times_ copy-book is the ideal one--to me.
But why write down any more. The topic isn't worth the ink wasted.
* * *
I picked up a copy of a Popular Educator to-day. Much of the stuff seems
to be well written, but I cannot help thinking that the words "low
ideals" are written over the whole set of volumes. Its aim is evidently
to enable boys and girls to gain success ... as the world considers
success. "Study hard," it blares forth, "and you will become a Whiteley
or a Gamage. Study if you want wealth and position." What an ideal!
Let us have our Shorthand Classes, our Cookery Classes, our Typewriting
Classes, but for any sake don't let us call them education. Education is
thinking; it should deal with great thoughts, with the æsthetic things
in life, with life itself. Commerce is the profiteer's god, but it is
not mine. I want to teach my bairns how to live; the Popular Educator
wants to teach them how to make a living. There is a distinction between
the two ideals.
The Scotch Education Department would seem to have some of the
Educator's aspirations. It demands Gardening, Woodwork, Cookery; in
short, it is aiming at turning out practical men and women.
My objection to men and women is that they are too practical. I used to
see a notice in Edinburgh: "John Brown, Practical Chimney Sweep." I
often used to wonder what a theoretical chimney sweep might be, and I
often wished I could meet one. My view is that a teacher should turn out
theoretical sweeps, railwaymen, ploughmen, servants. Heaven knows they
will get the practical part knocked into them soon enough.
* * *
I have been experimenting with Drawing. I have been a passable
black-and-white artist for many years, and the subject fascinates me. I
see that drawing is of less importance than taste, and I find that I can
get infants who cannot draw a line to make artistic pictures.
I commence with far-away objects--a clump of trees on the horizon. The
child takes a BB pencil and blocks in the mass of trees. The result is a
better picture than the calendar prints the bairns see at home.
Gradually I take nearer objects, and at length I reach what is called
drawing. I ignore all vases and cubes and ellipses; my model is a
school-bag or a cloak. The drawing does not matter very much; but I want
to see the shadows stand out.
I find that only a few in a class ever improve in sketching; one is born
with the gift.
Designing fascinates many bairns. I asked them to design a kirk window
on squared paper to-day. Some of the attempts were good. I got the boys
to finish off with red ink, and then I pasted up the designs on the
wall.
I seem to recollect an Inspector who told me to give up design a good
few years ago. I wouldn't give it up now for anyone. It is a delightful
study, and it will bring out an inherent good taste better than any
branch of drawing I know. Drawing (or rather, Sketching) to me means an
art, not a means to cultivating observation. It belongs solely to
Aesthetics. Sketching, Music, and Poetry are surely intended to make a
bairn realise the fuller life that must have beauty always with it.
I showed my bairns two sketches of my own to-day ... the Tolbooth and
the Whitehorse Close in Edinburgh. A few claimed that the Whitehorse
Close was the better, because it left more out. "It leaves something to
the imagination," said Tom Dixon.
* * *
When will some original publisher give us a decent school Reader? I have
not seen one that is worth using. Some of them give excerpts from
Dickens and Fielding and Borrow (that horrid bore) and Hawthorne
(another). I cannot find any interest in these excerpts; they have no
beginning and no end. Moreover, a bairn does like the dramatic;
prosiness deadens its wee soul at once.
I want to see a Reader especially written for bairns. I want to see many
complete stories, filled with bright dialogue. Every yarn should
commence with dialogue. I always think kindly of the late Guy Boothby,
because he usually began with, "Hands up, or I fire!" or a kindred
sentence.
I wish I could lay hands on a Century Reader I used as a boy. It was
full of the dramatic. The first story was one about the Burning of
Moscow, then came the tale of Captain Dodds and the pirate (from
Reade's novel, _Hard Cash_, I admit. An excerpt need not be
uninteresting), then a long passage from _The Deerslayer_ ... with a
picture of Indians throwing tomahawks at the hero. I loved that book.
I think that dramatic reading should precede prosy reading. It is life
that a child wants, not prosy descriptions of sunsets and travels; life,
and romance.
I have scrapped my Readers; I don't use them even for Spelling. I do not
teach Spelling; the teaching of it does not fit into my scheme of
education.
Teaching depends on logic. Now Spelling throws logic to the winds. I
tell a child that "cough" is "coff," and logic leads him to suppose that
rough is "roff" and "through" is "throff." If I tell him that spelling
is important because it shows whence a word is derived, I am bound in
honesty to tell him that a matinee is not a "morning performance," that
manufactured goods are not "made by hand." Hence I leave Spelling alone.
At school I "learned" Spelling, and I could not spell a word until I
commenced to read much. Spelling is of the eye mainly. Every boy can
spell "truly" and "obliged" when he leaves school, but ten years later
he will probably write "truely" and "oblidged." Why? I think that the
explanation lies in the fact that he does not read as a growing youth.
Anyway, dictionaries are cheap.
* * *
To-night I sat down on a desk and lit my pipe. Margaret Steel and Lizzie
Buchan were tidying up the room. Margaret looked at me thoughtfully for
a second.
"Please, sir, why do you smoke?" she said.
"I really don't know, Margaret," I said. "Bad habit, I suppose ... just
like writing notes to boys."
She suddenly became feverishly anxious to pick up the stray papers.
"I wonder," I mused, "whether they do it in the same old way. How do
they do it, Margaret?" She dived after a piece of paper.
"I used to write them myself," I said. Margaret looked up quickly.
"You!" she gasped.
"I am not so old," I said hastily.
"Please, sir, I didn't mean that," she explained in confusion.
"You did, you wee bissom," I chuckled.
"Please, sir," she said awkwardly, "why--why are you
not--not-m-married?" I rose and took up my hat.
"I once kissed a girl behind the school door, Margaret," I said
absently. She did not understand ... and when I come to think of it I am
not surprised.
* * *
To-day was prize-giving day. Old Mr. Simpson made a speech.
"Boys," he said, "study hard and you'll maybe be a minister like Mr.
Gordon there." He paused. "Or," he continued, "if you don't manage that,
you may become a teacher like Mr. Neill here."
Otherwise the affair was very pathetic: the medallist, a girl, had
already left school and was hired as a servant on a farm. And old Mr.
Simpson did not know it; I thought it better not to tell the kindly
soul. He spoke earnestly on success in life.
I hate prizes. To-day, Violet Brown and Margaret Steel, usually the best
of friends, are looking daggers at each other. To-morrow I shall read
them the story of the Judgment of Paris. And what rubbish these books
are! There isn't a decent piece of literature in the bunch--_Matty's
Present_, _The Girl Who Came to School_. Jerusalem!