A Dominie in Doubt Part 2
When the argument about swine fever had died down, Dauvit turned to me.
"Aye, and how is Lunnon lookin'?"
"Same as ever," I answered.
"Ye'll have to tak' Dauvit doon on a trip," laughed the smith.
Dauvit drove in a tacket.
"Man, smith, I was in Lunnon afore you was born," he said.
"Go on, Dauvit," I said encouragingly, "tell us the story." I had heard it before, but I longed to hear it again. Dauvit brightened up.
"There's no muckle to tell," he said, as he tossed the boot into a corner and wiped his face with his ap.r.o.n. "It'll be ten years come Martimas. Me and Will Tamson gaed up by boat frae Dundee. Oh! we had a graund time. But there's no muckle to tell."
"What about Dave Brownlee?" I asked.
Dauvit chuckled softly.
"But ye've a' heard the story," he said, but we protested that we hadn't.
"Aweel," he began, "some of you will no doubt mind o' Dave Broonlee him that stoppit at Millend. Dave served his time as a draper, and syne he got a good job in a Lunnon shop. Weel, me and Will Tamson was walkin'
along the Strand when Will he says to me, says he: 'Cud we no pay a veesit to Dave Broonlee?' Then I minded that Dave's father had said something aboot payin' him a call, but I didna ken his address. All I kent was that he was in a big shop in Oxford Street.
"Weel, Will and me we goes up to a bobby and speers the way to Oxford Street. When we got there Will he goes up to another bobby and says: 'Please cud ye tell me whatna shop Dave Broonlee works intil?' At that I started to laugh, and syne the bobby he started to laugh. He laughed a lang time and syne when I telt him that it was a draper's shop he directed us to a great big muckle shop wi' a thousand windows.
"'Try there first,' says the bobby.
"Weel, in we goes, and a mannie in a tail coat he comes forart rubbin'
his hands.
"'And what can I do for you, sir?' he says to Will.
"'Oh,' says Will, 'we want to see Dave Broonlee,' but the man didna ken what Will was sayin'. It took Will and me twenty meenutes to get him to onderstand.
"'Oh,' says he, 'I understand now. You want to see Mr. Brownlee?'
"'Ye're fell quick in the uptak,' says Will, but of coorse the man didna ken what he was sayin'.
"He went to the backshop to speer aboot Dave, and when he cam back he says, says he: 'I'm sorry, but Mr. Brownlee has gone out to lunch.
Will you leave a message?'
"Will turned to the door.
"'Never mind,' says he, 'we'll see him doon the toon.'"
In reading my _Log_ I am appalled by the amount of lecturing I did in school. Since writing it I have visited most of the best schools in England, and I found that I was not the only teacher who lectured. But we are all wrong. I fancy that the real reason why I lectured so much was to indulge my showing-off propensities. To stand before a cla.s.s or an audience; to be the cynosure of all eyes; to have a crowd hanging on your words . . . . all showing off! Very, very human, but . . . . bad for the audience.
When a teacher lectures he is unconsciously giving expression to his desire to gain a feeling of superiority. That, I fancy, is the deepest wish of every one of us . . . . to impress others, to be superior. You see it in the smallest child. Give him an audience, and he will show off for hours. The boy at the top of the cla.s.s gains his feeling of superiority by beating the others at arithmetic, while the dunce at the bottom of the cla.s.s gains his in more original ways . . . punching the top boy at playtime, scoring goals at football, spitting farther than anyone else in school. I have seen a boy smash a window merely to draw attention to himself, and thus to gain a momentary feeling of superiority.
And we grown-ups are boys at heart. The boy is the father to the man.
Take, for instance, a childish trait--exhibitionism. Most children at an early age love to run about naked, to show off their bodies. Later the conventions of society make the child repress this wish to exhibit himself. But we know that a repressed wish does not die; it merely buries itself in the unconscious. Many years later the exhibition impulse comes out in sublimated form as a desire to show off before the public . . . hence our politicians, actors, actresses, street-corner revivalists, and--er--dominies.
Now I hasten to add that there is nothing to be ashamed of in being a politician or a dominie. But if I lecture a cla.s.s I am making the affair my show, and I am not the most important actor in the play; I am the scene-shifter; the real actors who should be declaiming their lines are sitting on hard benches staring at me and wondering what I am raving about. Each little person is thirsting to show his or her superiority, and he never gets the chance. Occasionally I may ask a sleepy-looking urchin what are the exports to Canada, and he may gain a slight feeling of superiority if he can tell the right answer. Yet I fancy that his unconscious self despises me and my question. Why in all the earth should I ask a question when I know the answer? The whole thing is an absurdity. The only questions asked in a school should be asked by the pupils.
The truth is that our schools do not give education; they give instruction. And it is so very easy to instruct, and so very easy to go on talking, and so very easy to whack Tommy when he does not listen.
Our prosy lectures are wasted time. The children would be better employed playing marbles.
Of course if a child asks for information that is a different story.
He is obviously interested . . . that is if he isn't trying to tempt you into a long explanation so that you will forget to hear his Latin verbs. Children soon understand our little vanities, and they soon learn to exploit them.
"I had a scene in school to-day," remarked Mac while we were at tea to-night.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Tom Murray was wrong in all his sums, and he wouldn't hold out his hand," and by Mac's grim smile I knew that the bold Tom had been conquered.
"What would you have done in a case like that?" asked Mac.
"I would never have a case like that, Mac. If he had all his sums wrong I should sit down and ask myself what was wrong with my teaching."
"I didn't mean that," he said; "what I meant was: what would you do if Tom defied you?"
"That wouldn't happen either, Mac. Tom couldn't defy me because you can only defy an authority, and I'm not an authority."
Mac shook his head.
"You won't convince me, old chap. A boy like Tom has to be dealt with with a firm hand."
I studied his face for a time.
"You know, Mac," I said, "you puzzle me. You're one of the kindest decentest chaps in the world, and yet you go leathering poor Tom Murray. Why do you do it?"
"You must keep discipline," he said.
I shook my head.
"Mac, if you knew yourself you wouldn't ever whack a child."
This seemed to tickle him.
"Good Lord!" he laughed, "I could write a book about myself! I'm one of the most introspective chaps ever born."
"And you understand yourself?"