"Young man," he said severely, "one day you will realise that work and
knowledge and discipline are of supreme importance. Look at the
Germans!"
He waved his hand in the direction of the sideboard, and I looked round
hastily.
"Look what Germany has done with work and knowledge and discipline!"
"Then why all this bother to crush a State that has all the virtues?" I
asked diffidently.
"It isn't the discipline we are trying to crush; it is the militarism."
"Good!" I cried, "I'm glad to hear it. That's what I want to do in
Scotland; I want to crush the militarism in our schools, and, as most
teachers call their militarism discipline, I curse discipline."
"That's all rubbish, you know," he said shortly.
"No it isn't. If I leather a boy for making a mistake in a sum, I am no
better than the Prussian officer who shoots a Belgian civilian for
crossing the street. I am equally stupid and a bully."
"Then you allow carelessness to go unpunished?" he sneered.
"I do. You see I am a very careless devil myself. I'll swear that I left
your garden gate open when I came in, Mac, and your hens will be all
over the road."
Mac looked out at the window.
"They are!" he chuckled, and I laughed.
"You seem to think that slovenliness is a virtue," said Simpson with a
faint smile.
"I don't, really, but I hold that it is a natural human quality."
"Are your pupils slovenly?" he asked.
"Lots of 'em are. You're born tidy or you aren't."
"When these boys go out to the workshop, what then? Will a joiner keep
an apprentice who makes a slovenly job?"
"Ah!" I said, "you're talking about trade now. You evidently want our
schools to turn out practical workmen. I don't. Mind you I'm quite
willing to admit that a shoemaker who theorises about leather is a
public nuisance. Neatness and skill are necessary in practical
manufacture, but I refuse to reduce education to the level of cobbling
or coffin-making. I don't care how slovenly a boy is if he thinks."
"If he is slovenly he won't think," said Simpson.