By An Old Pedagogue
Shortly after I took charge of a large town school an incident occurred which showed me how little dependence there is to be placed on the honour or truthfulness of an average big boy. During recess the pupils were in the habit of writing with chalk on the blackboards that completely surrounded the school room. This so filled the room with chalk dust that breathing was difficult so I forbade the writing. One day, after I had been out with the pupils in the yard, I came to the school room door, and saw Master Tommy Atkins alone in the room industriously writing the sentence “Do not write on the blackboards.” I quietly withdrew without the boy’s notice, and when I next entered the room was empty. When school was called the eyes of all were turned to the audacious handwriting on the wall. When quiet was restored I said,- ”Who wrote that sentence?”
There was no answer.
“Now,” said I, “the chances are that those words were written by someone now in this room. I intend to find out who is the culprit. The crime is not a great one, but if to it is added persistent falsehood it will become serious, in my eyes at least. Let the pupil who disobeyed have the manliness to stand up and manage his fault before the school.”
No one stood up. He boys looked at each other but no one moved.
“Well, all that did not write the sentence stand.”
Like one boy the whole school arose to its feet, Atkins among the rest.
I next had each boy stand up separately , and I asked him on his honour if he had written the line. I shall never forget the look of honest indignation with which Thomas Atkins denied all knowledge of the writing. When this examination was over there was a moment of painful silence.
“Well boys,” I said, “it just amounts to this: If things remain as at present the imputation rests on the whole school. If any of you can suggest a remedy, I shall be pleased to hear it.”
There was an indignant murmur over the room, and one boy rose to his feet.
“I think, Mr. Jones,” he said, “that you are wrong in blaming us all for what one has done. If I had written on the board I would have stood up and said so.”
“I believe you,” I answered.
“Then why not believe us all?” said several voices at once.
“I will be glad to do so the moment you convince me that the writing came there in a similar manner to that at Belshazzar’s feast. None of you believe that, so, as I said before, do any of you see a way out of the wood?”
Another boy roses to his feet, giggled a moment and sat down again.
The whole school laughed—boy nature exactly—the one moment serious, the next a giggle.
John rose again, looked half comically around and said, with surpressed mirth,--
“When I went to school down East some one broke a pane, and the master couldn’t find out who it was, so he began at one end of the room and whipped every scholar in the building.’
There was no answer.
“Now,” said I, “the chances are that those words were written by someone now in this room. I intend to find out who is the culprit. The crime is not a great one, but if to it is added persistent falsehood it will become serious, in my eyes at least. Let the pupil who disobeyed have the manliness to stand up and manage his fault before the school.”
No one stood up. He boys looked at each other but no one moved.
“Well, all that did not write the sentence stand.”
Like one boy the whole school arose to its feet, Atkins among the rest.
I next had each boy stand up separately , and I asked him on his honour if he had written the line. I shall never forget the look of honest indignation with which Thomas Atkins denied all knowledge of the writing. When this examination was over there was a moment of painful silence.
“Well boys,” I said, “it just amounts to this: If things remain as at present the imputation rests on the whole school. If any of you can suggest a remedy, I shall be pleased to hear it.”
There was an indignant murmur over the room, and one boy rose to his feet.
“I think, Mr. Jones,” he said, “that you are wrong in blaming us all for what one has done. If I had written on the board I would have stood up and said so.”
“I believe you,” I answered.
“Then why not believe us all?” said several voices at once.
“I will be glad to do so the moment you convince me that the writing came there in a similar manner to that at Belshazzar’s feast. None of you believe that, so, as I said before, do any of you see a way out of the wood?”
Another boy roses to his feet, giggled a moment and sat down again.
The whole school laughed—boy nature exactly—the one moment serious, the next a giggle.
John rose again, looked half comically around and said, with surpressed mirth,--
“When I went to school down East some one broke a pane, and the master couldn’t find out who it was, so he began at one end of the room and whipped every scholar in the building.’
“Well John,” I said, “I attended a similar matinee myself when I was young. The plan has the merit of including the culprit, yet I fancy the rest of the pupils might consider it unfair.”
“The first boy now stood up again. “Master,” he ventured hesitatingly, “I think it is no more unfair than saying that the imputation on us all because some boy you cannot find has told a lie.”
“You are right,” I said, “and I was wrong in saying so. Only one boy is guilty, and I will never believe until his conduct convinces me that there is another in this room who is so cowardly and untruthful.”
I rose and quickly went down the room, siezed Atkins by the collar and jerked him to the centre of the aisle, and with a vigorous shove sent him headlong forward towards the platform with a speed that taxed his ability to keep his feet. I whirled him around facing the pupils and cried,--
“Atkins, who wrote that sentence on the wall?”
“I—I--I did, sir.”
“Of course you did. Now I am going to reverse John’s plan. I am going to concentrate on your shoulders the punishment that the down East schoolmaster distributed over the whole school. Go to my room, sir.”
“Oh, Mr. Jones, I’ll never, never do so again.”
“I know you won’t. Go to my room.”
I believe that flogging, like everything else, if done at all should be well done. I don’t believe in a dress parade. I scarcely ever had to whip a boy twice, on the same principle that the lad said lightning didn’t strike twice in the same spot—because it didn’t need to. When it became necessary for a boy to have an interview with me in my own room, he rarely forgot the circumstance. I always taught school on a somewhat free and easy manner. I allowed ample opportunity for free speech and encouraged it, and never laid any claims to that infallibility which many teachers surround themselves with. Boys are quick to detect humbug, and a teacher never loses prestige with them by admitting he doesn’t know everything. Although the incident I have alluded to consumed the greater part of a valuable forenoon, I never thrashed another boy there, and when I asked the pupils afterwards who did any particular thing, some one instantly sprang to his feet and said,--
“I did, sir.”
“You are right,” I said, “and I was wrong in saying so. Only one boy is guilty, and I will never believe until his conduct convinces me that there is another in this room who is so cowardly and untruthful.”
I rose and quickly went down the room, siezed Atkins by the collar and jerked him to the centre of the aisle, and with a vigorous shove sent him headlong forward towards the platform with a speed that taxed his ability to keep his feet. I whirled him around facing the pupils and cried,--
“Atkins, who wrote that sentence on the wall?”
“I—I--I did, sir.”
“Of course you did. Now I am going to reverse John’s plan. I am going to concentrate on your shoulders the punishment that the down East schoolmaster distributed over the whole school. Go to my room, sir.”
“Oh, Mr. Jones, I’ll never, never do so again.”
“I know you won’t. Go to my room.”
I believe that flogging, like everything else, if done at all should be well done. I don’t believe in a dress parade. I scarcely ever had to whip a boy twice, on the same principle that the lad said lightning didn’t strike twice in the same spot—because it didn’t need to. When it became necessary for a boy to have an interview with me in my own room, he rarely forgot the circumstance. I always taught school on a somewhat free and easy manner. I allowed ample opportunity for free speech and encouraged it, and never laid any claims to that infallibility which many teachers surround themselves with. Boys are quick to detect humbug, and a teacher never loses prestige with them by admitting he doesn’t know everything. Although the incident I have alluded to consumed the greater part of a valuable forenoon, I never thrashed another boy there, and when I asked the pupils afterwards who did any particular thing, some one instantly sprang to his feet and said,--
“I did, sir.”
From: "52 Stories for Boys" - Alfred H. Miles
This is a tale from 1902, but I can recall similar "matinees" in schools I attended more than half a century later. I don’t approve of corporal punishment, but I’m well aware of present day indiscipline in schools.
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