A Dominie in Doubt Part 28
"What books would you advise your pupils to read?" asked Mac.
"In their proper sequence . . . _Comic Cuts, Deadwood d.i.c.k, John Bull, Answers, Pearson's Weekly, Boy's Own Paper, Scout, Treasure Island, King Solomon's Mines, White Fang, The Call of the Wild, The Invisible Man,_ practically anything of Jack London, Rider Haggard, Conan Doyle, Kipling."
"And serious literature?"
"All literature is serious, Mac."
"I mean Dr. Johnson, Swift, Bunyan, Milton, Dryden, and that lot," said Mac.
I smiled.
"Mac, I want you to answer this question: have you read Boswell's _Life of Johnson_?"
"Extracts," he admitted awkwardly.
"Bunyan's _Life and Death of Mr. Badman_?"
"No."
"Milton's _Areopagitica_?"
"Er--no."
"Swift's _Tale of a Tub_?"
"No."
I sighed.
"Would you like to read them?" I asked.
"I don't think they would interest me," he admitted.
"Then in heaven's name, why expect children to have any interest in them? If these cla.s.sics weren't shoved down children's throats the adult population of this country would be sitting of an evening reading and enjoying Milton instead of _John Bull_."
Mac would not have this.
"Children must read the cla.s.sics so that they may get a good style," he said.
"Style be blowed!" I cried. "The only way to get a style is by writing. Mac, I should cut out all the lectures about Chaucer and Spenser and Shakespeare, and let the children write during the English period . . . if I had periods, which I wouldn't. I don't want style from kiddies; I want to see them create in their own way. If they are free to create they will form their own style."
In a conversation one always has a tendency to overstate a case, and as the argument went on I found myself saying wild things. Writing calmly now I still hold to my att.i.tude concerning style. I love a book written in fine style, but I refuse to impose style on children. In every child there is a gigantic protest. Thus the son of praying parents often turns out to be a scoffer. I had a good instance of the danger of superimposition of style.
I had a cla.s.s of boys and girls of fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years of age. For one period a week we all wrote five minute essays, and then we read them out. Sometimes we would make criticisms; for instance one girl used the word "beastly" in a serious essay, and we all protested against it. Then one day the head-master decided that they should write essays for him. He set a serious subject--The Function of Authority, I think it was--and then he went over their books with a blue pencil and corrected their spelling and style.
Three days later my English period came round. I entered the room and found the cla.s.s sitting round the fire.
"Hullo!" I said, "aren't you going to write?"
"No," growled the cla.s.s.
"Why not?"
"Fed up with writing. We want to talk about economics or psychology."
A fortnight later they made an attempt to write short essays, but it was a miserable failure; all the joy in creation had been killed by that blue pencil.
I can give an example of the other way, the only way. One boy of fifteen hated writing essays, and when I began the five minute essay game he sat and read a book. After a time I gave out the subject "Mystery," and I saw him look up quickly with flashing eyes.
"Phew! What a ripping subject!" he cried, "I must have a shot at that!"
His shot was promising, and he continued to make shots, until some of his essays were praised by the cla.s.s. Then one day he came to me.
"I don't know anything about stops and things," he said, "and I want you to tell me about them."
This is my ideal of education; no child ever learns a thing until he wants to learn it. That lad picked up all he wanted to know about stops in half-an-hour. He was interested in stops because he wanted to write better essays. I need hardly say that he had listened to hundreds of lessons on stops during his school career.
To-morrow I return to London, and to-night I went over to say good-bye to Dauvit.
"Aye, dominie, and so ye're gaein' back to London!" he said.
"I don't want to leave this lazy life, Dauvit," I said, "but I must go back and start my school."
"It'll cost ye some bawbees to gang to London," put in Jake Tosh.
"Penny three ha'pennies a mile noo-a-days I onderstand."
"A shullin' a mile for corps," remarked the undertaker.
Dauvit chuckled.
"So ye'll better no dee in London, dominie," he laughed.
"And that reminds me of Peter Wilson, him that pa.s.sed into the Civil Service and gaed to London. He came hame onexpectedly wan mornin' and his father he says: 'What in a' the earth brocht ye hame in the month o' February, Peter? Surely ye dinna hae a holiday the noo?'
"'No,' says Peter, 'but I had a cauld and I thocht I was maybe takkin'
pewmonia, and, weel father, corpses is a bob a mile on the railway.'"
"Dauvit," I said, "I don't care where I am buried."
"Is that so?" asked Jake in surprise. "What's become o' yer patriotism, dominie? I canna onderstand a man no wanting to be buried in his ain country. For my pairt I wudna like to be buried ony place but the wee kirkyaird up the brae there."
Dauvit grunted.
"What does it matter, Jake, whaur ye're buried?"
"Goad," said Jake, "it matters a lot. The grund up in the kirkyaird is the best grund in Scotland. It's a' sand, and they tell me that yer corp will keep for years in that grund."