Part 10 (1/2)

I

One of the most pathetic spectacles in the world is that of grown-up persons legislating for the young. Listening to these, we are led to suspect that a certain section of the human race--the legislative section--must have been born into the world aged about forty, sublimely ignorant of the requirements, limitations, and point of view of infancy and adolescence.

In what att.i.tude does the ordinary educational expert approach educational problems? This question induces another. What is an educational expert?

The answer is simple. Practically everybody.

All parents are educational experts: we have only to listen to a new boy's mother laying down to a Headmaster the lines upon which his school should be conducted to realise that. So are all politicians: we discover this fact by following the debates in the House of Commons. So are the clergy; for they themselves have told us so. So, presumably, are the writers of manuals and text-books. So are the dear old gentlemen who come down to present prizes upon Speech Day. Practically the only section of humanity to whom the t.i.tle is denied are the people who have to teach. It is universally admitted by the experts--it is their sole point of agreement--that no schoolmaster is capable of forming a correct judgment of the educational needs of his charges. He is hidebound, ”groovy”; he cannot break away from tradition.

”What can you expect from a tripe-dresser,” inquire the experts in chorus, ”but a eulogy of the stereotyped method of dressing tripe?”

So, ignoring the teacher, the experts lay their heads--one had almost said their loggerheads--together, and evolve terrific schemes of education. Each section sets about its task in characteristic fas.h.i.+on.

The politician, with his natural ac.u.men, gets down to essentials at once.

”The electorate of this country,” he says to himself, ”do not care one farthing dip about Education as such. Now, how can we galvanise Education into a vote-catching machine?”

He reflects.

”Ah! I have it!” he cries presently. ”_Religion!_ That'll ginger them up!”

So presently an Education Bill is introduced into the House of Commons.

Nine out of its ten clauses deal purely with educational matters and are pa.s.sed without a division; and the intellectual teeth of the House fasten greedily upon Clause Number Ten, which deals with the half-hour per day which is to be set aside for religious instruction. The question arises: What att.i.tude are the youth of the country to be taught to adopt towards their Maker? Are they to praise Him from a printed page, or merely listen to their teacher doing so out of his own head? Are they to learn the Catechism? Is the Lord's Prayer to be regarded as an Anglican or Nonconformist orison?

Everybody is most conciliatory at first.

”A short pa.s.sage of Scripture,” suggest the Anglicans; ”a Collect, mayhap; and a few words of helpful instruction--eh? Something quite simple and non-contentious, like that?”

”We are afraid that that is sectarian religion,” object the Nonconformists. ”A simple chapter from the Bible, certainly--maybe a hymn. But no dogmatic teaching, _if_ you please!”

”But that is no religion at all!” explain the Anglicans, with that quickness to appreciate another's point of view which has always distinguished the Church of England.

After a little further unpleasantness all round, a deadlock is reached.

Then, with that magnificent instinct for compromise which characterises British statesmans.h.i.+p, another suggestion is put forward. Why not permit all the clergy of the various denominations to enter the School and minister to the requirements of their various young disciples? ”An admirable notion,” says everybody. But difficulties arise. Are this heavenly host to be admitted one by one, or in a body? If the former, how long will it take to work through the entire rota, and when will the ordinary work of the day be expected to begin? If the latter, is the School to be divided, for devotional purposes, into spiritual water-tight compartments by an arrangement of movable screens, or what?

So the battle goes on. By this time, as the astute politician has foreseen, every one has forgotten that this is an Education Bill, and both sides are hard at work manufacturing party capital out of John Bull's religious susceptibilities. Presently the venue is s.h.i.+fted to the country, where the electorate are asked upon a thousand platforms if the Church which inaugurated Education in our land, and built most of the schools, is to be ousted from her ancient sphere of beneficent activity; and upon a thousand more, whether the will of the People or the Peers is to prevail. (It simplifies politics very greatly to select a good reliable s.h.i.+bboleth and employ it on _all_ occasions.) Finally the Bill is thrown out or talked out, and the first nine clauses perish with it.

That is the political and clerical way of dealing with Education. The parent's way we will set forth in another place.

The writer of manuals and text-books concerns himself chiefly with the right method of unfolding his subject to the eager eyes of the expectant pupil. ”There is a right way and a wrong way,” he is careful to explain; ”and if you present your subject in the wrong way the pupil will derive no _educational_ benefit from it whatever.” At present there is a great craze for what is known as ”practical” teaching. For instance, in our youth we were informed, _ad nauseam_, that there is a certain fixed relation between the circ.u.mference of a circle and its diameter, the relation being expressed by a mysterious Greek symbol p.r.o.nounced ”pie.”

The modern expert scouts this system altogether. No imaginary pie for him! He is a practical man.

_Take several ordinary tin canisters_, he commands, _a piece of string, and a ruler; and without any other aids ascertain the circ.u.mference_ _and diameter of these canisters. Work out in each case the numerical relation between the circ.u.mference and diameter. What conclusion do you draw from the result?_

We can only draw one, and that is that no man who has never been a boy should be permitted to write books of instruction for the young. For what would the ”result” be? Imagine a company of some thirty or forty healthy happy boys, each supplied gratuitously with several tin canisters and a ruler, set down for the s.p.a.ce of an hour and practically challenged to create a riot. Alexander's Rag-Time Band would be simply nowhere!

As for the last gang of experts--the dear old gentlemen who come down to give away prizes on Speech Day--they do not differ much as a cla.s.s. They invariably begin by expressing a wish that they had enjoyed such educational facilities as these in their young days.

”You live in a palace, boys!” announces the old gentleman. ”I envy you.”

(Murmurs of ”Liar!” from the very back row.)