A DOMINIE IN DOUBT

BY

A. S. NEILL, M. A. 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

 A DOMINIE'S LOG A DOMINIE DISMISSED THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

3 YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S

LONDON S. W. 1

MCMXXI

DEDICATION. 

To Homer Lane, whose first lecture convinced me that I knew nothingabout education. I owe much to him, but I hasten to warn educationiststhat they must not hold him responsible for the views given in thesepages. I never understood him fully enough to expound his wonderfuleducational theories. 

A. S. N. 

FORFAR, AUGUST 12, 1920. 

A DOMINIE IN DOUBT

I. 

"Just give me your candid opinion of _A Dominie's_ Log; I'd like tohear it. "

Macdonald looked up from digging into the bowl of his pipe with adilapidated penknife. He is now head-master of Tarbonny Public School, a school I know well, for I taught in it for two years as an ex-pupilteacher. 

Six days ago he wrote asking me to come and spend a holiday with him, so I hastily packed my bag and made for Euston. 

This evening had been a sort of complimentary dinner in my honour, theguests being neighbouring dominies and their wives, none of whom Iknew. We had talked of the war, of rising prices, and a thousand otherthings. Suddenly someone mentioned education, and of course myunfortunate _Log_ had come under discussion. 

I had been anxious to continue my discussion with a Mrs. Brown on thesubject of the relative laying values of Minorcas and Buff Orpingtons, but I had been dragged to the miserable business in spite of myself. 

Now they were all gone, and Macdonald had returned to the charge. 

"It's hardly a fair question, " said Mrs. Macdonald, "to ask an authorwhat he thinks of his own book. No man can judge his own work, anymore than a mother can judge her own child. "

"That's true!" I said. "A man can't judge his own behaviour, andwriting a book is an element of behaviour. Besides, there is a betterreason why a writer cannot judge his own work, " I added. 

"Because he never reads it?" queried Macdonald with a grin. 

I shook my head. 

"An author has no further interest in his book after it is published. "

Macdonald looked across at me. It was clear that he doubted myseriousness. 

"Surely you don't mean to say that you have no interest in _A Dominie'sLog_?"

"None whatever!" I said. 

"You mean it?" persisted Macdonald. 

"My dear Mac, " I said, "an author dare not read his own book. "

"Dare not! Why?"

"Because it's out of date five minutes after it's written. "

For fully a minute we smoked in silence. Macdonald appeared to bedigesting my remark. 

"You see, " I continued presently, "when I read a book on education, Iwant to learn, and I certainly don't expect to learn anything from theman I was five years ago. "

"I think I understand, " said Macdonald. "You have come to realise thatwhat you wrote five years ago was wrong. That it?"

"True for you, Mac. You've just hit it. "

"You needn't have waited five years to find that out, " he said, with agood-natured grin. "I could have told you the day the book waspublished--I bought one of the first copies. "

"Still, " he continued, "I don't see why a book should be out-of-date infive years. That is if it deals with the truth. Truth is eternal. "

"What is truth?" I asked wearily. "We all thought we knew the truthabout gravitation. Then Einstein came along with his relativitytheory, and told us we were wrong. "

"Did he?" inquired Macdonald, with a faint smile. 

"I am quoting from the newspapers, " I added hastily. "I haven't theremotest idea what relativity means. Perhaps it's Epstein I mean--no, he's a sculptor. "

"You're hedging!" said Macdonald. 

"Can you blame me?" I asked. "You're trying to get me to say whattruth is. I am not a professor of philosophy, I'm a dominie. All Ican say is that the _Log_ was the truth . . . For me . . . Five yearsago; but it isn't the truth for me now. "

"Then, what exactly is your honest opinion of the _Log_ as a work oneducation?"

"As a work on education, " I said deliberately, "the _Log_ isn't worth adamn. "

"Not a bad criticism, either, " said Macdonald dryly. 

"I say that, " I continued, "because when I wrote it I knew nothingabout the most important factor in education--the psychology ofchildren. "

"But, " said Mrs. Macdonald in surprise--hitherto she had been aninterested listener--"I thought that the bits about the bairns were thebest part of the book. "

"Possibly, " I answered, "but I was looking at children from a grown-uppoint of view. I thought of them as they affected me, instead of asthey affected themselves. I'll give you an instance. I think I saidsomething about wanting to chuck woodwork and cookery out of the schoolcurriculum. I was wrong, hopelessly wrong. "

"I'm glad to hear you admit it, " said Macdonald. "I have alwaysthought that every boy ought to be taught to mend a hen-house and everygirl to cook a dinner. "

"Then I was right after all, " I said quickly. 

Macdonald stared at me, whilst his wife looked up interrogatively fromher embroidery. 

"If your aim is to make boys joiners and girls cooks, " I explained, "then I still hold that cookery and woodwork ought to be chucked out ofthe schools. "

"But, man, what are schools for?" I saw a combative light inMacdonald's eye. 

"Creation, self-expression . . . . The only thing that matters ineducation. I don't care what a child is doing in the way of creation, whether he is making tables, or porridge, or sketches, or--or--"

"Snowballs!" prompted Macdonald. 

"Or snowballs, " I said. "There is more true education in making asnowball than in listening to an hour's lecture on grammar. "

Mrs. Macdonald dropped her embroidery into her lap, with a little gaspat the heresy of my remark. 

"You're talking pure balderdash!" said Macdonald, leaning forward toknock the ashes from his pipe on the bars of the grate. 

"Very well, " I said cheerfully. "Let's discuss it. You make a classsit in front of you for an hour, and you threaten to whack the firstchild that doesn't pay attention to your lesson on nouns and pronouns. "

"Discipline, " said Macdonald. 

"I don't care what you call it. I say it's stupidity. "

"But, hang it all, man, you can't teach if you haven't got thechildren's attention. "

"And you can't teach when you have got it, " I said. "A child learnsonly when it is interested. "

"But surely, discipline makes them interested, " said Mrs. Macdonald. 

I shook my head. "It only makes them attentive. "

"Same thing, " said Macdonald. 

"No, Mac, " I replied. "It is not the same thing. Attention means theapplying of the conscious mind to a thing; interest means theapplication of both the conscious and the unconscious mind. When youforce a child to attend to a lesson for fear of the tawse, you merelyengage the least important part of his mind--the conscious. While hestares at the blackboard his unconscious is concerned with otherthings. "

"What sort of things?" asked Macdonald. 

"Very probably his unconscious is working out an elaborate plan tomurder you, " I said, "and I don't blame it either, " I added. 

"And the snowballs?" queried Mrs. Macdonald. 

"When a boy makes a snowball, he is interested; his whole soul is inthe job, that is, his unconscious and his conscious are workingtogether. For the moment he is an artist, a creator. "

"So that's the new education . . . Making snowballs?" said Macdonald. 

"It isn't really, " I said; "but what I want to do is to point out thatmaking snowballs is nearer to true education than the spoon-feeding wecall education to-day. "

 * * * * *

Duncan does not like me. He is a young dominie of twenty-three orthereabouts, a friend of Macdonald, and he has just been demobilised. He was a major, and he does not seem to have recovered from theexperience. He has got what the vulgar call swelled head. Last nighthe was dilating upon the delinquencies of the old retired teacher whoran the school while Duncan was on active service. It seems that theold man had allowed the school to run to seed. 

"Would you believe it, " I overheard Duncan say to Macdonald, "when Icame back I found that the boys and girls were playing in the sameplayground. Why, man, some of them were playing on the road! And thediscipline! Awful!"

Poor children! I see it all; I see Duncan line them up like a squad ofrecruits, and march them into school with never a smile on their facesor a word on their lips. Macdonald tells me that he makes them lifttheir slates by numbers. 

And the amusing thing is that Duncan thinks himself one of the moreadvanced teachers. He reads the educational journals, and eagerlydevours the articles about new methods in teaching arithmetic andgeography. His school is only a mile and a half away, and I hope thathe will come over to see Mac a few times while I am here. 

I have seen the old type of dominie, and I have seen the new type. Iprefer the former. He had many faults, but he usually managed to dosomething for the human side of the children. The new type is a dangerto children. The old dominie leathered the children so that they mightmake a good show before the inspector; the new dominie leathers thembecause he thinks that children ought to be disciplined so that theymay be able to fight the battle of life. He does not see that by usingauthority he is doing the very opposite of what he intends; he ismaking the child dependent on him, and for ever afterwards the childwill lack initiative, lack self-confidence, lack originality. 

What the new dominie does do is to turn out excellent wage-slaves. Thediscipline of the school gives each child an inner sense ofinferiority . . . . What the psycho-analysts call an inferioritycomplex. And the working-classes are suffering from a giganticinferiority complex . . . . Otherwise they would not be content toremain wage-slaves. The fear that Duncan inspires in a boy will remainin that boy all his life. When he enters the workshop he willunconsciously identify the foreman with Duncan, and fear him and hatehim. I believe that many a strike is really a vague insurrectionagainst the teacher. For it is well known that the unconscious mind isinfantile. 

 * * * * *

To-night I dropped in to see my old friend Dauvit Todd the cobbler. Many an evening have I spent in his dirty shop. Dauvit works on afterteatime, and the village worthies gather round his fire and smoke andspit and grunt. I have sat there for an hour many a night, and not asingle word was said. Peter Smith the blacksmith would give a greatsigh and say: "Imphm!" There would be silence for ten minutes, andthen Jake Tosh the roadman would stare at the fire, shake his head, andsay: "Aye, man!" Then a ploughman would smack his lips and say: "Man, aye!" A southerner looking in might have jumped to the conclusion thatthe assembly was collectively and individually bored, but boredom neverenters Dauvit's shop. We Scots think better in crowds. 

To-night the old gang was there. The hypothetical southerner againwould have marvelled at the reception I received. I walked into theshop after an absence of five years. 

"Weel, Dauvit, " I said, and sat down in the basket chair. Dauvit and Ihave never shaken hands in our lives. He looked up. 

"Back again!" he said, without any evident surprise; then he added:"And what like a nicht is 't ootside?"

Gradually other men dropped in, and the same sort of greeting tookplace. The weather continued to be discussed for a time. Then theblacksmith said: "Auld Tarn Davidson's swine dee'd last nicht. "

Dauvit looked up from the boot he was repairing. 

"What did it dee o'?" and there followed an argument about the symptomsof swine fever. 

An English reader of _The House with the Green Shutters_ would haveconcluded that these villagers were deliberately trying to put me in myplace. By ignoring me might they not be showing their contempt fordominies who have just come from London? Not they. They were glad tosee me again, and their method of showing their gladness was to take upour friendship at the point where it left off five years ago. 

The only time a Scot distrusts other Scots is when they fuss over him. The story goes in Tarbonny that when young Jim Lunan came homeunexpectedly after a ten years' farming in Canada, his mother waswashing the kitchen floor. 

"Mother!" he cried, "I've come hame!"

She looked over her shoulder. 

"Wipe yer feet afore ye come in, ye clorty laddie, " she said. 

But there is a garrulous type of Scot . . . Or rather the type of Scotthat tries to make the other fellow garrulous. In our county we callthem the speerin' bodie. To speer means to ask questions. Thespeerin' bodie is common enough in Fife, and I suppose it was a Fiferwho entered a railway compartment one morning and sat down to study theonly other occupant--an Englishman. 

"It's a fine day, " said the Scot, and there was a question in his tone. 

The Englishman sighed and laid aside his newspaper. 

"Aye, mester, " continued the inquisitive Fifer, "and ye'll be----"

The Englishman held up a forbidding hand. 

"You needn't go on, " he said; "I'll tell you everything about myself. I was born in Leeds, the son of poor parents. I left school at the ageof twelve, and I became a draper. I gradually worked my way up, andnow I am traveller for a Manchester firm. I married six years ago. Three kids. Wife has rheumatism. Willie had measles last month. Ihave a seven room cottage; rent £27. I vote Tory; go to the Baptistchurch, and keep hens. Anything else you want to know?"

The Scot had a very dissatisfied look. 

"What did yer grandfaither dee o'?" he demanded gruffly. 

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 hadheard 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 acorner and wiped his face with his apron. "It'll be ten years comeMartimas. Me and Will Tamson gaed up by boat frae Dundee. Oh! we hada 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 wehadn't. 

"Aweel, " he began, "some of you will no doubt mind o' Dave Broonlee himthat stoppit at Millend. Dave served his time as a draper, and syne hegot 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 aveesit to Dave Broonlee?' Then I minded that Dave's father had saidsomething aboot payin' him a call, but I didna ken his address. All Ikent 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 OxfordStreet. 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 thatI started to laugh, and syne the bobby he started to laugh. He laugheda lang time and syne when I telt him that it was a draper's shop hedirected 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 kenwhat Will was sayin'. It took Will and me twenty meenutes to get himto 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 mandidna ken what he was sayin'. 

"He went to the backshop to speer aboot Dave, and when he cam back hesays, 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 inschool. Since writing it I have visited most of the best schools inEngland, and I found that I was not the only teacher who lectured. Butwe are all wrong. I fancy that the real reason why I lectured so muchwas to indulge my showing-off propensities. To stand before a class oran audience; to be the cynosure of all eyes; to have a crowd hanging onyour words . . . . All showing off! Very, very human, but . . . . Badfor the audience. 

When a teacher lectures he is unconsciously giving expression to hisdesire to gain a feeling of superiority. That, I fancy, is the deepestwish of every one of us . . . . To impress others, to be superior. Yousee it in the smallest child. Give him an audience, and he will showoff for hours. The boy at the top of the class gains his feeling ofsuperiority by beating the others at arithmetic, while the dunce at thebottom of the class gains his in more original ways . . . Punching thetop boy at playtime, scoring goals at football, spitting farther thananyone else in school. I have seen a boy smash a window merely to drawattention to himself, and thus to gain a momentary feeling ofsuperiority. 

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 atan early age love to run about naked, to show off their bodies. Laterthe conventions of society make the child repress this wish to exhibithimself. But we know that a repressed wish does not die; it merelyburies itself in the unconscious. Many years later the exhibitionimpulse comes out in sublimated form as a desire to show off before thepublic . . . Hence our politicians, actors, actresses, street-cornerrevivalists, and--er--dominies. 

Now I hasten to add that there is nothing to be ashamed of in being apolitician or a dominie. But if I lecture a class I am making theaffair my show, and I am not the most important actor in the play; I amthe scene-shifter; the real actors who should be declaiming their linesare sitting on hard benches staring at me and wondering what I amraving about. Each little person is thirsting to show his or hersuperiority, and he never gets the chance. Occasionally I may ask asleepy-looking urchin what are the exports to Canada, and he may gain aslight feeling of superiority if he can tell the right answer. Yet Ifancy that his unconscious self despises me and my question. Why inall the earth should I ask a question when I know the answer? Thewhole thing is an absurdity. The only questions asked in a schoolshould be asked by the pupils. 

The truth is that our schools do not give education; they giveinstruction. And it is so very easy to instruct, and so very easy togo on talking, and so very easy to whack Tommy when he does not listen. Our prosy lectures are wasted time. The children would be betteremployed 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 temptyou into a long explanation so that you will forget to hear his Latinverbs. Children soon understand our little vanities, and they soonlearn to exploit them. 

 * * * * *

"I had a scene in school to-day, " remarked Mac while we were at teato-night. 

"What happened?" I asked. 

"Tom Murray was wrong in all his sums, and he wouldn't hold out hishand, " and by Mac's grim smile I knew that the bold Tom had beenconquered. 

"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 sumswrong 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 ifTom defied you?"

"That wouldn't happen either, Mac. Tom couldn't defy me because youcan 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 withwith a firm hand. "

I studied his face for a time. 

"You know, Mac, " I said, "you puzzle me. You're one of the kindestdecentest chaps in the world, and yet you go leathering poor TomMurray. 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 oneof the most introspective chaps ever born. "

"And you understand yourself?"

"I have no illusions about myself at all, old chap. I know mylimitations. "

"Well, would you mind telling me why you are a bit of a nut?" I asked. "It isn't usual for a country dominie to wear a wing collar, a bow tie, and shot-silk socks. "

"That's easy, " he said quickly. "I think that teachers haven't thesocial standing they ought to have, and I dress well to uphold thedignity of the profession. Don't you believe me?" he demanded as Ismiled. 

"Quite! I believe you're quite honest in your belief, but it's wrongyou know. There must be a much more personal reason than that. "

"Rot!" he said. "Anyway, what is the reason?"

"I don't know, Mac; it would take months of research to discover it. Ican't explain your psychology, but I'll tell you something about myown. These swagger corduroys I'm wearing . . . When I bought themsomeone asked me why I chose corduroy, and I at once answered:'Economy! They'll last ten years!' But that wasn't the real reason, Ibought them because I wanted to have folk stare at me. I've got aninferiority complex, that is an inner feeling of inferiority. Tocompensate for it I go and order a suit that will make people look atme; in short, that I may be the centre of all eyes, and thus gain afeeling of outward superiority. "

This sent Mac off into a roar of laughter. 

"You're daft, man!" he roared. 

After a minute or two he said; "But what has all this to do with TomMurray?"

"A lot, " I said seriously. "You think you whack Tom because you musthave discipline, but you whack him for a different reason. In yourdeep unconscious mind you are an infant. You want to show yourself-assertion just as a kid does. You leather Tom because you'venever outgrown your seven-year-old stage. On market-day, when Tomwalks behind a drove and whacks the stots over the hips with a stick, he is doing exactly what you did this afternoon. You are both infants. "

I have had to give up lecturing Mac, for he always takes me as a hugejoke. He is a good fellow, but he has the wonderful gift of beingblind to anything that might make him reconsider his values. Manypeople protect themselves in the same way--by laughing. I have morethan once seen an alcoholic laugh heartily at his wrecked home and lostjob. 

II. 

What an amount of excellent material Mac and his kind are spoiling. Tom Murray is a fine lad, full of energy and initiative, but he has tosit passive at a desk doing work that does not interest him. Hiscreative faculties have no outlet at all during the day, and naturallywhen free from authority at nights he expresses his creative interestanti-socially. He nearly wrecked the five-twenty the other night; hetied a huge iron bolt to the rails. Mac called it devilment, but itwas merely curiosity. He had had innumerable pins and farthingsflattened on the line, and he wanted to see what the engine reallycould do. 

There is devilment in some of Tom's activities, for example in hisdeliberate destruction of Dauvit's apple tree. Mac and the law wouldgive him the birch for that, but fortunately Mac and the law don't knowwho did it. Tom's destructiveness is only the direct result of Mac'sauthority. Suppression always has the same result; it turns a younggod into a young devil. Had I Tom in a free school all his activitieswould be social and good. 

And yet nearly every teacher believes in Mac's way. They suppress allthe time, and what is worst of all they firmly believe they are doingthe best thing. 

"Look at Glasgow!" cried Mac the other night when I was talking aboutthe crime of authority. "Look at Glasgow! What happened there duringthe war? Juvenile crime increased. And why? Because the fathers werein the army and the boys had no control over them; they broke loose. That proves that your theories are potty. "

I believe that juvenile crime did increase during the war, and Ibelieve that Mac's explanation of the phenomenon is correct. Theabsence of the father gave the boy liberty to be a hooligan. But noboy wants to be a hooligan unless he has a strong rebellion againstauthority. No boy is destructive if he is free to be constructive. Ithink that the difference between Mac and myself is this: he believesin original sin, while I believe in original virtue. 

I wonder why it is so difficult to convert the authority people to thenew way of thinking. There must be a deep reason why they want tocling to their authority. Authority gives much power, and love ofpower may be at the root of the desire to retain authority. Yet Ifancy that it is deeper than that. In Mac, for instance, I think thathis quickness in becoming angry at Tom's insubordination is due to theinsubordination within himself. Like most of us Mac has a fathercomplex, and he fears and hates any authority exercised over himself. So in squashing Tom's rebellion he is unconsciously squashing therebellion in his own soul. Tom's rebellion could not affect me becauseI have got rid of my father complex, and his rebellion would touchnothing in me. 

Authority will be long in dying, for too many people cling to it as aprop. Most people like to have their minds made up for them; it is soeasy to obey orders, and so difficult to live your own life carryingyour own burden and finding your own path. To live your own life . . . That is the ideal. To discover yourself bravely, to realise yourselffully, to follow truth even if the crowd stone you. That isliving . . . But it is dangerous living, for that way lies crucifixion. No one in authority has ever been crucified; every martyr dies becausehe challenges authority. . . Christ, Thomas More, Jim Connolly. 

 * * * * *

Duncan and McTaggart the minister were in to-night, and we got on tothe subject of wit and humour. Having a psycho-analysis complex Imentioned the theory that we laugh so as to give release to ourrepressions. The others shook their heads, and I decided to test mytheory on them. I told them the story of the golfer who was drivingoff about a foot in front of the teeing marks. The club secretaryhappened to come along. 

"Here, my man!" cried the indignant secretary, "you're disqualified!"

"What for?" demanded the player. 

"You're driving off in front of the teeing mark. "

The player looked at him pityingly. 

"Away, you bletherin' idiot!" he said tensely, "I'm playing my third!"

"Now, " I said to the others, "I'm going to tell you one by one whatyour golf is like. You, McTaggart, are a scratch man or a plus man. Is that so?"

"Plus one, " he said in surprise. "How did you guess?"

"I didn't guess, " I said with great superiority. "I found out by purescience. You didn't laugh at my joke; you merely smiled. That showsthat bad golf doesn't touch any complex inside you. The man who takesthree strokes to make one foot of ground means nothing to you because, as I say, there's nothing in yourself it touches. "

"Wonderful!" cried the minister. 

"It's quite simple, " I crowed, "and now for Mac! You, Mac, are arotten player; you take sixteen to a hole. "

"Only ten, " protested Mac hastily. "How the devil did you know? I'venever played with you. "

"Deduction, my boy. You roared at my joke, because it touched your badgolf complex. In fact you were really laughing at yourself and yourown awful golf. "

"What about me?" put in Duncan. 

Now there was something in Duncan's eye that should have warned me ofdanger, but I was so proud of my success that I plunged confidently. 

"Oh, you don't play golf, " I said airily. 

"Wrong!" he cried, "I do! And I'm worse than Mac too!"

I was astounded. 

"Impossible!" I cried. "You never laughed at my story at all; that isit touched nothing whatsoever inside you. "

Duncan shook his head. 

"You're completely wrong this time. "

"Well, why _didn't_ you laugh?" I asked. 

He grinned. 

"I dunno. Possibly it is because I first heard that joke in my cradle. "

 * * * * *

Mac's infant mistress was off duty to-day owing to an attack ofinfluenza, and he gladly accepted my offer to take her place. 

Half-an-hour after my entry into the room Mac came in to see how I wasgetting on. Most of the infants were swarming over me, and Macfrowned. At his frown they all crept back silently to their seats. 

"You seem to have the fatal gift of demoralising children, " he growled. 

It hadn't struck me before, but it is a fact; I do demoralise children. Not long ago I entered a Montessori school, and I spoke not one word. In five minutes the insets and long stairs were lying neglected in themiddle of the floor, and the kiddies were scrambling over me. I feltvery guilty for I feared that if Montessori herself were to walk in shewould be indignant. I cannot explain why I affect kiddies in this way. It may be that intuitively they know that I do not inspire fear orrespect; it may be that they unconsciously recognise the baby in me. Anyway, as Mac says, it is a fatal gift. 

I think Miss Martin the infant mistress is a good teacher. Her infantsdo not fear her, and I am sure they love her. The only person theyfear is Mac, poor dear old Mac, the most lovable soul in the world. Hetries hard to show his love for the infants but somehow they know thatbehind his smile is the grim head-master who leathers Tom Murray. Isent wee Mary Smith into Mac's room to fetch some chalk to-day, and shewept and feared to enter. Occasionally, I believe, Mac will enter theroom, seize a wee mite who is speaking instead of working, and give himor her a scud with the tawse. I wonder how a good soul like Mac can doit. 

I have an unlovely story of a board school. An infant mistress laydying, and in her delirium she cried in terror lest her head-mastershould come in again and strap her dear, wee infants. It is a truestory, and it is the most damning indictment of board school educationanyone could wish for. She was a good woman who loved children, and iffear of her head-master brought terror to her on her deathbed, whatterrors are such men inspiring in poor wee infants? The men who beatchildren are exactly in the position of the men who stoned JesusChrist; they know not what they do, nor do they know why they do it. 

 * * * * *

There was a stranger in Dauvit's shop when I entered to-day, aseedy-looking whiskered man with a threadbare coat and extremely dirtylinen. Shabby genteel would be the Scots description of him. 

Dauvit asked me a casual question about London, and the stranger becameinterested at once. 

"Ah, " he said, "you're from London, are ye? Man, yon's a great place, a wonderful place!"

I nodded assent. 

"Man, " he continued, "yon's the place for sichts! Could anything beatthe procession at the Lord Mayor's show, eh?"

I meekly admitted that I had never seen the Lord Mayor's show, and heraised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"But I'll tell ye what's just as good, mister, and that's the King andQueen opening Parliament. Man, yon's a sicht, isn't it?"

"I--er--I haven't had the opportunity of seeing it, " I said. 

He looked more surprised than ever. 

"But, man, I'll tell ye what's just as good, and that's a big Londonfire. Man, to see the way the firemen go up the ladders like monkeys. Yon's a sicht for sair een!"

"I never had the luck to see a fire in London, " I said hesitatingly. "When were you last in town?"

He did not seem to hear my question; he was evidently thinking of otherLondon thrills. 

"Man, " he said ruminatingly, "often while I sit in the Tarbonny Kirk Ijust sit and think aboot Westminster Abbey. Man, yon's a kirk! Isuppose you'll be there ilka Sunday?"

I found it difficult to tell him that I had never been in the Abbey, but I managed to get the words out, and then I avoided his reproachfuleye. He knocked out his pipe, and I took the action to be a symbolicone meaning: You are an empty sort of person. He studied me criticallyfor a time, then he brightened. 

"Aye, " he said cheerfully, "London's a graund place, but, for sichtsgive me New York. "

I felt more humble than ever, for I had never travelled. He seemed toguess that by the look of me, for he never asked my opinion of New York. 

"Man, " he said warmly, "yon's a place! Yon skyscrapers! Phew!" and hewhistled his wonder and admiration. "And the streets! Man, ye cannawalk on the sidewalk at the busy times. A wonderfu' place, New York, but, as for me, give me the West, California and Frisco. "

"You have travelled much, sir, " I said reverently. The "sir" seemed tocome naturally; my inferiority complex was touched on the raw. 

Again he ignored me. 

"To see yon cowboys! Man, yon's what I call riding! And the Indians!"

He sighed; it was obvious that he was living over again his life in thewestern wilds. A wistful look crept into his eyes, and I began toconstruct his sad story. He loved a maid, but the bruiser of the camploved her also . . . Hence the broken-down clothes, the dirty collar. But anon he cheered up again. 

"Yes, " he said, "I love the West, but for colour and climate give meJapan. "

I was so confused now that I had to blow out my pipe vigorously. Iglanced at Dauvit, but he was sharpening his knife on the emery hone, and did not appear to be interested. I felt a vague anger againstDauvit; why wasn't he helping me in my trial?

"Japan, " continued the irrepressible stranger, "is one of the finestcountries in the world, but, for climate give me Siberia. "

I hastily thought to myself that if I were Lenin I . . . But I did notfollow out my daydream, for the stranger brought me back to earth byinquiring what was my honest and unbiassed opinion of the Peruvians. Ivery cleverly pretended that I had swallowed some nicotine, and, aftera polite pause for my answer, he went off to the subject of pearlfishing at Thursday Island. Then he looked at Dauvit's clock. 

"Jerusalem!" he gasped, "the pub shuts at twa o'clock!" and he rushedout of the shop. I heaved a great sigh of relief, and then I heaved agreater sigh of relief. 

I seized Dauvit by the arm. 

"Dauvit, " I gasped, "who--who is your cosmopolitan friend?"

"My what kind o' a friend?"

"Your world-travelled friend, Dauvit. Tell me who he is. "

Dauvit laughed softly. 

"That, " he said, "was Joe Mill. He bides wi' his old mother in thatcottage at the foot o' the brae. To the best o' my knowledge he hasnabeen further than Perth in his life. "

"But!" I cried in amazement, "he has been everywhere!"

"He hasna, " said Dauvit shortly, "but he works the cinema lantern atthe Farfar picter hoose. "

 * * * * *

I had a long talk to-night with Macdonald about self-government inschools, and I told him of my plans for running a self-governing schoolin Highgate. At the end of the discussion I had the biggest surpriseof my life. Mac smoked for a long time in silence, then he turned tome suddenly. 

"Look here, old chap, I'll have a shot at introducing self-governmentto-morrow, " he said with enthusiasm. 

I grasped his hand. 

"Excellent! Mac, you're a wonder! You're a brave man!"

"I don't feel brave, " he said nervously. "It's going to be a verydifficult job. "

"It is, " I said grimly, "and the most difficult part is for you to keepout of it. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have been an authority for so long that you'll findyourself issuing orders unthinkingly. More than that the kiddies areso much dependent on you that they will wait to see how you vote. "

"What's the best way to begin it?" he asked. 

"Simply walk in to-morrow and say: 'Look here, you are going to governyourselves. I have no power; I won't order anyone to do anything; Iwon't punish anyone. Now, do what you like'. "

Mac looked frightened. 

"But, good Lord, man, they'll--they'll wreck the school!"

"Funk!" I laughed. 

His eyes were full of excitement. 

"It'll be an awful job to keep my hands off them, " he said half tohimself. 

"Funk!" I said again. 

"It's all very well, but . . . Well, I'm rather strict you know. "

"So much the better! All the better a row!"

"You Bolshevist!" he laughed. He was like a boy divided between twodesires--to steal the apples and to escape the policeman. I halffeared that his courage would desert him. 

"Here, " he said, "why not come over to school?"

The temptation was great and I wavered. 

"No, " I said at last, "I can't do it. My presence would distract thechildren, and . . . They won't smash all the windows in front of astranger. You want my support, you dodger!"

But I would give ten pounds to be in Mac's schoolroom to-morrow morning. 

 * * * * *

I went out this morning and sat on the school wall and smoked my pipe. I strained my ears for the first murmur of the approaching storm. Nota sound came from the schoolroom. 

"Mac has funked it after all, " I groaned, and went in to help Mrs. Macdonald to pare the potatoes. 

When Mac came over at dinner-time his face wore a thoughtful look. 

"You coward!" I cried. 

"Coward!" he laughed. "Why, man, the scheme is in full swing!"

Then I asked him to tell me all about it. 

"Your knowledge of children is all bunkum, " he began. "You said therewould be a row when I announced that I gave up authority. "

"And wasn't there?"

"Not a vestige of one. The kids stared at me with open mouth, and . . . "

"And what?"

"Oh, they simply got out their books and began their reading lesson. As quiet as mice too. "

"And do you mean to tell me that it made no difference?" I asked. 

"None whatever. I tell you they just went on with the timetable asusual. "

"But didn't they talk to each other more?"

"There wasn't a whisper. "

I considered for a minute. 

"What exactly did you say to them when you announced that they were tohave self-government?"

"I just said what you told me last night. "

"Did you add anything?"

He avoided my eye. 

"Of course I said that I trusted them to carry on the school as usual, "he admitted reluctantly. 

"Thereby showing them that you didn't trust them at all, " I explained. "Mac, you must have been a thundering strict disciplinarian. Thekiddies are dead afraid of you. I fear that you'll never manage tohave self-government. This fear of you must be broken, and you've gotto break it. "

"But how?" he asked helplessly. 

"By coming down off your pedestal. You must become one of the gang. One dramatic exhibition will do it. "

"What do you mean?"

"Smash a window; chuck books about the room . . . Anything to breakthis idea that you are an exalted being whose eye is like God's alwaysready to see evil. "

Mac looked annoyed and injured. 

"What good will my fooling do?" he asked. 

"But, " I protested seriously, "it's essential. You simply must breakyour authority if you are to have a free school. There can be no realself-expression if you are always standing by to stamp out slacking andnoise. "

"But, " he protested, "didn't I tell 'em I was giving up my authority?"

"Yes, but they don't believe you. You've got the eye of an authority. "

He was by this time getting rather indignant. 

"I can't go the length you do, " he said sourly. "I'm not an anarchist. "

"In that case I'd advise you to chuck the experiment, Mac, " I said withan indifferent shrug of my shoulders. The shrug nettled Mac; he is oneof the bull-dog breed, and I saw his lips set. 

"I've begun it, and I won't chuck it, " he said firmly. "And I hope toprove that your methods are all wrong. Let it come gradually; that'swhat I say. "

When he came over at four o'clock his face glowed with excitement. Heslapped me on the back with his heavy hand. 

"Man, " he cried, "it's going fine! We had our first trial thisafternoon. "

"Go on, " I said. 

"Oh, it was a first class start. Jim Inglis threw his pencil at PeterMackie. "

"I hope he didn't miss, " I said flippantly. 

Mac ignored my levity. 

"And then I didn't know what to do. My first impulse was to haul himout and strap him, but of course I didn't. I just said to the class:'You saw what Jim Inglis did? You have to decide what is to be doneabout it'. "

"And they answered: 'Please, sir, give him the tawse'?" I said. 

Mac laughed. 

"That's exactly what they did say, but I told them that they weregoverning themselves, and suggested that they elect a chairman anddecide by vote. "

"Bad tactics, " I commented. "You should have left them to settle theirown procedure. What happened then?"

"They appointed Mary Wilson as chairman, and then John Smith got up andproposed that the prisoner get six scuds with the tawse from me. Themotion was carried unanimously. "

"You refused of course?" I said. 

"Man, I couldn't refuse. I was alarmed, because six scuds are far toomany for a little offence like chucking a pencil. I made them as lightas possible. "

I groaned. 

"What would you have done?" he asked. 

"Taken the prisoner's side, " I said promptly, "I should have chuckedevery pencil in the room at the judge and jury. Then I should havepointed out that I refused to do the dirty work of the community. "

"But where does the self-government come in there?" he protested. "Chucking things at the jury is anarchy, pure anarchy. "

"I know, " I said simply. "But then anarchy is necessary in yourschool. You don't mean to say that the children thought that throwinga pencil was a great crime? What happened was that they projectedthemselves on to you; unconsciously they said: 'The Mester thinks thisa crime and he would punish it severely. ' They were trying to pleaseyou. I say that anarchy is necessary if these children are to get freefrom their dependence on you and their fear of you. So long as yourefuse to alter your old values you can't expect the kids to altertheir old values. Unless you become as a little child you cannot enterthe kingdom of--er--self-government. "

I know that Mac's experiment will fail, and for this reason; he wantshis children to run the school themselves, but to run it according tohis ideas of government. 

 * * * * *

I think of an incident that happened when I was teaching in a school inLondon. I had a drawing lesson, and the children made so much noisethat the teacher in the adjoining room came in and protested that shecouldn't make her voice heard. The noise in my room seemed toincrease . . . And the lady came in again. The noise increased. 

Next day I went to my class. 

"You made such a noise yesterday that the teacher next door had to stopteaching. She rightly complained. Now I want to ask you what you aregoing to do about it. "

"You should keep us in order, " said Findlay, a boy of eleven. 

"I refuse, " I said; "it isn't my job. "

This raised a lively discussion; the majority seemed to agree withFindlay. 

"Anyway, " I said doggedly, "I refuse to be your policeman, " and I satdown. 

There was much talking, and then Joy got up. 

"I think we ought to settle it by a meeting, and I propose Diana aschairman. "

The idea was hailed with delight, and Diana was elected chairman andshe took my desk seat and I went and sat down in her place. 

Joy jumped up again. 

"I propose that Mr. Neill be put out of the room. "

The motion was carried. 

"Righto!" I said, as I moved to the door, "I'll go up to the staff-roomand have a smoke. Send for me if you want me. "

I smoked a cigarette in the staff-room, and as I threw the stump intothe grate Nancy came in. 

"You can come down now. "

I went down. 

"Well, " I said cheerily, "have you decided anything?"

"Yes, " said the chairman, "we have decided that----"

Joy was on her feet at once. 

"I propose that we don't tell Mr. Neill what we have decided. We canask him at the end of the week if he notices any difference in ourbehaviour. "

Others objected, and the matter was put to the vote. The voting was adraw, and Diana gave the casting vote in favour of my being told. Thenshe said that the meeting had agreed that if anyone made a row inclass, he or she was to be sent to Coventry for a whole day. 

"What will happen if I speak to the one that has been sent toCoventry?" asked Wolodia. 

"We'll send you to Coventry too, " said Diana, and the meeting murmuredagreement. 

No one was ever sent to Coventry, but I had no further complaintsagainst the class. One interesting feature in the affair was this:Violet, a lively girl full of fun, one day got up and, as a joke, proposed that Mr. Neill be sent to Coventry. The others, usuallywilling to laugh with Violet, protested. 

"That's just silly, Violet, " they said. "If you propose silly thingslike that we'll send you to Coventry. "

Then someone got up and proposed that Violet be sent to Coventry forbeing silly, and Diana at once took the chair. I got up and moved thenegative, pointing out that I made no charge against her, and she wasacquitted by a majority of one. I mention this to show that childrenof eleven and twelve can take their responsibilities seriously. 

When I told the story to Macdonald he said: "But why didn't you join intheir noise?"

"For two reasons, Mac, " I said. "Firstly these children were not underthe suppression of government schools; secondly it wasn't my school. "

III. 

The servant girl at the Manse has had an illegitimate child, and MegCaddam, the out-worker at East Mains is cutting her dead. Thus thegossip of Mrs. Macdonald. Meg Caddam is the unmarried mother of three. 

I have noticed again and again that the most severe critic of theunmarried mother is the unmarried mother, and I have many a timewondered at the fact. Now I know the explanation; it is the familiarProjection of a Reproach. Meg feels guilty because of her threechildren, but her guilt is repressed, driven down into the unconscious. 

She dare not allow her conscious mind to face the truth, for then thetruth would lower her self-respect; it would be unpleasant, out ofharmony with her ego-ideal. But it is easy for her to project thisinner reproach on to someone else, hence her blaming of the Manselassie. Meg Caddam is really condemning herself, but she does not knowit. 

I used to despise the Meg Caddams as hypocrites, but, poor souls, theyare not hypocrites. Their condemnation of their fallen sisters isgenuine. It is wonderful how we all manage to divide our minds intocompartments. Sandy Marshall of Brigs Farm is a most religious man, yet the other day he was fined for watering his milk. It is unjust tosay that his religion is hypocritical. What happens is that hisreligion is shut up in one compartment of his mind, and his dishonestyis shut up in another compartment . . . And there is no directcommunication between the compartments. 

The mind is like one of the older railway carriages; education's taskis to convert the old carriage into a new corridor carriage withcommunication between the compartments. Meg Caddam's own transgressionagainst current morality is locked up in one compartment; hercondemnation of the Manse girl is in another compartment. There is anunconscious communication, but there is no conscious communication. Idon't know what Meg would say if a cruel friend pointed out to her thatshe also was a fallen woman. 

I think that the gossip of this village mostly consists of projectedreproaches. Liz Ramsay, an old maid and the super-gossip of Tarbonny, came into the schoolhouse this morning. 

"Do ye ken this, " she said to Mrs. Macdonald, "it's my opeenion thatMrs. Broon died o' neglect. I went to the door the day afore she diedto speer hoo she was, and her daughter cam to the door, and do ye kenthis? That lassie was smiling . . . _smilin'_ . . . And her auldmother upstairs at death's door. Eh, Mrs. Macdonald, she's a heartlesswoman that Mary Broon. She killed her mother by neglect, that's whatshe did. "

After she had gone I said to Mrs. Macdonald: "Who nursed Liz's motherwhen she died last June?"

"Nobody, " said Mrs. Macdonald grimly. "Liz had too much gossip toretail in the village, and I'm told that Liz was seldom in the house. "

I think I am guessing fairly rightly when I say that Liz feels guiltyof neglecting her own mother, and like Meg Caddam she projects thereproach on to someone else. 

 * * * * * *

Last Friday night I gave a lecture to the literary Society in Tarby, our nearest town. I chose the subject of forgetting, and I told theaudience of Freud and his great work in connection with theunconscious. To-day's _Tarby Herald_ in reporting the lecture printsphonetically the spelling "Froid, " but the _Tarby Observer_ goes onebetter when it says: "Mr. Neill is an exponent of the new science ofCycloanalysis. "

Which reminds me of a painful episode that took place when I waseighteen. I was much enamoured of a young university student, and Ialways strove to gain her favour by being interested in the things sheliked. One day she informed me that she intended to take thePsychology class at St. Andrews the following session. I had neverheard the word before, and I made a bold guess that it had something todo with cycles. In consequence we talked at cross purposes for a while. 

"I'd love a subject like that, " I said warmly. 

"Most of it will be experimental psychology, " she said. 

My enthusiasm increased. I thought of the many experiments I had triedwith my old cushion-tyred cycle. 

"Excellent!" I cried. "A sort of training in inventing. Cranks, eh?"At that time my one ambition in life was to invent a folding crank thatwould give double power on hills. 

The lady looked at me sharply. 

"Why cranks?" she demanded. "I don't see it. Psychology has nothingto do with crystal-gazing you know. "

I was gravelled. 

"But what's the idea?" I asked. "Improvement of design?"

This made her think hard. 

"H'm, yes, I think I know what you mean, " she said slowly. "Butremember that before you can improve the psyche you must know thepsyche. "

I hastened to agree. 

"Certainly, but all the same there is much room for improvement. Youdon't want to come off at every hill, do you?"

This seemed to make her more thoughtful still. 

"No, " she said, "but don't you think that the mind makes the hill?"

This staggered me. 

"Eh?" I gasped. "Mean to say that I broke my chain on Logie Braeyesterday because----"

"I'm afraid it is too difficult for me, " she said apologetically. "Iget lost in metaphors. "

Then I asked her something about ball bearings, and she threw me agrateful smile . . . For changing the subject--as she thought. 

The most amusing joke is the joke about the innocent or ignorant. Everyone is tickled at the Hamlet joke I referred to in my _Log_. 

The school inspector was dining with the local squire. 

"Funny thing happened in the village school to-day, " he said. "I was alittle bit ratty, and I fired a question at a sleepy-looking boy at thebottom of the class. 

"Here, boy, who wrote _Hamlet_?"

The little chap got very flustered. 

"P--please, sir, it wasna me!"

The squire laughed boisterously. 

"And I suppose the little devil had done if after all!" he cried. 

We laugh at that story because we have all made mistakes owing toignorance, and blushed for them a hundred times later. When we laughat the squire, we are really laughing at ourselves; we are getting ridof our pent-up self-shame. That's why a good laugh is a medicine; itallows us to get rid of psychic poison, just as a good sweat rids us ofsomatic poison. Charlie Chaplin has possibly cured more people thanall the psycho-analysts in the world. 

 * * * * *

Public speaking is a most difficult thing. It is difficult enough whenyou know your subject, and it is almost impossible if you don't. At adinner someone asks you to get up and propose the health of the ladies. I tried proposing that toast once; luckily most of the diners wereunder the table by that time. What can one say about the ladies?

When you have a definite subject to talk about, and when you knoweverything about it, even then public speaking is difficult. You standup before a sea of faces. You see no one; you dare not catch anyone'seye. The best plan is to fix your eye on the blurred face of the manat the back of the hall. You feel that the audience is vaguely hostile. 

At one time I used to go straight into my subject . . . "Ladies andgentlemen, the subject of evolution has occupied the minds of--" Thenthe audience began to rustle, and the women turned to look at the hatsbehind them. 

Nowadays I am more wary. I stand up and gaze over the sea of faces fora full minute. There is absolute silence. I put my hands into mytrouser pockets and gaze at the ceiling, as if I were consideringwhether I should go on or give it up and go home. Even the boys at theback of the hall begin to look towards the platform. 

Then I look down and find that my tie is hanging out of my waistcoat, and I adjust it. A girl of ten giggles. 

"What can you expect for fivepence half-penny?" I ask, and the audiencegasps. 

"Why doesn't someone invent a long tie that won't come out at theends?" I ask wearily, and there is a laugh. I go on from ties tocollars, and there is another laugh. After that I can speak oneducation for two hours, and everyone in the hall will listen withgreat attention. 

The first thing in public speaking is to get on good terms with youraudience, and I claim that the best way to do this is to show them thehuman side of yourself. Some of your hearers are agin you; they havecome out to criticise you. You disarm them at once by treatingyourself as a joke. Of course you must suit your tactics to youraudience. The tie remark will put me on good terms with a ruralaudience, but it would fail in a lecture to teachers in the Albert Hall. 

An important thing to remember is that crowd humour is quite differentfrom individual humour. A crowd will roar with delight if the lectureraccidentally knocks over the drinking glass on the table, but noindividual ever laughs when a similar accident happens in a privateroom. Read the reports of speeches in the House of Commons. You willread that Lloyd George, in a speech, says: "And now let us turn toIreland (loud laughter). " But in cold print it isn't a very good joke. 

Quite a good way of commencing a lecture is to tell a short story . . . About the chairman if possible. But you must be careful. Keep off thetopic of the chairman's marital affairs; he may have lodged a divorcepetition the week before. 

On second thoughts I think it better not to mention the chairman atall. Last winter the local mayor was presiding at a lecture I gave inan English town. After I had delivered the lecture, he got up. 

"I came to this meeting feeling dead tired, " he said, "but after Mr. Neill's lecture I feel as fresh as a daisy. "

I rose in alarm. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, " I said hastily, "the mayor has been sittingbehind me. Do tell me: has he been asleep?"

In the ante-room afterwards he assured me solemnly that he hadn't beenasleep. 

On Friday night I began thus: "Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, I amgoing to talk about Forgetting. " Then I put my hand in my inside coatpocket; then I tried another pocket, and got very excited while Irummaged every pocket I had. 

"I must apologise, " I said, "but I have forgotten my notes. "

The audience laughed, and we became the best of friends. 

 * * * * *

Forgetting is very often intentional. We forget what we do not want toremember. Brown writes to me saying that he is taking the wife andkids to the seaside, and would I please pay him the fiver I owe him? Iat once sit down and write: "My dear Brown, I enclose a cheque for fivequid. Many thanks for the loan. Hope you all have a good time at thesea. "

Three days later Brown replies. 

"Thanks for your letter, old man, but you forgot to enclose the cheque. "

Why did I forget the cheque? Because I did not want to pay up. Consciously I did want to pay, for I wrote out the cheque all right, but my unconscious did not want to pay, and it was my unconscious thatmade me slip the cheque under the blotter. 

Last summer I was invited to spend the week-end with some people atStanmore. I did not want to go; a previous week-end with them had beenmost boring. However, I reluctantly consented to go out on theSaturday morning. When Saturday morning came I was not very muchsurprised to find that I had forgotten to put out my boots to becleaned the night before. 

"It looks as if I weren't keen on this trip, " I said to myself. 

I went down to Baker Street and got into the train. We stopped at manystations, and after an hour's journey I began to wonder what was wrong. I asked another man in the compartment when we were due at Stanmore, and he looked surprised. 

"Why, " he said, "you're on the wrong line; you ought to have changed atHarrow. "

I got out at the next station and found that I had an hour to wait forthe return train to Harrow. As I sat on the platform I took from mypocket my host's letter. 

"Remember, " it ran, "to change at Harrow, " and the words wereunderlined. 

I arrived four hours late . . . And spent a pleasant week-end. 

One night I was dining out in London, and I told my host the new theoryof forgetting. 

"That's all bunkum, " he said. "Why, there is a flower growing at thefront door there, and I can never remember the name of it. I am fondof flowers and never have any difficulty in remembering their names asa rule. "

"What flower is it?" I asked. 

He tried to recall it, and had to give it up. 

"It's the joke of the family, " said his wife. "He can never rememberthe name Begonia. "

"Begonia!" cried my host, "that's the name! But surely you don't meanto tell me that I want to forget it? Why should I?"

"It may be associated with something unpleasant in your life, " I said. 

"Nonsense!" he laughed. "The name conveys nothing to me. "

We began to talk about other things. Ten minutes later my hostsuddenly exclaimed:

"I've got it!"

"What?" I asked. 

"That Begonia business. When I began business as a charteredaccountant over twenty years ago, the first books I had to audit werethe books of a company calling itself The Begonia Furnishing Company. I glanced through the books and soon concluded that they wereswindlers. I worried over that case for a week; you see it was myfirst case, and I felt a little superstitious about it. However, atthe end of a week I sent the books back saying that I couldn't see myway to undertake the auditing. I've never given them a thought since. "

I explained the mechanisms to him. The whole idea of this BegoniaCompany was so painful to him that he repressed it, that is, drove itdown into the unconscious. Twenty years later he was unconsciouslyafraid to recall the name of the flower, because the name might havebrought back the painful memories of the questionable books. 

On Friday night during question time one man got up. 

"Why is it, then, " he asked, "that I cannot forget the painful timewhen my wife died?"

I explained that a big thing like that cannot be forgotten, but pointedout that in a case like that the tendency is to forget little things inconnection with the big pain. I told him of a case I had myself known. A lady of my acquaintance lived for a few years in Glasgow; then shemoved to Edinburgh, where she lived for almost thirty years. Now shelives in London. When she talks of her old home in Edinburgh shealways says: "When we were in Glasgow. " Invariably she makes thismistake. The reason is almost certainly this: just before she leftEdinburgh she lost the one she loved most in life. She says: "When wewere in Glasgow" because the word Edinburgh would at once bring backthe painful memories connected with her loved one's death. 

When I was teaching in Hampstead one of my pupils, a boy of sixteen, came to me one day. 

"That's all rot, what you say about wanting to forget things, " he said. "I went and left my walking-stick in a bus yesterday. "

"Were you tired of it?" I asked. 

"Tired of it?" he said indignantly. "Why, it was a beauty, asilver-topped cane, got it from mother on my birthday. That provesyour theory is all wrong. "

"Tell me about yesterday, " I said. 

"Well, I was going to a match at lord's, and it looked rather dull, somother told me I'd better take a gamp. I said it wasn't going to rain, and took my cane, but I had just got on the top of a bus when down camethe rain in bucketfuls and I tell you I was wet to the skin. "

"So you did mean to leave your cane behind?" I asked, with a smile. 

"But I tell you I didn't!"

"You did, all the same. You kicked yourself because you hadn't takenyour mother's advice and brought a gamp. You deliberately left yourcane behind you because it had proved useless. "

I must add that I failed to convince him. 

Connected with forgetting are what Freud calls symptomatic acts. Ileave my stick or gloves behind when I am calling at a house: Iconclude that I want to go back there. I go to dinner at theThomsons', and at their front door I absent-mindedly take out mylatch-key. This may mean that I feel at home there; on the other hand, it may mean that I wish I were at home. It is dangerous to dogmatiseabout the unconscious. 

I was sitting one night with Wilson, an old college friend of mine. Wetalked of old times, and I remarked that he had been very lucky in hislodgings during his college course. 

"Yes, " he said, "I was in the same digs all the five years. She was aripping landlady was Mrs. --Mrs. --Good Lord! I've forgotten her name!"

He tried to recall the name, but had to give it up. Two hours later, as he rose to go, he exclaimed: "I remember the name now! Mrs. Watson!"

"What are your associations to the name Watson?" I asked. 

"Associations? What do you mean?"

"What's the first thing that comes into your head in connection withthe name?" I asked. 

He made an effort to concentrate his mind, then suddenly he laughedshortly. 

"Good Lord!" he cried, "that's my wife's name!"

I felt that I could not very well ask him anything further, but Isuspected that Wilson and his wife were not getting on well together. 

 * * * * *

Macdonald's self-government scheme has fizzled out. Yesterday hisscholars besought him to return to the old way of authority. 

"They were fed up with looking after themselves, " explained Mac to me. "They were always trying each other for misdemeanours, and they gotsick of it. "

I tried to explain to Mac why his attempt had failed. Self-governmentalways fails unless it is complete self-government. Mac was thedirector and guide; it was he who decided the time-table; it was he whorang the bell and decided the length of the intervals. The childrenhad nothing to do but to keep themselves in order, hence they came tospy on each other. All their energies were directed to penal measures. Their meeting degenerated into a police court. That was inevitable;Mac, by laying down all the laws, prevented their using their creativeenergy on things and ideas. Naturally they put all the energy they hadinto the only thing open to them--the trial of offenders. In short, they were employing energy in destruction when they ought to have beenemploying it in construction. Mac seems indifferent now. "The thingis unworkable, " he says. 

 * * * * *

Duncan came over to-night. I decided to let him do most of thetalking, and he did it well. He has been doing a lot of RegionalGeography, and I learned much from his conversation. As the eveningwore on he became very affable, and he treated me with the greatestkindness. When Mac was seeing him out Duncan remarked to him: "Thatchap Neill isn't such a bad fellow after all. " Now that I have shownDuncan that I am his inferior in Geography he will listen to me withless irritation. 

After supper I went over to see Dauvit. His shop was crowded. Conversation was going slowly, and Dauvit seemed to welcome my entrance. 

"Man, Dominie, " he said, "I am very glad to see ye, cos the smith herehas been tellin' his usual lees aboot the ten pund troot that he nearlylanded in the Kernet. "

"I doot ye dreamt it, smith, " said the foreman from Hillend. "I kenfor mysell that the biggest troot I ever catched were in my dreams. "

"Dreams is just a curran blethers, " said the smith in scorn. 

Dauvit looked at him thoughtfully. 

"That's a very ignorant remark, smith, " he said gravely. "There'snaebody kens what a dream is. Some o' thae spiritualist lads say thatwhen ye are asleep yer spirit goes to the next plane, and that maks yerdreams. "

The smith laughed loudly. 

"Oh, Dauvit! Why, man, I dreamed last nicht that I was sittin' we agreat muckle pint o' beer in my hand. Do ye mean to tell me that thereis beer in heaven?"

There was a laugh at Dauvit's expense, but the laugh turned against thesmith when Dauvit remarked dryly: "I didna mention heaven; I said thenext plane, and onybody that kens you, smith, kens that the planeyou're gaein' to is the doon plane. "

"Naturally, a muckle pint o' beer will be the exact thing ye need doonthere, " he added. 

"It's my opeenion, " said old John Peters, "that dreams is just like amotor car withoot the driver. Or like a schule withoot the mester; thebairns just run aboot whaur they like, nae control as ye micht say. Weel, that's jest what happens in dreams; the mester is sleepin' andthe bairns do all sorts o' mad things. "

"Aye, man, John, " said Dauvit, who seemed to be struck with the idea, "there's maybe something in that. Just as bairns when they get free doa' the things they're no meant to do, we do the same things in oordreams. Goad, but I've done some awfu' things in my dreams!"

Here Jake Tosh the roadman began to cough, and Jake's cough alwaysmeans that he is about to say something. 

"You're just a lot o' haverin' craturs, " he said with conviction. "Ifye had ony sense ye wud ken that the dream is just cheese and tripe forsupper. "

Dauvit's eyes twinkled. 

"And does the cheese wander frae yer stammick up to yer heid, Jake?"

"I wudna go so far as that, " said Jake seriously, "but what I say isthat a' the different parts o' the body work thegether. If thestammick has to work a' nicht to digest the cheese, the heid has tokeep workin' at the same rate, and that's why ye dream. "

"Aye, man, Jake, " said Dauvit, "it's a bonny theory, but wud ye jesttell me exactly what work yer toes and fingers and hair are doin' a'nicht to keep upsides wi' yer stammick?"

Jake dismissed the question with an airy wave of his hand. 

"Onybody kens that, " he said; "they grow. Yer hair and yer nails growat nichts, and that's why ye need a shave in the mornin'!"

"What if you don't dream at all, Jake?" I asked. 

"Ye're needin' some grub, " said Jake shortly. 

On thinking it over I feel that Jake's theory throws some light onJung's theory of the libido. 

IV. 

This morning I had a letter from a friend in London asking when I amgoing to set up my "Crank School" in London. I began to think about theword Crank. What is a Crank? Usually the name is applied to people whowear long hair, eat vegetarian diet, wear sandals . . . Or something inthat line. A Crank therefore is someone who differs from the crowd, andI am led to conclude that the Crank not only differs from the crowd butis usually ahead of the crowd. 

According to Sir Martin Conway the crowd has no head; it can only feel. Hence it comes that the main feature of a crowd is its emotion. When westudy the street crowd, the mob, this fact is evident; but can we say thesame of other crowds . . . The Public School crowd, the Church, theMiners, the Doctors? I think so. The anger that Alec Waugh's book, _TheLoom of Youth_, aroused in the public schools was not a thought-outanger; it came from the public school emotion. So with vivisection; thedoctors' rage at the anti-vivisectionists is not an intellectual rage; itis simply a professional emotion. Just before I left London I happenedone night to be in a company of men who were arguing aboutRe-incarnation. I had no special views on the subject, but I soon foundmyself supporting the crowd that was sceptical about Re-incarnation. Thereason was that the leader of the anti-reincarnation crowd happened to bea man called Neill. It is highly probable that if two rag-and-bone mengot into a scrap in a public house they would support each other simplyout of a professional crowd emotion. 

That the crowd has no head is evident when we read the popular papers orsee the popular films. The most successful papers are those that touchthe passions of the mob. I proved this one week last spring. Judgeswere beginning to introduce the "cat" for criminals, as a means to stemthe crime wave. I sat down and wrote an article on the subject, pointingout that this was a going back to the days of barbarism when lunaticswere whipped behind the cart's tail. I made a strong plea for thepsychological treatment of the criminal, basing my plea on the fact thatcrime is the result of unconscious workings of the mind, and stating thatinstead of sending a poor man to penal servitude we ought to analyse hismind and cure him of his anti-social tendencies. 

I thought it a jolly good article, and when a prominent Sunday paperreturned the manuscript to me I was surprised. My surprise left me onthe following Sunday when the same paper blared forth an article byHoratio Bottomley. His title was: "Wanted--the Cat!"

My article was more thoughtful, more humane, more scientific. Why, then, was it suppressed? The answer is simple: it did not fit in with thepassions of the crowd. It becomes clear why our best publicmen--editors, cabinet ministers, publicists are not great thinkers. Theymust keep in touch with the crowd; they must express the emotions of thecrowd. 

The attitude of the crowd to the anti-crowd person, the Crank, is neverone of contemptuous indifference. It is always distinctly hostile. If Itravel by tube from Hampstead to Piccadilly without a hat the othertravellers stare at me with mild hostility. Why? Conway, in _The Crowdin Peace and War_, an excellent book, says that this hostility comes fromfear. A crowd is always afraid of another crowd, because the only forcethat can destroy a crowd is a rival crowd. Every individual who differsfrom the herd is suspect because he is perhaps the nucleus of a rivalcrowd. That is why the world always crucifies its Christs. 

The Crank School, then, is a school where anti-crowd people send theirchildren. It is the school _par excellence_ of the Intelligentsia. Thetendency of every Crank School is to exaggerate the difference betweenthe crank and the crowd; hence its adoption of an ideal and itsconcomitant crazes. I cannot for the life of me see why ideals areassociated with vegetarianism, long hair, Grecian dress, and sandals, just as I cannot see why art should attach itself to huge bow-ties, longhair, and foot-long cigarette holders. 

The Crank School holds up an ideal. It plasters its walls with busts ofWalt Whitman and Blake; it hangs bad reproductions of Botticelli roundthe walls; it sings songs to Freedom; it rhapsodises about Beethoven andBach. The children of the Crank Schools are, I rejoice to say, notcranks. They leave the boredom of Bach and seek the jazz record on thegramophone; they ignore the pictures of Whitman and Blake and study _ThePicture Show_ or _Funny Bits_. Many of them think more highly of CharlieChaplin than of William Shakespeare. 

I say again that I rejoice in this; it serves the Crank School peoplejolly well right. I cannot see by what right educators force what theyconsider good taste down the children's throats. That is a return to theold way of authority, of treating the child's mind as a blank slate. Ifthe Crank Schools are to improve, they must drop their high moral purposetone and come down to earth. They must realise that Charlie Chaplin and_John Bull_ have their place in education just as Shakespeare andBeethoven have their place. We do not want to turn out cranks who willform a new superior crowd; we want to turn out men and women who willreadily join the conventional crowd and help it to reach better ideals. 

This question of good taste is a sore one with me. I think it fatal toimpose good taste on any child; the child must form his own taste. Iknow that it is possible to cultivate good taste and to become a verysuperior cultivated person, but I know that the human, erring, vulgar, music-hall, Charlie Chaplin part of such a person's make-up is notannihilated; it is merely repressed into the unconscious. 

I have a theory that each of us has a definite amount of human nature, some of it high, some of it low, or, to phrase it differently, some of itanimal, some of it spiritual. We can repress one part, and then webecome either a saint or a sinner; the better way is to be both saint andsinner, to look life straight in the face, condemning no one, judging noone. 

 * * * * *

Macdonald was re-reading _A Dominie Dismissed_ to-night, and he looked upand said: "Look here, you've got an awful lot of swear-words in thisbook!"

"That, " I said, "has a cause, Mac. They aren't really swear-words; theworld has grown out of being shocked at a 'damn, ' but I am willing toadmit that there are more damns and hells than is usual. They aresymptomatic; they date back to my early days when swearing was a crimepunishable with the strap. They are simply symbols of my freedom. Mostbad language is from a like cause. When you foozle on the first teethere is no earthy reason why you should say 'Hell' rather than 'Onions'!But if onions had been taboo when you were a child you would findyourself using the word as a swear. The curse word is the link thatjoins your foozle with the nursery; whenever you curse you regress, thatis, you go back to the infantile. "

"But, " said Mac, "you don't mean to say that if swearing were permittedto children that they wouldn't curse when they were grown up?"

"I don't think they would, " I said. "Nor would there be any unprintablestories if we had a frank sex education. It's a sad fact, Mac, butnine-tenths of humour is due to early suppression and repression. "

"Seems to me, " said Mac with a laugh, "that if everybody werepsycho-analysed, the world would be a pretty dull place. "

 * * * * *

A few days ago I found a pot of light paint in Mac's workshop, and, impelled by heaven only knows what unconscious process, I painted mybicycle blue. This morning, the paint being dry, I rode forth into anunsympathetic world. Women came to their doors to stare at my machine, and as they stared they broke into laughter. When I reached the villageof Cordyke the school was coming out, and I was greeted with a howl ofderision. I thought it a good instance of crowd psychology; I wasdifferent from the crowd, and I evoked laughter and derision. 

After cycling a few miles, I came to an old man breaking stones at thebottom of a hill. On my approaching he threw down his hammer and turnedto stare at my cycle. I dismounted. 

"Almichty me!" he said with surprise. "That's a michty colour!"

"It's unusual, " I said, as I lit a cigarette. 

He fumbled for his clay pipe. 

"I've seen black anes, and I wance saw a silver-plated ane, but I neverheard tell o' a blue bike afore, " he said. "Did you pent it?"

I acknowledged that it was my very own handiwork. 

"But, " he said in puzzled tones, "what was yer idea?" and he stared at itagain. "A michty colour that!"

I threw my bike down on the grass and sat down on the cairn. 

"Between you and me, " I said mysteriously, "I had to paint it blue. "

He raised his eyebrows. 

"Yea, man!"

"Government orders, " I said carelessly, and began to throw stones at atree trunk at the other side of the road. 

"Government orders?" He looked very much surprised. 

"Yes, " I said airily. "You see, it's like this. The CoalitionGovernment isn't very firmly placed these days, and, well, I'm an agentfor it. Of course, you know that it is really a Tory government, and mybike, as it were, invites the electorate to vote True Blue. "

"Yea, man! I thocht that you was maybe ane o' thae temperance lads fraeAmericky. "

"Ah!" I said solemnly, "that reminds me; Pussyfoot tried to induce me tomake my tour a sort of joint thing. He suggested that I might carry onmy Tory work, and at the same time take part in the blue ribbon campaign. Of course I refused. "

"Of coorse, " he nodded. 

"Officially I am doing Coalition work, " I continued conversationally, "but I have motives of my own. "

"You don't say!"

"Oh, yes. I am a great admirer of Lord Fisher and the Blue Water school, sometimes spoken of as the Blue Funk school. Again, I find that theGreat War has left many people in the blues, and by means of homeopathy Icure 'em; I mean to say that they come to their doors and laugh at myblue bike. My blue dispels their blues. "

The old man did not seem to follow this. 

"Of course, " I went on, "the Bluebells of Scotland have something to dowith my selection of the colour. "

"A verra nice sang, " he commented. 

"An excellent song! Then there is the well-known phrase 'Once in a BlueMoon, ' and innumerable songs about the pale moonlight. Also I once knewa man who had the blue devils. "

I tried to think of other phases of blueness, but my stock was almostexhausted. 

"Of course, " I added, "I am not forgetting the other blues, the Oxfordblues, Reckitt's Blue, Blue Coupons, and--and--I'm afraid I can't thinkof any other blues just at the moment. "

The old man drew the back of his hand over his mouth. 

"There's the 'Blue Bonnets' up at the tap o' the brae, " he suggestedthirstily. 

"Good idea!" I cried, "come on!" and together we climbed the brae. 

 * * * * *

A friend of mine in London has written me asking if I will write anarticle on Co-education for an educational journal, in which she isinterested. I replied: "I can't see where the problem comes in; to aScot co-education is not a thing that has to be supported by argument; heaccepts it as he accepts the law of gravitation. "

I wonder why English people are so afraid of co-education. To this dayschools like Bedales, King Alfred's, Harpenden, and Arundale are reckonedas crank schools. The great middle-class of England believes insegregation. Even Dr. Ernest Jones, the most prominent Freudianpsycho-analyst in England, appears to be afraid of it. 

I can only conjecture that Jones agrees with the middle and upper classesin associating sex with sin. I have never tried to think out my reasonsfor believing in co-education; possibly the true reason is that havinggrown up in a co-education atmosphere, co-education has become a part ofme just as my Scots accent has. In other words, I may have aco-education complex. If that is so, my arguments will be mererationalisations, but I give them for what they are worth. 

We are all born with a strong sex instinct, and this instinct must findexpression in some way. We know that the sex energy can be sublimated, that is, raised to a higher power. For instance, the creative sex urgemay be directed to the making of a bookcase, or the making of a centuryat cricket. But I know of no evidence to prove that all the instinct canbe sublimated. An adolescent may spend his days at craftwork and games, but he will have erotic dreams at nights. All the drawing and paintingin the world will not prevent his having emotion when he looks at theface of a pretty girl. 

In our segregation schools boys and girls see nothing of each other. Theunsublimated sex instinct finds expression in homosexuality, that is theemotion that should go to the opposite sex is fixed on a person of thesame sex. I admit that we are all more or less homosexual; otherwisethere could be no friendship between man and man, or woman and woman. Inour boarding schools the sex instinct often takes the road ofauto-eroticism. 

In a co-education school the sex impulse is directed to one of theopposite sex. This attachment is nearly always a romantic idealattachment. I have never known a case that went the length of kissing;among little children at a rural school, yes; at the age of seven Ikissed my first sweetheart; but among adolescents I find that neither theboy nor the girl has the courage to kiss. Theirs is a sublimatedcourtship; they never use the word Love; they talk about "likingSo-and-so. "

That at many co-education schools this romantic attachment is more orless an underground affair is due to the moral attitude of teachers. They pride themselves on the beautiful sexless attachments of theirpupils; they give moral lectures on the subject of kissing, and naturallyevery pupil in school at once becomes painfully self-conscious on thesubject. The truth is that many co-educationists do not in their heartsbelieve in the system; they still see sin in sex. 

To be a thorough success the co-education school must include sexeducation in its curriculum. The children of the most advanced parentsseldom get it at home, and they come to school with the old attitude tosex. Sex education does not mean telling children where babies comefrom; it should dwell mostly on the psychological side of the question. The child ought to learn the truth about its sex instinct. Mostimportant of all, the child who has indulged in auto-eroticism ought tobe helped to get rid of his or her sense of guilt. This sense of guiltis the primary evil of self-abuse; abolish it, and the child is on theway to a self-cure. 

How many children can go to their teacher and make confession of sextroubles? Very few. It is the teachers' fault; they set themselves upas moralists, and a moralist is a positive danger to any child. 

Not long ago I was addressing a meeting of teachers in south London. Atquestion time a woman challenged me. 

"You have condemned moralists, " she said; "do you mean to say that youwould never teach a child the difference between right and wrong?"

"Never, " I answered, "for I do not know what is right and what is wrong. "

"Then I think you ought not to be a teacher, " she said. 

"I know what is right for me, and wrong for me, " I went on to explain, "but I do not know what is right and wrong for you. Nor do I presume toknow what is right or wrong for a child. "

I was pleasingly surprised to find that the meeting roared approval of myreply. 

 * * * * *

Macdonald had to attend a funeral to-day, and he asked me if I would takehis classes for an hour. I gladly agreed. 

"Give them a lesson on psychology, " he said; "it will maybe improve theirbehaviour. "

I went over to the school at two o'clock, and Mac introduced me, althoughI had already made friends with most of the children in the playgroundand the fields. Mac then went away and I sat down at his desk. 

"We'll have a talk, " I said, "just a little friendly talk between you andme. I want to hear your opinions on some things. "

They looked at me with interest. 

"Why, " I said, "why do you sit quiet in school?"

Andrew Smith put up his hand. 

"Please, sir, 'cause if we don't the mester gies us the strap. "

"A very sound reason, too, " I commented. "And now I want to ask you whyyou sometimes want to throw papers or slate-pencils about the room. "

"Please, sir, we never do that, " said little Jeannie Simpson. 

"The mester wud punish us, " said another girl. 

"But, " I cried, "surely one of you has thrown things about the room?"

Tom Murray, the bad boy of the school (according to Mac), put up his hand. 

"Please, sir, I did it once, but the mester licked me. "

"Why did you do it, Tom?"

Tom thought hard. 

"I didna like the lesson, " he said simply. 

I then went on further. 

"Now I want you all to think this out: was Tom being selfish when hethrew paper, or was he unselfish?"

Everyone, Tom included, judged that the paper-throwing was a selfish act. 

"I don't agree, " I said. "Tom was trying to do a service to the others;you were all bored by a lesson, and Tom stepped in and took yourattention. Unfortunately he also attracted the attention of Mr. Macdonald, but that has nothing to do with Tom's reason for doing it. Tom was the most unselfish of the lot of you; he showed more good thanany of you. "

"The mester didna think that!" said Tom, with a grin. 

Peter Wallace carefully rolled a paper pellet and threw it at Tom. 

"Now, " I said with a smile, "let's think this out; why did Peter throwthat pellet just now?"

"Because the class is bored, " said a little girl, and there was a goodlaugh at my expense. 

"Righto!" I laughed, "shall we do something else?" but the class shouted"No!" and I proceeded. 

"Peter, do tell us why you threw that pellet. "

"For fun, " said Peter, blushing and smiling. 

"He did it so's the class wud look at him, " said Tom Murray, and Peterhid his diminished head. 

"A wise answer, Tom, " I said; "but we are all like that; we all like tobe looked at. Who is the best at arithmetic?"

"Willie Broon, " said the class, and Willie Broon cocked his head proudly. 

"And who is the best fighter?"

"Tom Murray, " answered the boys, and one little chap added: "Tom cudfecht Willie Broon wi' one hand. "

Tom tried to look modest. 

I went round the class and with one exception every child had at leastone branch of life in which he or she found a sense of superiority. Theexception was Geordie Wylie, a small lad of thirteen with a white faceand a starved appearance. The class were unanimous in declaring thatGeordie had no talent. 

"He canna even spit far enough, " said one boy. 

Geordie's embarrassment made me change the subject quickly, but I made upmy mind to have a talk with him later. 

Some of the reasons for individual pride were strange. Jake Tosh'sfeeling of superiority lay in the circumstance that his father had laidout a gamekeeper while poaching. Jock Wilson had once found a shilling;another boy had seen "fower swine stickit a' in wan day;" another couldsmoke a pipe of Bogie Roll without sickening (but I had to promise not totell the Mester). The girls seemed to find their superiority mostly inlessons, although a few were proud of their needle-work. 

I then went on to ask them what their highest ambition in life was. Theboys showed less imagination than the girls. Six of them wanted to beploughmen like their fathers. To a townsman this might appear to be avery modest ambition, but to a boy it means power and position; to drivea pair of horses tandem fashion as they do on the East Coast, with thetracer prancing on the braes; that is what being a ploughman means to avillage lad. One boy wanted to be an engineer, another a clerk ("'cos hedoesna need to tak' aff his jaicket to work!"), another a soldier. 

"Not a single teacher!" I said. 

"We're no clever enough, " said Tom Murray. 

I turned to the girls. 

"Now, let's see what ambition you have, " I said hopefully. The resultwas good; three teachers, two nurses, one typist, one lady doctor, one . . . Lady. This was Maggie Clark. She just wanted to be like oneof thae ladies in the picters with a motor car. 

"And husband?" I asked. 

"No, I dinna want a man, but I wud like a lot of bairns, " she said, andthere was a snigger from the boys who had got their sex education fromthe ploughmen at the Brig of evenings. 

Another girl remarked that Maggie's ambition was a selfish one. 

"But are you not all selfish?" I asked. 

The class indignantly denied it. 

"Right, " I said, "what do you say to a composition exercise?"

They obediently got out their composition books, but I told them that myexercise was an easy one. I tore up a few pages into slips anddistributed them. 

"Now, " I said, "suppose I give you five pounds to do what you like with. Write down what you would do with it, fold the paper, and hand it in tome. "

They eagerly agreed, and at the end of five minutes I had a hatful ofslips. I then drew a line down the centre of the blackboard. On oneside I wrote the word Selfish; on the other Unselfish. The class groanedand laughed. 

"Now, " I said cheerfully, "this will prove whether the class is unselfishor not, " and I unfolded the first slip. 

"But you'll say we are selfish!" said a boy. 

"I have nothing to do with it, " I said; "you are to decide by vote. First person . . . 'I would buy a bicycle': selfish or unselfish?"

"Selfish!" roared the class, and I put a mark in the first column. 

"Next paper . . . 'Scooter, knife, and the rest on ice-cream. '"

"Selfish!" and I put down another mark. 

"Next: . . . 'Buy a pair of boots' . . . Selfish or unselfish?"

The class had to stop and think here. 

"Selfish!" said a few. 

"Unselfish, " said others, "'cos he wud be helpin' his mother. "

"Then we'll vote on it, " I said, and by a majority of two the act wasdeclared to be unselfish. 

We then had a run of knives, tops, candy, cycles, and no vote wasnecessary. Then came a puzzler. 

"I would send every penny to the starving babies of Germany. "

"Unselfish!" cried the class in one voice. I was just about to put themark in the unselfish column when a boy said: "That's selfish, cos she'dfeel proud of being so--so unselfish. "

"How do you know it is a she?" I asked. 

"'Cause I ken it's Jean Wilson, " he answered promptly; "she has took areid face. "

There followed a breezy debate on Jean's act. 

"It is selfish, " said Mary, "because when you do a kind action you feelpleased with yourself, and it was selfish because if it hadna pleased hershe wud never ha' done it. "

I asked for a vote and to my astonishment the act was declared selfish bya majority of three. I suspect that conventional Hun Hatred hadsomething to do with the voting. 

The voting over I totted up the marks. 

"You have judged yourselves, " I said, "and according to your own showingyou as a class are 87 per cent. Selfish and 13 per cent. Unselfish. "

This essay in composition was not original; I got the idea from HomerLane, who claimed that it was the best introduction to school psychology. "It is the best way to make children think of their own behaviour, " hesaid, and my experiment has shown this. 

When Mac came back I said to him; "You've got a fine lot of bairns, Mac. "

"Had you any difficulty?" he asked. 

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I half thought they would try to pull your leg, especially a boylike Tom Murray. He is a most difficult chap, you know. "

"Tom's a saint, " I said; "every child is a saint if you treat him as anequal. No, I had no difficulty, but I want you to send over GeordieWylie to me this afternoon. There is something wrong with that boy; hehas no ambition and he has one of the worst inferiority complexes I haveever struck. I want to have a quiet talk with him. "

Mac promised, and at three o'clock Geordie came over to the schoolhouse. I took him into the parlour, and he sat nervously on the edge of a chair. 

"Tell me about yourself, Geordie, " I said, but he did not answer. 

"Do you keep rabbits?"

"Aye. "

"What kind?"

"Twa Himalayas and a half Patty. "

"Keep doos?"

"No. "

It was like drawing blood from a milestone. 

"What do you do when you go home at nights?"

It was a long difficult task to get anything out of him. The only factof value I got was that he was a great reader of Wild West stories. Iasked him to come to me again, and he said he would. 

To-night I asked Mac about him. 

"He's a dreamer, " said Mac, "and he's lazy. I am always strapping himfor inattention. He's not a manly boy, never plays games, always standsin a corner of the playground. "

"Does he ever fight?" I asked. 

"He's a great coward, but there's one queer thing about him; when any boychallenges him to fight he goes white about the gills but he alwaysfights . . . And gets licked. "

"Mac, " I said, "will you do me a favour? Don't whack him again; it isthe worst treatment you can give him. He is a poor wee chap, and he isbadly in need of real help. "

"All right, " said the kindly Mac, "I'll try not to touch him, but heirritates me many a time. "

 * * * * *

I had Geordie for an hour this morning. He was taciturn at first, butlater he talked freely. He is very much afraid of his father, and heweeps when his father scolds him. This makes the father angrier and hecalls Geordie a lassie, a greetin' lassie. This jeer wounds the boydeeply. He is afraid in the dark. He told me that he was puzzled aboutone thing; when he goes for his milk at night he is never afraid on theoutward journey, but when he leaves the dairy to come home he is alwaysin terror. I asked him what he was afraid of and he told me that healways imagined that there was a man in a cheese-cutter cap waiting tomurder him. 

"What is a cheese-cutter?" I asked. 

"It is a bonnet with a big snout, something like a railway porter's. Myfather's a porter and he has ane. "

Evidently the man he is afraid of is his father. This may account forhis lack of fear when he is walking from his home to the dairy. Then heis leaving his father; when he starts to return he is going back to hisfather and is afraid. 

I asked him about his fights with other boys. He always feared a fightbut he went through with it so that the other boys should not call him acoward. Naturally he always lost the battle; he fought with a dividedmind; while his less imaginative opponent thought only of hitting andwinning, Geordie was picturing the end of the fight. 

I asked him if he had a sweetheart, and he blushed deeply. He told methat he often took fancies for girls, but they would not have him. FrankMurray always cut him out; Frank was a big hefty lad and the girls likethe beefy manly boy. 

He does much day-dreaming, phantasying it is called in analysis. Hisdreams always take the form of conquests; in his day-dream he is the bestfighter in the school, the best scholar, the most loved of the girls. His night dreams are often terrifying, and he has more than once dreamtthat his father and Macdonald were dead. He finds compensation for hisweaknesses in his day-dreams and his reading. He likes tales of heroeswho always kill the villians and carry off the heroines. 

It is difficult to know what to do in a case like this. The best waywould be to change the boy's environment, but that is out of thequestion. Even then the early fears would go with him; he would transferhis father-complex to another man. 

I tried to explain to Mac the condition of Geordie. The boy is allbottled up; his energy should be going into play and work, but instead itis regressing, going back to early ways of adaptation to environment. 

"But what can I do with him?" asked Mac. 

"Give him your love, " I said. "He fears you now, and your attitude tohim makes him worse. You must never punish him again, Mac. "

"That's all very well, " said Mac ruefully, "but what am I to do? SupposeTom Murray and he talk during a lesson, am I to whack Tom and allowGeordie to get off?"

"Chuck punishment altogether, " I said. "You don't need it; it is alwaysthe resort of a weak teacher. "

"I couldn't do without it, " he said. 

"All right then, " I said wearily, "but I want you to realise that yourpunishments are making Geordie a cripple for life. "

 * * * * *

I went down and had a talk with Geordie's father. He was not verypleasant about it; indeed he was almost unpleasant. 

"There's nothing wrong wi' the laddie, " he said aggressively. "He's awee bit lassie-like and he has no pluck. "

Here Geordie entered the kitchen, and his father turned on him harshly. 

"Started to yer lessons yet?" he demanded. 

Geordie muttered something about having had to feed his rabbits. 

"I'll rabbit ye! Get yer books oot this minute!" and Geordie crept to acorner and rummaged among some old clothes for his school-bag. 

I tried to be as amiable as I could, and avoided controversy. I soon sawthat father and mother were not pulling well together, and I suspectedthat the father's harshness to Geordie was often a weapon to wound thefond mother. I saw that nothing I could say would do any good, and Itook my departure. 

Later I went to see Dauvit, and found him alone. I asked him to tell meabout the Wylies. 

"Tarn Wylie is wan o' the stupidest men in a ten mile radius, " saidDauvit. "But he's no stupid whaur money is concerned; they tell me thathe drinks aboot half his week's wages, and his puir wife has to suffer. That laddie o' theirs, he was born afore the marriage, and they tell methat Tarn wud never ha' married her if he hadna been fell drunk the nichthe put in the banns. "

This case of poor Geordie shows what a complexity there is in humanaffairs. His father has a mental conflict, and he drinks so that he mayget away from reality. The father's drinking and the son's reading ofromances are fundamentally the same thing; each is trying to get awayfrom a reality he dare not face. No treatment of Geordie could besatisfactory unless at the same time the parents were being treated. 

V. 

Carrotty Broon, one of my old scholars, came to Dauvit's shop to-night, and he talked about his pigeons . . . His doos he calls them. He keepsa pigeon loft of homers, and he spends a considerable amount intraining them. 

"Some fowk think, " he said, "that a homer will flee hame if ye throw itup five hunder miles awa. "

"I've read of flights of seven hundred miles, " I said. 

Carrotty Broon chuckled. 

"I mind o' a homer I had, " he went on. "He was a beauty, a reidchequer. His father had flown frae London to Glasgow, and his mitherwas a flier too. Weel, I took him doon to Monibreck on my bike, andlet him off. I never saw him again; five mile, and he cudna find hisway hame!"

"He must ha' been shot, " said Dauvit, "for thae homers find their wayhame by instinct. "

"Na, na, Dauvit, " said Broon, "they flee by sicht. When ye train ahomer ye tak it a mile the first day, syne three miles, syne maybeseven, ten, twenty, fifty, and so on. Send the purest bred homer fowermile without trainin' and ye'll never see him again. "

Carrotty Broon told us many interesting things about doos and theirways. We listened to him because he was an authority and we knewlittle about the subject. 

"The only thing I ken aboot doos, " said Dauvit with a laugh, "is thatwhen I was a laddie auld Peter Smith and John Wylie keepit homers andthey were aye trying compeetitions in fleein'. John was gaein' toLondon for his summer holiday, and so him and Peter made a bargain thatthey wud flee twa homers from London. Weel, John he got to London, andhe thocht to himsell that seein' they had a bet o' twa pund on therace, he wud mak sure o' winnin', and so what does he do but tak a pairo' shears and cut the wing o' Peter's doo. 

"When John cam hame after a fortnight's trip he met auld Peter at thestation. 

"'Weel, Peter, ' says he, 'wha won the race?'

"'You, ' said Peter; 'your doo cam hame the next day, but mine only gothame this mornin'. And it has corns on its feet like tatties. '"

 * * * * *

To-day was Macdonald's Inspection Day, and at dinner time he broughtover Mr. J. F. Mackenzie, H. M. I. S. , a middle-aged man and Mr. L. P. Smart, assistant I. S. , a cheery youth fresh from Oxford. Wheninspectors dine with the village dominie they never mention the wordeducation. These two talked a lot, and all their conversation wasabout mountain-climbing in Switzerland. They swopped long prosy yarnsabout dull incidents, and I was very much bored. So was Mac, but hepretended to be interested, but then he was to see them again, and Iwasn't . . . At least I prayed that I might not. After a time I beganto feel that I was being left out of the conversation, and I waiteduntil Mackenzie paused for a breath. 

"Switzerland is very beautiful, " I remarked, "but you should see theAndes. "

Mackenzie looked at me coldly. 

"I haven't been to South America, " he said. 

"Same here, " said I cheerfully, "but I remember seeing pictures of themin the geography book at school. "

Mackenzie looked at me more coldly than before. I don't think he likedme, and when the younger man chuckled Mackenzie glared at him. Smarthad a sense of humour. 

"I'm afraid we have been boring you, " he said to me with a smile. 

"I'd rather listen to you two talking education, " I confessed. 

Mackenzie waved the suggestion away. 

"I leave education behind when I walk out of the school, " he said ingrand manner. "Most excellent rhubarb, Mrs. Macdonald. Home grown?"And then we had ten minutes of garden products versus shop greens. Iadmit that this inspector had a genius for small talk. We dismissedgreens and I led the conversation to hens and ducks. Mackenzie did notknow much about them, and he confirmed my opinion of his genius forsmall talk by saying: "Buff Orpingtons! They are named after Orpingtonin Kent. I remember staying a night there before I went to Switzerland. . . " and the dirty dog took the conversation back to his mountainclimbing. 

I made a gesture to the younger man and got him out into the garden. 

"Why does he waste precious time talking about cabbages and drearySwiss inns?" I asked. 

Smart laughed shortly. 

"You know how rich folk talk at table when the servants are present?"

I nodded. 

"Well, that's the Chief's attitude to teachers; he never says anythingof any importance whatever. "

"But why?"

"He is of the old school. He has been inspecting schools for fortyyears. In the olden days an inspector was a sort of Almighty; teachersquaked before him because with a stroke of his pen he could reducetheir money grant. To this day the old man treats teachers as a kingtreats his subjects--with kindness but with distance. "

"Has he any views on education?" I asked. 

Smart shook his head. 

"None, but he has heaps of views on instruction and discipline. By theway, he thinks that Macdonald's discipline is very good. "

"And you?"

"I think it rotten, " he said ruefully, "but what can I do? A juniorinspector is a nobody; if he has any views of his own he has to pocketthem. I would chuck out all this discipline rot and go in for theMontessori stunt. Take my tip and never accept an inspectorship. "

"I won't, " I said hastily. 

I liked Smart, and I wish we had more of his stamp in the inspectorate. 

When we returned to the dining-room Mackenzie looked at me withinterest. 

"I didn't know that you were the _Dominie's Log_ man till Mr. Macdonaldtold me two minutes ago, " he said. "I am delighted to meet you. Ienjoyed your book very much indeed. Very amusing. "

He was quite affable now. Writing a book gives a man a certainstanding. I fancy it is the dignity of print that does it, and we allhave the print superstition. I find myself accepting statements inbooks, whereas if someone said the same things to me over adinner-table I should refute them with scorn. "If it is in _John Bull_it is so!" Mr. Bottomley is a sound psychologist. 

When they were departing I said to Smart: "Yes, he's very amiable andall that, but I am jolly glad I had Frank Michie and not him as mychief inspector when I wrote my _Log_. "

Smart laughed. 

"My dear chap, Mackenzie would have let you run your school in your ownway. "

"But, " I cried, "he doesn't believe in freedom!"

"He doesn't, but don't you see that he simply couldn't have jumped onyou? He would have thought you either a lunatic or a genius, and hewould have feared to condemn you in case you might turn out to be thelatter. I know an art critic in London, and, believe me, the poordevil lives in terror lest he should damn the work of a new AugustusJohn. The Futurists aren't flourishing on their merits; they areflourishing because the critics are in a holy funk to condemn them incase they might be artists after all. "

I want to meet Smart again. I like his style. 

 * * * * *

I am indeed a Dominie in Doubt. What is education striving after? Icannot say, for education is life and what the aim of life is no oneknows. Psycho-analysis can clear up a life; it can release bottled upenergy, but it cannot say how the released energy is to be used. Theanalyst cannot advise, because no man can tell another how to live hislife. Freud clears up the past, but he cannot clear up the future. 

Is there such a thing as Re-incarnation? I wonder. Am I living thelife that my past lives on earth fitted me for? If so analysis iswrong. If I am suffering from a severe neurosis it is because I earnedthis punishment in my past lives, and Freud has no right to cure me. He is interfering with the plans of the Almighty. If, as I have hearda Theosophist declare, the children in the slums are miserable becausethey failed to learn their lesson in previous lives, then the peoplewho try to abolish slums are all wrong. I think my Theosophist wouldargue that the charitable person is growing in grace, thereby risingabove his previous lives. And thus one soul helps another to rise toperfection. It may be, and I hope it is so, for then life would have ameaning. Pain and war would then be less terrible, for they would bebut incidents in the eternal unfolding of perfection. 

Yet I find myself doubting. If I am William Shakespeare born again Ido not know it, and I am left in doubt as to whether I may not havebeen Charles Peace instead. Possibly I was both. 

Then there is psychical research. I have been to a medium and haveheard things that all the psycho-analysis in the world cannot accountfor. I want to believe that the dead can speak to us, but where arethe dead? I have read Sir Oliver Lodge's _Raymond_, and thedescription of the next world given there. Frankly I don't fancy it, and I have no desire to go there. 

How then can I attempt to educate children when the ultimate solutionof life is denied me? I can only stand by and give them freedom tounfold. I do not know whither they are going, but that is all the morea reason why I ought not to try to guide their footsteps. This is thefinal argument for the abolition of authority. We may beat and break ahorse because we selfishly require a horse's service, and according tothe accepted view a horse has no immortal soul. We dare not beat andbreak a child, for a child is going to an end that we cannot know. 

I like the Theosophist schools, although I do not like allTheosophists. Some of them seem to be living the higher lifeconsciously, and repressing their lower natures. Most of them do notsmoke or drink or eat meat or swear or go to music-halls. That may beliving on a higher plane, but it is not living fully. Still, in manyways they are broad-minded. In their schools they do not forceTheosophy down the children's throats; they allow a great amount offreedom, but their schools are not free schools. There is a definiteattempt to mould character chiefly by insisting on good taste. I amquite sure that no head-master of a Theosophical School would take hischildren to see a Charlie Chaplin film. Charlie is not obviouslyliving the higher life; he stands for the vulgar side of life; he picksup girls and gets drunk (in the play) and is sea-sick and very vulgarabout soda-water. 

I find myself insisting on the inclusion of Charlie in any scheme ofeducation because no one ought to be taught to be shocked atsea-sickness and soda-water squirting. Charlie to me is the antidoteto the higher-plane crowd; he and his kind are as essential as Shelley. I admit that reading Shelley is a higher kind of pleasure than watching"Champion Charlie, " but no human being can safely live on the higherplane, and no child wants to. Education must deal with _all_ life; ahigher plane diet will produce hot-house plants, beautiful perhaps, butdelicate and artificial. 

 * * * * *

Old Willie Murray the cobbler had been bed-ridden for over a year, andwhen I dropped into Dauvit's shop this morning Mary Rickart was tellingDauvit that his old master was dead. 

"Aye, Dauvit, " she was saying when I entered, "I'm no the kind thatspeaks ill o' the deid, but I will say this, that Wull Murray had hisfaults. Aye, and though he's a corp the day, I canna pertend that hewas ony freend o' mine. "

When Mary had gone Dauvit turned to me with a queer smile. 

"Dominie, you tell me that you have studied the science o' the mind, psy--what is't you call it?"

"Psychology, " I said. 

"That's the word. Weel then, dominie, just tell me why Mary Rickarthad sic a pick at auld Willie Murray. "

I smoked for a time thoughtfully. 

"It's difficult, Dauvit. I haven't got enough evidence. However Ithink I can make a good guess. "

"Weel?"

"Mary and Willie sat in the same class at school?"

"Good!" said Dauvit, "they did. "

"And Mary was Willie's first sweetheart?"

"Imphm!"

"Mary loved Willie and he loved her. They were sweethearts for a longtime, but another damsel came and stole Willie's heart away. Mary weptbitter tears, but in time she repressed her love . . . And it changedinto hate. "

Dauvit chuckled. 

"A very nice story, " he said, "but, ye ken, it's just a story. Youcudna guess the real reason why Mary hated him so much. "

"Then what was the real reason, Dauvit?"

He laughed. 

"Mary hated Willie Murray because he aince telt her that she was asilly woman to think that she cud wear a number fower shoe on a numberacht foot. "

We laughed together, and then I said:

"Dauvit, why did you never marry? You like women I fancy. "

My remark made him thoughtful. 

"Man, " he said, "I've often speered the same question o' mysel. As ayoung man I was gye fond o' the lassies, but . . . I dinna ken!" andhe broke off suddenly and took up a boot. "Thae soles are just papernoo-a-days, " he growled. 

I refused to let him run away from the subject. 

"Had you a sweetheart?" I asked. 

He laughed boisterously to hide his confusion. 

"Dozens o' them!" he cried. 

"Then why didn't you marry one of them?"

He shook his head. 

"Dominie, that's the question. " He stared at the grate for a while. "There was Maggie Adams, a bonny lassie she was. Man, I mind when Itook her to Kirriemair Market . . . " He sighed. "Aye, man, dominie, Iliked Maggie mair than ony o' the others. "

"Did she love someone else?" I asked softly. 

Dauvit took some time to reply. 

"No, man, Maggie wanted me. "

"Then the fault lay on your side? You didn't love her!"

Dauvit brought his hand down on the board. 

"Goad, man, but I did!"

I could not understand. 

"Man, on the road hame frae Kirrie Market I was to speer if she wudmarry me . . . But I didna. "

We smoked silently for a long minute. 

"Ye see, " he went on slowly, "Maggie was a bonny lassie and I liked tokiss and cuddle her, but kissin' and cuddlin' are a very sma' part o'marriage, dominie. There was something in Maggie that I was ayelookin' for, but cud never find. Aye, I tried to find it in otherlassies, but I never fund it. "

"What was it you wanted to find, Dauvit?"

Dauvit paused. 

"Ye micht call it a soul, " he said. "Oh, aye, " he went on, "Maggie wasa bonny lassie wi' a heart o' gold, but she hadna a soul. Wud ye liketo ken what stoppit me speerin' her that nicht as we cam through Zoar?Man, I said to mysel: When we come to the toll bar I'll tak Maggie inmy arms and say: 'Maggie, I want ye, lassie!'"

He had to light his pipe here. 

"Weelaweel, we got to the toll bar and I said: 'Maggie, we'll sit doonon the bank for a while. ' So we sat doon, and I was just tryin' toscrew up my courage when she pointed to the settin' sun. 'I'd like adress like that, only bonnier, ' she said. Man, dominie, I looked atthat sunset wi' its gold and purple . . . And syne I kent that Maggiewas nae wife for me. I kent that she had nae soul. "

After a time I remarked: "And so, Dauvit, you are a bachelor becauseyou were a poet!"

He busied himself with the paper sole. 

"Maggie married Bob Wilson the farmer o' East Mains. Aye, and themarriage turned oot a happy one, for Bob never rose abune neeps andtatties in his life. " Dauvit sighed. "But I sometimes used to look atthe twa o' them when their bairns were roond their knees, and syne Iused to gie a big _Dawm!_ and ging back to my wee hoose and mak my aintea. "

"It doesna pay to hae a soul, dominie, " he added with a short laugh. 

"Perhaps you could have given her a soul, Dauvit, " I said. 

He shook his head with decision. 

"Na, dominie, a soul is something ye're born wi'; if it isna there itcanna be put there. You say that I'm a poet, and you may be richt;there may be a wee bit o' the artist in me, and ye never heard o' anartist that was happily married. Wumman and art are opposites, and aman canna marry both. "

"That is true, Dauvit. But art is the feminine side of a man's nature;it is the woman in him . . . And the woman is superfluous to him, forshe becomes the rival of the woman in himself. "

This thought impressed Dauvit. 

"Noo I understand Rabbie Burns, " he cried. "Rabbie cudna love a wummanbecause he loved the wumman in himsel. She was the wife that bore hisbairns--his poems. " He paused, and a pained look came to his face. "There may be a poet in me, dominie, " he said ruefully, "but she hasborne me nae bairns. I am ane o' the mute inglorious Miltons . . . AndI wud ha' been better if I had married Maggie and talked aboot neepsand tatties a' my life. "

"You couldn't have done it, Dauvit, " I said as I rose to go. 

From the door I looked back at the old man as he stared at the fender. 

 * * * * *

One of the analysts says that the flirt is suffering from a mothercomplex. He has never got over his infantile love for his mother, andhe is always trying to find the mother again in women. Hence he islike a bee, sipping at one flower and then flying on to another. 

I suspect that many a bachelor is a bachelor because his early love isfixed on the mother. Few mothers realise the danger of coddling theirchildren. I have heard grown men dying in pain call on their mothers. It is a hard task for parents, but they must always try to break theirchildren's fixation upon them. 

Women having father-complexes are common. The other day I met a girlwho had no interest in young men; all her interest was in men withbeards. No matter what the conversation was about she managed tomention her father. . . "Father says!" She will probably marry a mantwice her age. It is well-known that boys of seventeen often fall inlove with women of thirty, while adolescent girls usually fall in lovewith men of thirty. They are not really in love; they are looking fora substitute for the mother or father. 

The psychology of the man of forty who falls in love with the girl ofsixteen is more difficult to grasp. I think that in most cases theman's love interest is fixed away back in childhood; often the girl ofsixteen is a substitute for a beloved sister. Perhaps on the otherhand, a man of forty's paternal instinct has been starved so long thathe wants to find at once a wife and a child. 

Few of us realise how much of our love interest is fixed in the past. Think of the men who want to be mothered by their wives . . . Theygenerally address their wives as "Mother. " I know happily married menwho are psychically children; "mother" won't allow them to carry coalsor wash dishes or brush clothes; she treats them as they unconsciouslydesire to be treated--as babes. 

It may be that Dauvit has a strong mother complex. He often talks ofhis mother, and more than once I have heard him say that she was thebest woman he had ever known. It may be that he was unconsciouslylooking for the mother in Maggie and the other girls, and failed tofind her. Maggie's remark about the sunset and the dress was notenough to stifle his love declaration. The soul he longed to find inMaggie may have been the soul of the mother he knew as an infant . . . The soul of his ideal woman. 

The more I see of men the less importance I pay to their consciousreasons for attitudes. "I hate Brown; he never washes"; "I dislikeMrs. Smith; she uses bad language. " "Murphy is a rotter; he has nomanners. " Statements like these are rationalisations; the real reasonfor the dislike lies deeper in every case. 

VI

The law courts have re-introduced flogging for criminals. To the bestof my knowledge no member of the law profession has protested. Ifthere is a reform movement within the law I never heard of it. 

The curse of law is that it works according to precedent, and it istherefore conservative. Our judges hand out sentences in blissfulignorance of later psychology. Last week a boy of eleven was birchedfor holding up another boy of nine on the highway and demandingtuppence or his life. The attitude of the bench is that fear ofanother flogging will prevent that boy from turning highwayman again. I admit that fear will cure him of that special vice, but what thebench does not know is that the boy's anti-social energy will takeanother form. Every act of man is prompted by a wish, and very oftenthis wish is unconscious. And all the birching in the world will notdestroy a wish; the most it can do is to change its form. 

Without an analysis of the boy no one can tell what unconscious wishimpelled him to turn highwayman, but speaking generally a boy expresseshis self-assertion in terms of anti-social behaviour only when hiseducation has been bad. I believe that all juvenile delinquency is dueto bad education. Our schools enforce passivity on the child; hiscreative energy is bottled up. No boy who has tools and a bench towork with will express himself by smashing windows. Delinquency ismerely displaced social conduct; the motive of the little boy whoturned highwayman was essentially the motive of the boy who builds aboat. 

Ah! but we have Industrial Schools for bad boys!

I spent an evening with an Industrial School boy of thirteen not longago. It was an unlovely tale he told me of his life in school. I gotthe impression of a building half-prison, half-barracks. No one wasallowed to go out unless to football matches when the school team wasplaying. Punishment was stern and frequent. 

"One old guy, 'e sends you to the boss for punishment and says you gave'im an insubordinate look, and you ain't allowed to deny wot 'e says. "

"Look here, Jim, " I said, "suppose I took you to a free schoolto-morrow, a school where you could do what you liked, what's the firstthing you would do?"

A wild look came into his eyes. 

"I'd lay out the blarsted staff, " he said tensely. 

"But, " I laughed, "what would be the point of laying me out if I gaveyou freedom? What have you got against _me_?"

"Oh, " he said, "I thought you meant if I got freedom in the IndustrialSchool!"

That school is condemned; if a school produces one boy who hates andfears its teachers, it is a bad school. 

I think of the other way, the Homer Lane way. 

Homer Lane was superintendent of the little Commonwealth in Dorset. Heattended the juvenile courts and begged the magistrates to hand over tohim the worst cases they had. He took the children down to Dorset andgave them freedom. He refused to lay down any laws, and naturally thebeginning of the Commonwealth was chaos. Lane joined in theanti-social behaviour; he became one of the gang. When the citizensthought that their best way of expressing themselves was to smashwindows, Lane helped them to smash them. His marvellous psychologicalinsight will best be illustrated by the story of Jabez. 

Jabez was a thoroughly bad character; he had been thief and highwayman, a bully who could fight with science. He came to the Commonwealth andwas astonished. He found boys and girls working hard all day, andmaking their own laws at their citizen meetings at night. Jabez couldnot understand it, and not understanding he felt hostile. 

The citizens lived in cottages, and one night Lane went over to thecottage in which Jabez lived. They were having tea, and Lane sat downbeside Jabez. 

"What are you always grousing about, Jabez?" he asked. "Don't you likethe Commonwealth?"

"No, " said Jabez viciously. 

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's too respectable for me, " said Jabez, and his eyes wandered to thetable. "Them fancy cups and saucers! Wot's the good o' things likethat to me? I'd like to smash the whole lot o' them. "

Lane rose from the table, walked to the fireplace, took up the pokerand handed it to Jabez. 

"Smash them, " he said. 

Jabez had all eyes turned towards him. He seized the poker and smashedhis cup and saucer. 

"Excellent!" cried Lane, "Jabez is making the Commonwealth a betterplace, " and he pushed forward another cup and saucer. These were atonce smashed, and Lane proceeded to shove forward the other dishes. But by this time Jabez was beginning to feel queer. Breaking disheswas good fun when you were breaking laws, but here there was no law tobreak, and Jabez felt that he was doing a foolish thing. He wanted tostop, but he could not see how he was to stop with dignity. Fortunately one of the other inmates of the cottage came to his aid. 

"It's all very well for you, Mr. Lane, " she said, "but this isn't yourcottage, and you are making Jabez break our dishes. "

Jabez hailed the idea with delight; he now had an excellent excuse forstopping. 

"Right you are!" cried Lane cheerfully, "Jabez will break somethingelse, " and he took out his gold watch and placed it on the table. 

"Smash that, Jabez. "

"No, " said Jabez, "I won't smash your watch. "

Now Jabez had a saying that if a man were dared to do a thing and hedidn't do it he was a coward. 

"I dare you to smash the watch. "

Jabez seized the poker again. 

"What! You dare me!"

"Yes, I dare you. "

He looked at the watch for a few seconds; then he threw down the pokerand rushed from the room. 

Poor Jabez was killed in France. I saw the letters that he wrote toLane from the front, and they were the letters of a decent, good boy. 

The early history of Jabez was one of constant suppression. Authoritywas always stepping in and saying: "Don't do that!" As a result Jabezat the age of seventeen was psychically an infant. The infantiledesire to break things was suppressed, but it lived on in theunconscious, and years later Jabez found himself behaving like a childof three. The cure was to encourage him to act in his infantile way;by smashing a few cups Jabez got rid of his long pent up infantile wishto destroy. Discipline would have kept the childish wish underground;freedom led to the expression of the wish. 

Homer Lane is the apostle of Release. He holds that Authority is fatalfor the child; suppression is bad; the only way is to allow the childfreedom to express itself in the way it wants to. And because I countamong my friends boys and girls who once went to the LittleCommonwealth as criminals, I believe that Lane is right. I alsobelieve that the schools will come to see that he was right . . . Somewhere about the year 2500. 

 * * * * *

Conversation to-night in Dauvit's shop turned on Spiritualism. Dauvitis a firm believer, and he often goes to Dundee and Aberdeen to attendséances. 

"It's just a lot o' blethers, " said Jake Tosh contemptuously. "Whenye're deid ye're deid, and that's a' aboot it. Na, na, Dauvit, themthat sees ghosts is either drunk or daft. "

"That's just yer ignorance, Jake, " said Dauvit. "Do ye ken whaurBrazil is?"

"Wha is he?" asked Jake puzzled. 

"It's no a he; it's a place. I asked ye that question just to provethat a man that doesna ken his ain world canna speak wi' ony authorityo' the next world. Yer mind's ower narrow, Jake; ye've no vision. "

"Na, na, Dauvit, " laughed Jake, "it winna do. Spooks and things isjust a curran nonsense, and no sane man wud believe in them. What doyou say, dominie?"

"I am willing to believe that the dead do communicate, " I said. 

Jake was thoroughly amused. 

"It's a queer thing, " he said musingly, "that the more eddication a manhas the more he believes in rubbish. Here's Dauvit here, a man thatreads Shakespeare and Burns and Carlyle, and the dominie there thatwent through a college, and the both o' you believe things that Istoppit believin' when I was sax year auld. Then there's Sir OliverLodge, and Conan Doyle. Oh, aye, the Bible was quite richt when itsaid: Much learning hath made them mad. "

"What do you think happens to the dead, Jake?" I asked. 

"As the tree falleth so it lies, " quoted Jake. "There's only the twaplaces after death; if ye're good ye go to Heaven; if ye're bad ye goto Hell. And that's why I say that thae messages from the deid arerubbish, cos if a man's in Heaven he's no going to leave a place likethat to come doon to speak to a daft auld cobbler like Dauvit in a weeroom doon in Dundee. And if a man's in Hell the Devil will tak goodcare that he doesna get oot. "

I wondered to find that Dauvit had no answer to this. I guessed thatDauvit's silence was due to his early training. He was brought up inthe old stern Scots way, and although he has now rejected the oldbeliefs intellectually, his unconscious still clings to thememotionally. I fancy that if I were very very ill I might go back tomy childish fear of Hell-fire, for, in illness old emotions return, andintellect flees. Dauvit would no doubt react in the same way. 

 * * * * *

Many people seem to have a decided fear of psycho-analysis. A motherwrites me from London saying that she would like to send her girl to mynew school, only she is afraid that I shall attempt to analyse thechildren. 

The fear of psycho-analysis comes from the general belief that Freudtraces every neurosis to early sex experiences. Whether Freud is rightor not does not concern the teacher; he deals with normal children, andto try to analyse a normal child appears to me to be unnecessary. Theteacher's job is to see that the children are free from fear and freeto create; if he does his task well he is preventing neurosis. 

A neurosis is the outcome of repression; the neurotic is a person whoselibido or life force is bottled up; he can be cured only by letting hispent up emotions free. The aim of education is to allow emotionalrelease, so that there will be no bottling up, and no future neurosis;and this release comes through interest. The boy who hates algebra andhas to work examples is getting no release whatever, for his mind isdivided; his attention goes to his quadratic equations, but hisinterest is elsewhere. 

Hence I do not think analysis is necessary when children are beingfreely educated. In an exceptional case a little analysis will dogood. If I see a child unhappy, moody, anti-social, a thief, a bully, I consider it my job to make an attempt to find out what is at the backof his mind. With a young boy it is not advisable to tell him thewhole truth about himself; the teacher discovers the truth by watchingthe child at play, by studying his wishes as expressed in his writing, by noting his attitude to his playmates. When he has made hisdiagnosis the teacher can then make the necessary changes in the boy'senvironment. 

I recall the case of Tommy, aged ten. His class was constructing aPlay Town after the fashion set by Caldwell Cook in his delightful book_The Play Way_. Tommy worked with enthusiasm, too much enthusiasm, forhe pinched the girls' sand for his railway track. The girls objected, and a regular wordy battle took place. Tommy felt that he was beaten, and he ceased work. 

I was not very much surprised when the girls came and told me thatTommy was shying bricks at the railway line he had been so keen onconstructing. Tommy was brought up before the assembled class, andthey voted unanimously that he be forbidden to approach within tenyards of Play Town. Tommy grinned maliciously. That night the townappeared to have been the victim of an earthquake. 

I went to Tommy. 

"Why don't you like the Play Town?" I asked. 

"Because the girls are too bossy, " he said. "It was my town; I beganit, and I don't see why they should be in it at all. "

"And you want a Play Town all to yourself?" I asked. 

"Yes. "

"Right ho, " I said easily. "Why not start to build one?"

His eyes lit up, and away he ran to lay his foundations. He workedeagerly all day, but at night he seemed dissatisfied. 

"I haven't got any railway or houses; Christo won't lend me a bit ofhis railway, and Gerda has all the houses. "

I left him to work out his problem. In the morning he solved it;Christo wouldn't lend him any rails, but if Tommy liked he, Christo, would run his line up to Tommy's town from the class town. Tommyreadily agreed. In a week's time Tommy's town was a suburb of thebigger town, and Tommy was appointed President of the whole state. Hespent many an hour building his bridges and digging his tunnels. Atfirst he would allow no one to enter his suburb, but in a few days heceased to claim it as his own, and he worked as a member of the gang. 

I think that most anti-social children are like Tommy: when theirself-assertion is threatened they react with hostility. The cure forthem is to direct their self-assertion to things instead of people. Noboy will try to break up a ball game if he has a rabbit hutch toconstruct. 

The danger is that the teacher will often step in when the boy ought tobe left to his companions. The gang is the best disciplinarian. 

One day a class and I were writing five-minute essays. I would callout a word or a phrase, and we would all start to write. The childrenloved the method; it allowed so much play for originality. Forexample, when I gave the word "broken" one girl wrote of her brokendoll, another of a broken tramp, another of a broken heart; a boy wrotea witty essay on being stoney broke, another wrote of a broken window. 

On this day Wolodia, a boy of eleven, did not want to write essays. Icalled out a word, and we started to write. Wolodia began to talkloudly. 

"Stop it, man, " I said impatiently, "you're spoiling our essay. "

He grinned and went on talking. 

"Oh, shut up!" cried Joy. 

"Shan't!" he snapped, and he went on talking. 

Diana rose with a determined air. 

"We'll chuck him out, " she said grimly, and the class seized him andheaved him out. Then they barricaded the door with desks. Wolodiamade a big row by hammering on the door, and as a result we could notproceed with our writing. 

"Let him in, " I suggested. 

The class protested. 

"He'll sit like a lamb for the rest of the period, " I said. 

They took away the desk and Wolodia came in. He went to his seat . . . And not a sound came from him during the rest of the period. Thisincident impressed me greatly; my complaint, Joy's complaint did notaffect him, but when the gang was against him he was defeated. It wasa beautiful instance of the force of public opinion. 

Cases of stealing should be treated by analysis. Moral lectures areuseless; the cause lies in the unconscious, and the moral lecture doesnot touch the unconscious. Nor does punishment affect the root causeof the delinquency. The teacher must dig down into the child'sunconscious in order to find the cause. 

An illuminating book for all teachers and parents to read is Healy's_Mental Disorders and Misconduct_. He shows that stealing is veryoften a symptomatic act. The mechanism of many cases is something likethis: a child has been punished for sexual activities; later he breaksinto a store and steals an article. Sex activities and thieving havethis in common, that they are both forbidden, but the boy has foundthat much more ado is made about sex activities than about stealing. So when he is actuated by a sexual urge he dare not indulge it; but hissexual wish finds a substitute; it goes out to the associated forbiddenthing . . . The article on the store counter. 

We see the same sort of mechanism in the neurotic patient; she fearsher own sex impulses, and because she dare not admit her sex wishesinto consciousness she projects her fear on to dogs or mice or rats. All phobias--fear of closed places, fear of open places, fear ofheights--are displaced fears; the sufferer is really afraid of his ownunconscious wishes. 

I do not say that all juvenile stealing is due to repressed sex. Stealing may mean to a boy a method of self-assertion; it may mean thatthus he rebels against authority of father and teacher; it may be theresult of any one of a dozen causes. But whatever the cause stealingis always associated with unhappiness, and the teacher must try to curethe unhappiness. 

In my _Dominie's Log_ I confessed that I liked to cheat the railwaycompany, and I excused it on the ground that "a ten-mile journeywithout a ticket is the only romantic experience left in a drab world. "That was a delightful bit of rationalisation. The real reason for mydelinquency lay in my unconscious. As a child I impotently rebelledagainst the authority of parents and teachers. Later in life Iunconsciously identified the railway company with the authorities of myinfancy. Authority said: "Don't do that or you will be smacked"; therailway company put up a notice saying: "Don't travel without a ticketor you'll be fined forty shillings. "

My rebellion was really a rebellion against authority. This may seemto be a far-fetched explanation, but the fact remains that now that Ihave discovered the reason I have no more desire to cheat the railwaycompany. 

 * * * * *

Old Jeems Broon was buried to-day, and Dauvit went to the funeral. Hecame back chuckling. 

"What's the joke, Dauvit?" I asked. 

"The burial service, " laughed Dauvit. "You ken what sort o' a manJeems was; an auld sinner if there ever was a sinner in Tarbonny, a badauld scoondrel. Weel, Jeems hadna been at the kirk for twenty years, and of coorse the minister didna ken ony thing aboot him. So when hegave the funeral prayer he referred to auld Jeems as 'this holy manwhose life stands as an example to those still tarrying in the flesh. 'Goad, but I burst oot laughin'! I did that!"

"Had I been the minister, " said I, "I should certainly have made a fewinquiries about Jeems. "

"But there's a better story than that aboot the minister, " went onDauvit with a laugh. "Mag Currie's little lassie had the diphtheria, and at the end o' the week the minister was asked to come oot to tak' aburial service in Mag's bed room. Man, he was eloquent! He spokeearnestly aboot this flower plucked before it had reached its fullbloom, this innocent life so sadly cut off; he was most touchin' whenhe turned to Mag and her man and said: 'Mourn not for those hands thatnever did wrong, the lisping tongue that never spoke evil, the widepure eyes that looked their love for you. '"

"I suppose the parents broke down at that, " I said. 

"Not they!" chuckled Dauvit, "for the corpse wasna their lassie ava; itwas auld Drucken Findlay the lodger. "

I always like to hear Dauvit talk about ministers, and I encouraged himto go on. 

"It's a very queer thing, dominie, that a body ay wants to laugh at thewrong time. In the kirk and at a funeral--that's when I want to laugh. 

"I mind when the minister was awa' for his holidays, and there was anauld minister frae the Heelands cam' to tak' his place. This auld manhad a habit o' readin' a verse and syne stoppin' to explain it to thecongregation. 

"Weel aweel, wan Sunday he was readin' a chapter frae the AuldTestament, and he cam' to the words: 'And the Angel of the Lordappeared unto Hosea. ' So he looks at the congregation ower his specsand he says: 'The Angel of the Lord appeared unto Hosea. ' Now, prethren, we must ask ourselves this important question: Was Hoseaafraid? No, Hosea was not afraid. _You_ would have been afraid, prethren; I would have been afraid. You and I would have begun toquake and tremble, but Hosea was not afraid; he was a prave man, a poldman. When we are in trouble let us remember that Hosea was not afraid. '

"So the auld man he turns ower the page and reads the next verse: 'AndHosea was sore afraid. '"

"What did he say then?" I asked. 

"He was a cunnin' auld deevil, " said Dauvit, "for he gave a bit coughand says: 'Prethren, that is a wrong translation from the originalHebrew. '"

"I don't think you like ministers, Dauvit, " I said. 

He paused in his efforts to place a new needle in his sewing-machine. 

"No, man, I do not, " he said slowly. "Nowadays the kirk is just a joblike anything else; men go in for it for the loaves and fishes mostly, and their prayers never get past the roof. And as for thecongregation, the kirk is just a respectable sort o' society. I tellye, dominie, that releegion is deid. At least, Christianity is deid. That was bound to come; flowers, folk, hooses, trees, horses, aye, andnations, have a birth, a youth, middle age, auld age, and then death. It's the law o' nature, and a religion is no exception. "

"True, O philosopher!" I said, "but there is always new life, and newlife comes from the old. The flower dies and its seed lives; man diesand his seed inherit the earth. Christianity dies and--and what?"

"That may be, " he said thoughtfully. "It may be that the new religionwill grow from the seed o' the deid Christianity; that I canna say. What I do say is that ministers are oot-o'-date; they are doin' uselesslabour . . . When they're no fishin' and curlin'. "

VII. 

Duncan came over to-night, and he asked my advice about books. 

"What books would you advise a teacher to buy?" he asked. 

"There are scores of good books, " I replied, "but no teacher can affordto buy them. "

"I know, " he said crossly; "I've had a row with the Income Tax people. Iasked for a rebate of ten pounds for necessary school books, and theywouldn't allow it, although I'm told that if a London merchant buys aLondon Directory he gets a rebate for the amount. "

"I agree that it is unjust, " I said, "but the new Income Tax proposalsallow twenty pounds a year for teachers' books. "

"Just tell us what you would advise a teacher to spend his twenty quidon, " said Macdonald. 

"It depends on his tastes, " I said. "If his subject is History he willbuy history books; if his subject is behaviour, he'll buy psychologybooks. "

"Give us an idea of your own library, " said Duncan. 

I sat down and wrote out a list from memory. 

It ran as follows:--

BOOKS ON EDUCATION:-- _The Play Way_, by Caldwell Cook. _The Path to Freedom in the School_, by Norman MacMunn. _What Is and What Might Be_, by Edmond Holmes. Montessori's three volumes. _An Adventure in Education_, by J. H. Simpson. 

BOOKS ON PSYCHO-ANALYSIS AND PSYCHOLOGY: Freud's _Interpretation of Dreams, Psychopathology of Everyday Life, Three Contributions to the Sexual Theory_. Jung's _Psychology of the Unconscious, Studies in Word Association, Analytical Psychology_. Frink's _Morbid Fears and Compulsions_. Maurice Nicoll's _Dream Psychology_. Morton Prince's _The Unconscious_. Pfister's _The Psycho-analytic Method_. Ernest Jones' _Psycho-analysis_. Ferenczi's _Contributions to Psycho-analysis_. Wilfred Lay's _The Child's Unconscious Mind_. Moll's _The Sexual Life of the Child_. Adler's _The Neurotic Constitution_. Bernard Hart's _The Psychology of Insanity_. 

CROWD PSYCHOLOGY:-- _The Crowd in Peace and War_, Martin Conway. _Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War_, Trotter. _The Crowd_, Gustave le Bon. 

GENERAL PSYCHOLOGY:-- _Psychology and Everyday Life_, Swift. _Textbook of Psychology_, James. _The Boy and His Gang_, Puffer. _Mental Conflicts and Misconduct_, Healy. _The Individual Delinquent_, Healy. _Rational Sex Ethics_, Robie. _Social Psychology_, McDougall. _The Play of Man_, Groos. 

"That's too much for me, " said Duncan. "I couldn't afford a quarter ofthese books. What books would you recommend if you had to choose half adozen for a hard-up dominie?"

I thought for a little, and then I replied: "Bernard Hart's _ThePsychology of Insanity_, two bob; Frink's _Morbid Fears and Compulsions_, a first-rate book on analysis, a guinea; _The Crowd in Peace and War_, bySir Martin Conway, eight and six; Healy's _Mental Conflicts andMisconduct_, ten and six; and Wilfred Lay's _The Child's UnconsciousMind_, ten and six. "

"But, " cried Duncan, "I don't want to set up an asylum! What's the goodof books on insanity and morbid fears to a teacher?"

I explained that the titles of Hart's and Frink's books were misleading, although the difference between the mind of the lunatic and the mind ofthe average man is merely one of degree. Bernard Hart shows that thelunatic has the same faults as we have, only more so. Frink's book isbadly named; it is an excellent work on mind mechanisms. Any teacher whoreads these six books with understanding will never again use a strap ona pupil. If I were Education Minister, I should present every school inBritain with a copy of each of the six. 

Macdonald asked if I had any books on hypnotism and suggestion. 

"No, " I said, "but I have read them through a library. I don't believein either because they do not touch root causes. We are all sufferingfrom bottled up infantile emotion, and analysis goes to the root of thematter; it makes what is unconscious conscious, and enables the patientto re-educate himself, to use the old repressed emotion up in his dailylife. Analysis means release. Suggestion does not touch the rootrepressed emotion, and I fancy that after suggestion the symptom merelychanges. A man has a phobia of cats. By suggestion I can dispel hisfear of cats, but the fear is transferred to something else, and he thenhas an exaggerated fear of catching tuberculosis. Unless the ancientcause becomes conscious it is not released. 

"We see suggestion working in our schools daily. By suggestion parentsand teachers force the child to inhibit his gross sexual wishes, and in ashort time the child accepts the ideals of his masters. At first heinhibits a desire because father thinks it naughty; later he inhibits itbecause he himself thinks it naughty. But the gross sexual wish lives onin the unconscious . . . Hence the neurosis, hence the respectable oldmen who are imprisoned for showing gross pictures to children, hence thefrequent indecent assaults on children. All these unfortunate people aresuffering from the results of early suggestion--the suggestion that sexis sin. That primitive sex impulses can be sublimated I admit, but theteacher's job is not to preach that sex activities are evil; his job isto help the child to use up his primitive sex energy in creative work. "

 * * * * *

What is education's chief aim? The reply generally given is thateducation's aim is to help a child to live its life fully. Yet it seemsto me that that reply does not go far enough; I think that the aim shouldbe to help a child to live its cosmic life fully, to live for others. Every human is egocentric, selfish. No human ever rises aboveselfishness, only there are degrees of selfishness. I buy a motor-cyclebecause I am selfish; and you found a hospital for orphans because youare selfish. It is my pleasure to have a Sunbeam; it is yours to helpthe poor. Your selfishness has become altruism; that is, in pleasingyourself you have managed to please others. The aim in education is notto abolish selfishness; it is to educe the selfishness that isaltruistic. Hence it may be said that education's chief aim is to teachone how to love. No, that won't do; no one can teach another how tolove; the teacher's job is to evoke love. This he can do only by loving. If I hate my pupils I evoke hate from them; if I love them I evoke lovefrom them in return. 

Is it possible to love your neighbour as yourself? It is when you knowyourself. You hate in others what you hate in yourself, and you love inothers what is lovable in yourself. So that in loving your neighbour youare loving yourself. 

If, then, the teacher's first aim is to evoke the love of his pupils, hemust know himself, and knowing must love himself. Every day pupils aresuffering because of the teacher's hatred of himself. 

Dominie Brown rises in the morning surly and unhappy. He complains aboutthe bacon and eggs at breakfast . . . No, the red herring; dominiescannot afford bacon and eggs . . . And Mrs. Brown makes unpleasantremarks. Brown crosses the road to school with thunder on his face, andthe children shiver in terror all morning. 

If Brown could sit down calmly to think out his bad mood, he wouldrealise that he was punishing the children because he was worsted in hisword battle with his wife. And _he would be quite wrong_. The truthwould be that he was punishing the children because he was at war withhimself. His early morning ugly mood betrayed a mental conflict. Hatinghimself, he hated his wife; his hate evoked her hate . . . And thus thecircle was completed. 

We might trace all the futilities, all the stupidities of mankind, allthe wars and crimes and injustices to man's ignorance of self. To knowall is to forgive all. Christ condemned no one because he was at peacewith himself. Yet, I suddenly remember that He whipped themoney-changers out of the Temple. This incident is comforting, for itshows that the most lovable man who ever lived betrayed one human frailtyon one occasion at least. But now I am preaching again. 

 * * * * *

I went to see Charlie Chaplin in "Shoulder Arms" last night. Charlie isan artist of high quality; for once I think as the crowd thinks. But Ileave the crowd when it comes to appreciating the "moving human dramas"in five parts. 

The cinema must be reckoned with in any educational scheme. One maylearn more about crowd psychology from attendance at cinemas than fromreading books on crowd psychology. The cinema is popular because itencourages day-dreaming or phantasy. There are two kinds of thinking, reality thinking and phantasy or day-dreaming. Phantasying is the easierof the two; I can sit for hours building castles in Spain, and I nevergrow tired; but if I have to sit down and think out the Theory ofQuadratics I soon become weary. In reality thinking the intellect isactive, but in day-dreaming emotion is in control. Day-dreaming getsnowhere; the asylums are full of day-dreamers who spend their hoursconstructing beautiful phantasies. In childhood phantasy is supreme. Bobby turns the nursery into a jungle; the sofa is a tiger, the chairsare lions, the rocking-horse is an elephant. It is all real to him. Andin later years Bobby often returns to his childish phantasying. We alldo. What young lover has not phantasied a burning mansion where his ladylove is imprisoned? Have we not all clambered up the water pipes andrescued her from the flames?

The world of the theatre is a phantasy world. With the rising of thecurtain we forget our outside life; we live the part of the hero or theheroine. To this day I always leave a theatre with a vague depression ofspirits; everyday humdrum life chills me when I come out to the street. Reality is always difficult to face. The great popularity of the cinemais due to this human desire for make-believe. Cinema-going is aregression to the infantile; we return to the childish phase where thewish was all powerful. In the cinema the villain is always worsted; thewronged heroine always falls into the hero's arms at the end. Life formost of us means trials and sorrows and conflicts, and we long to returnto the nursery phase where life was what we wished it to be. The cinemaand the public-house are the most convenient doors by which we canregress. 

The "moving drama" is the other side of the industrial picture. Life forthe masses means dirt and disease, ugly factories, sordid homes, meanstreets. The moving drama takes the masses away from grim reality; theysee beautifully gowned women in drawing-rooms; they see the Kingreviewing his regiments; they see wild and free cowboys chasing RedIndians. For two hours they live . . . And then they go out again intotheir world of mere existence. And it is all wrong, tragically wrong. The cinema craze means that life is too ugly to face; it means that themasses are fleeing from reality and to flee from reality is fatal. Day-dreams are laudable only when they come true. If the massesday-dreamed of an economic Utopia and forthwith set about building a NewJerusalem, their phantasies would become realities; but the moving humandrama never leads to building; it is raw whisky swallowed to bringoblivion. The moving human drama will live and flourish so long asmankind tolerates the slavery of industrialism. It is a powerful weaponfor capitalism; like the church and the public-house, it keeps thewage-slaves quiet. 

 * * * * *

To-night the conversation in Dauvit's shop turned to the subject ofhonours. 

"They tell me, " said Jake Tosh, "that you can buy a knighthood, or apeerage for that matter. "

"Yea, man!" said Willie Simpson, the joiner and undertaker fromTillymains. 

"So there's no muckle chance o' you getting ane, Willie, " said Dauvit. 

The joiner smoked thoughtfully for a while. 

"Na, Dauvit, " he said, "there's little chance o' an undertaker gettin' atitle. You would think na that the man that coffined the likes o' LloydGeorge wud get a knighthood. "

Dauvit cackled. 

"Honours are sold, as Jake says; they are never given for publicservices. "

I am afraid the joke was lost on most of the assembly. Jake failed tosee it. It is said that Jake has been known to laugh at a joke onlyonce, and that was when the earth gave way beneath the minister's feetwhen he was conducting a service at a grave-side, and he fell into theopen grave. 

"Undertakin', " continued the joiner, "is a verra queer trade. "

Jake shivered. 

"I dinna ken how ye can do it, " he said; "man, it wud gie me thescunners. "

"Man, ye soon get accustomed to it, " said the joiner. "Of course, it hasits limitations; ye canna verra weel advertise in the front page o' _TheDaily Mail_, but, man, it's what ye micht call a safe trade. "

"How safe?" I asked. 

"Oh, ye never need to worry aboot yer custom; it's aye there. Noo inother lines the laws o' supply and demand are tricky. I mind a geypuckle years syne there was a craze for walkin'-sticks wi' ebony handles. Weel, I went doon to Dundee and bocht ten pund worth o' ebony, and aforethe wood was delivered the fashion had changed, and the men were allbuyin' cheese-cutter bonnets, so here was I left wi' ten pund worth o'ebony on my hands . . . And if I hadna sold it to Davie Lamb thecabinet-maker for thirteen pund I micht ha' lost the money. Noo, in mytrade there's no sudden change o' fashion as ye micht say; the demand iswhat ye micht call constant, and that's what makes me say it is a safetrade. "

Dauvit winked to me surreptitiously. 

"Noo, joiner, " he said, "will ye tell me wan thing? I want to ken theinner workin's o' an undertakker's mind. When somebody is verra ill, what's your attitude? I mean to say, do ye sort o' look on the illnesswi' hope or what? When ye see a fine set-up man on the road, do ye lookat him wi' a professional eye and say to yersell: 'Sax feet by twa; abonny corp!'?"

"I'm no so bad as that, Dauvit, " he laughed, "though I dinna mind sayin'that I've sometimes been a wee bit disappointed when somebody got better. On the other hand, when big Tamson was badly, I keepit prayin' that hewud get better. "

"An unbusinesslike thing to do, " I laughed. 

"Aweel, " said the joiner, "big Tamson weighed aboot saxteen stone, and atthe time I hadna the wood. "

"I dinna like to hear aboot things like that, " said Jake Tosh nervously;"things like that give me the creeps, and besides it's no a proper way tospeak. "

Dauvit turned to me. 

"Man, dominie, it's a queer thing, but the more religious a man is theless he likes to hear aboot death. Jake here is an elder o' the auldkirk; he's on the straight and narrow path; he's going straight to heavenwhen he dees . . . And I never saw onybody so feared o' death as Jake is. How wud ye explain that?"

"I think, " I replied, "that it is due to the fact that Jake has beenbrought up in the fear of the Lord. "

"Exactly, " nodded Dauvit. "It's my belief that most religious fowk arereligious not becos they want specially to play harps in the next world, but becos they dinna want to be roasted. "

Dauvit's philosophy comes pretty near that of Edmond Holmes. In _What Isand What Might Be_ Holmes argues that our education system is founded onthe Old Testament. Man is a sinner, prone to evil; a stern angry Godchastises him when he transgresses. Education treats children assinners; it punishes the wrongdoer. I believe Holmes is right, only hedoes not trace back education far enough. The God of the Old Testamentwas a man-made God (Jung says that man makes his God in his own image;his God is his ego-ideal). 

The genesis of education is not the God of the Old Testament; it is theunconscious wish of the primitive men who invented that God. Thereligion of the Old Testament is a father complex religion; God is thehated and feared father, the authority who punishes, the provider of foodand clothing, the maker of laws. Authority always makes the governedinferior and dependent; the man with a father complex cannot stand alone;he must always flee to his father or father substitute when he meets adifficulty. Thus does the Christian act; he seeks the Father; he placeshis burden on the Lord; he avoids responsibility. The Hebraic religionand our modern education both demand that the individual shall avoidresponsibility; the good Christian and the good schoolboy must obey theLaw. I think that if the world is to be free the church and the schoolmust aim at breaking the power of the Father. 

 * * * * *

"Look here, Mac, " I said last night, "I am going to pay you for my board. "

Mac protested vigorously. 

"You'll do nothing of the kind, " he said firmly. 

I went to the kitchen and made the offer to his wife, and she alsoprotested. 

This morning I cycled to Dundee and bought a knife-cleaner and a vacuumcleaner. They arrived to-night, and Mrs. Mac gave a gasp of delight. Mac tried to frown, but he could not manage it. Both protested againstwhat they called my idiotic kindness, but their protests werehalf-hearted. 

It is a strange thing that money itself is considered a sordid thing. Why should Mac refuse five pounds with anger, and accept a ten pound giftwith pleasure? If anyone wants to study the psychological meaning ofmoney I recommend Chapter XL. In Dr. Ernest Jones' _Psycho-analysis_. Inthe unconscious, at any rate, money is assuredly "filthy lucre. "

 * * * * *

A teacher should know very little about the subject he professes toteach. In my London school I succeeded a line of excellent teachers ofdrawing. I had not been long in the school when Di, aged 15, looked overmy shoulder one day and said: "Rotten! You can't draw for nuts!"

A week later Malcolm looked at a water colour of mine. 

"You've got a horrible sense of colour, " he said brightly. 

Then I began to wonder why everyone in school was much more keen ondrawing and painting than they had ever been in the days of the skilledteachers. The conclusion I came to was that my bad drawing encouragedthe children. I remembered the beautiful copy-book headlines of myboyhood, and I recalled the hopelessness of ever reaching the standardset by the lithographers. No child should have perfection put beforehim. The teacher should never try to teach; he should work alongside thechildren; he should be a co-worker, not a model. 

Most teachers set themselves on a pedestal. They think that they losedignity if they are not able to answer every question that a child putsto them. One result is that the child develops a dangerous inferioritycomplex. I knew one boy who was a duffer at mathematics. His weaknesswas due to the inferiority he felt when he saw the learned mathematicalmaster juggle with figures as easily as a conjurer juggles with billiardballs. The little chap lost all hope, and when he worked problems heworked solely to escape punishment. 

The difficulty is that if a teacher works at a subject year after year heis bound to become an expert. The only remedy I can think of is to makeeach teacher take up a new subject at the beginning of every school year. By the time that he had been master of Mathematics, History, Drawing, English, French, German, Latin, Geography, Chemistry, Physics, Psychology, Physiology, Eurhythmics, Music, Woodwork, it would be time toretire . . . With a pension or a psychosis. The late Sir William Osiersaid that a man was too old at forty; my experience leads me to concludethat many a teacher is too old at twenty. 

I sometimes think that every man has a certain definite psychic age fixedfor him by the Almighty before he is born. I know a man of seventy whois psychically five years old, and he will never grow older. I know aboy of ten who is psychically sixty years old, and he will never growyounger. 

Psycho-analysis is doing a lot of good, but I fear that it may do a lotof harm, for, one fine day Professor Freud or Dr. Jung will get hold ofPeter Pan, take him by the back of the neck, and say: "My lad, you've gota fixation somewhere; you are the super-regression-to-the-infantilespecimen; you've got to be analysed. " And then Peter will grow up andread _The Daily News_ and own an allotment and a season ticket. 

When we know all about psychology, the world will be rather dull. TheFreudians have said that the play of _Hamlet_ is the result ofShakespeare's Oedipus Complex. If Shakespeare had not had an unconscioushatred of his father, _Hamlet_ would never have been written. In otherwords, if Bacon had discovered the psychology of the unconscious, Shakespeare might have been analysed and forthwith might have gone in forkeeping bees instead of writing plays. 

It is the neurotic who leads the world; he is a rebel and he is anidealist. Yet when you analyse him you find what a poor devil he is. His noble crusade against vivisection is due to the abnormal strain ofcruelty he is repressing in himself; his passion for Socialism comes fromhis infant fear of and rebellion against his father. The ardentsuffragette who smashes windows in a just cause is merely doing sobecause the vote is a symbol of freedom from an arrogant husband. 

What I want to know is this: In the year 5000, when everyone is free fromrepressions and suppressions, will there be any rebels to spur humanityon? But then if humanity is free from unconscious urges there will be noneed for rebels, for there will be no crime or prison or wars orpoliticians. Every man will be a superman. 

I firmly believe that Freud's discovery will have a greater influence onthe evolution of humanity than any discovery of the last ten centuries. Freud has begun the road that leads to superman, and, although Jung andAdler and others have begun to lead sideroads off the main track, thesideroads are all leading forward. Theirs is a great message of hope. 

And yet, nineteen hundred years ago Jesus Christ gave the world a NewPsychology . . . And none of us have tried to apply it to our souls. 

VIII. 

Mac came across a vulgar word in a composition he was correctingto-night, and it seemed to alarm him. He could not understand why Ilaughed, and I explained to him that I liked vulgarity. 

I remember when a high-minded mother came into my class-room inHampstead. The highest class was writing essays. On her asking whatthe subject was, I replied that each pupil had a different subject. She walked round and looked over their shoulders. I saw the lady'seyebrows go up as she read titles such as these:--"I Grow Forty Feethigh in One Night"; "I Edit the Greenland _Morning Frost_" (the newsthis boy gave was delightful); "I Interview Noah for the _Daily Mail_"(photos on back page). She nodded approvingly when she read the titlesof the more serious essays. Then I saw her adjust her spectacles ingreat haste; she was looking over Muriel's shoulder. 

"Mr. Neill, " she gasped, "do you think this a suitable subject for agirl?"

I glanced at the title; it was; "Autobiography of My Nose. "

"Er--what's wrong with it?" I said falteringly. 

"It lends itself too readily to vulgarity, " she said. 

I picked up the book, and together we read the opening words. 

"When first I began to run . . . . "

The high-minded lady left the room hurriedly. 

I loved that class. Often I wish that I had kept their essays. Oneday we had a five minute essay on the subject: Waiting for My Cue. Lawrence wrote of standing on the steps in a cold sweat of fear. Hehad only five words to say--"The carriage waits, my lord, " but he hadnever acted before. His cue was: "Ho! Who comes here?"

"At last, " he wrote, "I heard the fateful words: 'Ho! Who comeshere?' I could not move; I stood trembling on the stairs. 

"'Get on, you idiot!' whispered the stage manager savagely, but still Icould not move. 

"'Ho! Who comes here?' repeated the fool on the stage. Still I couldnot move a step. 

"'Ho! Who comes here?'

"Suddenly I became aware of a disturbance in the auditorium. The noiseincreased, and then I heard the agonising words: 'Fire! Fire!' Panicfollowed, and cries of terror rang out. 

"But I . . . I jumped on the stage and cried: 'Hurrah!Hoo-blinking-rah!' It was the happiest moment of my life. "

Sydney took a different line. Her cue was the sound of a stage kiss. Boldly she walked on, and the stage lovers glared at her, for shearrived before the kiss was finished or rather properly begun. Theaudience chuckled. At the next performance she determined to be lesspunctual. She heard the smack of the kiss, but she did not move. Asshe waited she heard the audience roaring with laughter, and then sherealised that the poor lovers had been standing kissing each other fora full five minutes. 

I must write to these dear old children to ask if they kept theiressays. 

 * * * * *

Duncan was in to-night, and he told a school story that was new to me. 

In a certain council school it was the custom for teachers to writedown on the blackboard any instructions they might have for the janitorbefore they left at night. One night he came in and read the words:Find the L. C. M. 

"Good gracious!" he growled, "has that dam thing gone and got lostagain?"

That version was new to me. My own version ran thus:--

Little Willie is doing his home lessons, and he asks his father to helphim with a sum. The father takes the slate in his hand and reads thewords: Find the G. C. M. 

"Good heavens!" he cries, "haven't they found that blamed thing yet?They were hunting for it when I was at school. "

I think both versions are very good. 

 * * * * *

I have a strong Montessori complex. I find myself being critical ofher system, and I have often wondered why. I used to think that mydislike of Montessori was a projection: I disliked a lady who ravedabout Montessori, and I fancied that I had transferred my dislike ofthe lady to poor Montessori. But now I refuse to accept thatexplanation; it is not good enough for me; there must be somethingdeeper. I shall try to discover that something deeper. 

When I first read Montessori's books I said to myself: "She is devoidof humour. " This to me suggests a limitation in art, and I feel thatMontessori is always a scientist but never an artist. Her system ishighly intellectual, but sadly lacking in emotionalism. This is seenin her attitude to phantasy. She would probably argue that phantasy isbad for a child, but it is a fact that much of a child's life is livedin phantasy. Phantasy is a means of gratifying an unfulfilled wish. The kitchen-maid in her day-dream marries a prince, and, as MauriceNicoll says in his _Dream Psychology_, to destroy her phantasy withoutputting something in its place is dangerous. 

To a child, as to Cinderella, phantasy is a means of overcomingreality. Father bullies Willie and the boy retires into a day-dreamworld where he becomes an all-powerful person . . . Hence the fairytales of giants (fathers) killed by little Jacks. In later life Willietakes to drink or identifies himself with the hero of a cinema drama. 

The extreme form of phantasy is insanity, where the patient completelygoes over to the unreal world and becomes the Queen of the World. Andit might be objected that phantasying is the first stage of insanity. Yes, but it is the last stage of poetry. Coleridge's _Kubla Khan_, oneof the most glorious poems in the language, is pure phantasy. I ratherfear that one day a grown-up Montessori child will prove conclusivelythat the feet of Maud did not, when they touched the meadows, leave thedaisies rosy. 

No, the Montessori world is too scientific for me; it is too orderly, too didactic. The name "didactic apparatus" frightens me. 

I quote a sentence from _The New Children_, by Mrs. Radice. 

"'Per carita! Get up at once!' she (Montessori) has exclaimed beforenow to a conscientious teacher found dishevelled on the ground with aclass of little Bolshevists sitting on top of her. "

In heaven's name, I ask, why get up? Life is more than meat, andeducation is more than matching colours and fitting cylinders intoholes. 

Montessori was thinking of the conscious mind of the child when sheevolved her system, and the apparatus does not satisfy the whole of thechild's unconscious mind. Noise is suppressed in a Montessori school, but every child should be allowed to make a noise, for noise meanspower to him, and he will use it only as long as it means power to him. I have watched Norman MacMunn's war orphans at Tiptree Hall at work. MacMunn, the author of _A Path to Freedom in the School_, did not say"Hush!"; his boys filled the room with noisy talk as they worked, andnever have I seen children do more work with so much joy. 

The Montessori teacher, when she finds that Jimmy is interfering withthe work of Alice, segregates the bad Jimmy, and treats him as a sickperson. But the right thing to do is to solve Jimmy's problem as wellas Alice's. What is behind Jimmy's aggressiveness? Jimmy does notknow, nor does the Montessori teacher, because she has been trained inthe psychology of the conscious only. 

Another reason why I am not wholly on the side of Montessori is, Ifancy, that her religious attitude repels me. She is a church woman;she has a definite idea of right and wrong. Thus, although she allowschildren freedom to choose their own occupations, she allows them nofreedom to challenge adult morality. But for a child to accept aready-made code of morals is dangerous; education in morality is athousand times more important than intellectual education with adidactic apparatus. 

 * * * * *

To-night Duncan came in, and as usual we talked education. I took upthe subject of punishment, and condemned it on the ground that ittreats effect instead of cause. After a little persuasion Duncanseemed inclined to agree with me. 

"I see what you mean, " he said, "but what I say is that if you abolishpunishment you must also abolish reward. "

"Why not?" I said. "The case against rewards is just as simple. Achild should do a lesson for the joy of doing it. Milton certainly didnot write _Paradise Lost_ for the five pounds he got for it. "

"Yes, I see that, " said Duncan thoughtfully, "but what aboutcompetition? The prize at the end introduces a breezy struggle forplace. "

I shook my head. 

"No competition! I won't have it. It makes the chap at the top of theclass a prig, and gives the poor chap at the bottom an inferioritycomplex. No, we want to encourage not competition but co-operation. Competition leads naturally to another world war, as competitionbetween British and American capital is doing now. "

Then Duncan floored me. 

"And would you discourage football because it introduces the idea ofcompetition?" he asked. 

"Of course not, " I replied

"Then why discourage it in arithmetic?" he asked. 

It was an arresting question, and I had to grope for an answer thatwould convince not only Duncan but myself. That every healthy boylikes to try his strength against his fellows is a fact that we cannotignore. Mr. Arthur Balfour's desire to beat his golfing partner andJock Broon's desire to spit farther than Jake Tosh are fundamentallythe same desire, the desire for self-assertion. And I see that the manwho comes in last in the quarter-mile race is in the same position ofinferiority as the boy who is always at the bottom of the class. Yet Icondemn competition in school-work while I appreciate competition ingames. Why?

I think I should leave it to the children. Obviously they like tocompete in games and races, but they have no natural desire to competein lessons. It appears that some things naturally lend themselves tocompetition--racing, boxing, billiards, jumping, football and so on. Other things do not encourage competition. Bernard Shaw and G. K. Chesterton do not compete in the output of books; Freud and Jung do notstruggle to publish the record number of analysis cases; George Robeyand Little Tich do not appear together on the stage of the Palladiumand try to prove which is the funnier. Rivalry there always is, but itremains only rivalry until _The Daily Mail_ offers a prize for thebiggest cabbage or sweet-pea, and then competition seizes suburbia. 

I should therefore leave the children to discover for themselves whatinterests lend themselves to competition, and what interests do not. Iknow beforehand that of their own accord they will not introduce itinto school subjects. This is in accord with my views on the authorityquestion. I insist that the teacher will impose nothing; that his taskis to watch the children find their own solution. 

 * * * * *

I must write down a wise saying that came from Dauvit. A rambling andill-informed discussion of Bolshevism arose in his shop to-night. Dauvit took no part in it, but when we rose to go he said: "Tak' myword for it, Bolshevism is wrong. "

"How do you make that out, Dauvit?" I asked. 

"Because it's a success, " he said shortly. 

 * * * * *

To-night the Rev. Mr. Smith, the U. F. Minister, came in. He is one ofthe unco' guid, and to him all pleasures are sinful. It happened thatI was telling Macdonald the Freudian theory of dreams when he entered, and when Mac told him what the conversation had been about, he beggedme to continue. It was evident that he had never heard of dreaminterpretation, and he was surprised. 

"And every dream has a meaning?" he asked. 

"Yes, " I said. 

"I had a dream last night, " he began, but I held up a warning hand. 

"You shouldn't tell your dreams in public, " I said hastily; "they maygive things away that you don't want others to know. "

He laughed. 

"I don't mind that, " he said, "I'll take the risk. Last night I dreamtthat I was in a public-house among a lot of men who were telling mostobscene stories. According to Freud every dream is the fulfilment of awish. Do you mean to tell me that I wish to be in such a company?"

I explained that the dream as told is not the dream in reality, themeaning lies behind the symbolism, and it can be got at by the methodof free association. I also explained that I did not believe the Freudtheory, that the dream is always a wish, and suggested that Jung was asurer guide. 

"According to Jung, " I said, "the dream is often compensatory. In yourown case you are consciously living the higher life, but there isanother side of life that you are ignoring, and that is the vulgar pubside. Your dream is a hint that the vulgar side of life cannot beignored. You may ignore it consciously, but your unconscious will seekthe other side in your dreams. "

This seemed to make him think. 

"But the saints and martyrs!" he cried. "Think of the thousands whocrucified the flesh so that they might win the everlasting crown! Doyou tell me that they were all wrong?"

I lit my pipe. 

"I think they were, " I said, "for they merely repressed their animallife. They thought that they had conquered it, but they only buriedit. The real saint is the man who faces his flesh boldly and loves ittoo, just as much as he loves his God. "

Then the minister fled. 

The interpretation of dreams is one of the most fascinating studies inthe world. The method as evolved by Freud is simple, although theinterpretation is anything but simple. Obviously the average dream hasno meaning. You dream that a horse speaks to you, and then it turnsinto your brother. It is all nonsense, yet behind the nonsense is aserious meaning. Not long ago I was analysing a girl of sixteen. About a week after the analysis began she brought a dream which beganthus: "I am invisible, and I have a tail that I can take off or put on. "

Following the method of free association I said to her: "What comesinto your mind about being invisible?"

"Oh, I've often wanted to be invisible, for then I could do what Iliked; then I would be free. "

Being invisible therefore meant being free. 

Then I asked her associations to the tail part. 

"Tail . . . Monkeys at the Zoo; they are poor things always kept behindbars. Just like me. I forgot to say that my tail wasn't on in thedream. "

Tail therefore meant something associated with confinement andrestriction. It is significant that her tail was unattached. I tookit to mean a wish-fulfilment dream; in it she got free from herneurosis. 

The following night she dreamt that she was being driven in a motor carby a swanky chauffeur. They came to the bottom of a hill, and the carstopped, and she got out and walked. Her first association was: "Thechauffeur had a big green coat on, one just like the coat you wear. "

"So I was the chauffeur?" I asked. 

She brightened at once. 

"I see it!" she cried. "The car is the analysis; you are driving meaway from my old life!"

"Excellent!" I said, "but don't forget that the car stopped at thebottom of the hill. What does the word hill give you?"

"Something difficult to climb. I hated climbing it and thought it ashame that the motor didn't take me up. "

"Well?"

"I've got to climb to get better, haven't I?"

"That's right, " I said. "I told you the other night that no analystshould give advice, and I refused when you asked me for it. In yourunconscious you realise that the chauffeur is not going to take you upthe hill; in other words you've got to do most of the work. "

Freud holds that there is a censor standing between the conscious andthe unconscious. Primitive wishes seek to come from the unconscious, but the censor holds up his hand. "No, " he says, "that's toodisgusting; the conscious mind couldn't stand that; it would beshocked. You must disguise yourself in harmless form!" And so theinfantile sex wish is changed into a harmless dog or cycle. But ifthis is the case why should my little girl dream of me as a chauffeur?There was nothing disgusting about me, nothing that her conscious mindcould not face. 

I prefer Jung's theory. He says that we dream in symbols becausesymbolism is the oldest language in the world, and, as the unconsciousis primitive it uses this language. We all dream of shocking things, and if the endopsychic censor were really on duty he would never allowthese disgusting dreams to get through. 

If I dream that my father is dead the Freudians declare that I eitherwish or, in the past, have wished unconsciously for my father's death. But surely so alarming a wish would be changed into a harmless form ifthere were a censor. One night I dreamt that an acquaintance, Murray, was dead. The first association to Murray was: "He's a lazy sort ofchap. " I think that all he stood for was laziness, and he was merelymy own laziness symbolised. The dream was a hint to me to be up anddoing, for I had been neglecting a task that I should have undertaken. 

There is what might be called the cheese-and-tripe supper theory of thedream held by many people. 

"There's nothing in dreams, " they say, "nothing but the disordersfollowing late supper. "

A cheese-and-tripe supper will cause queer dreams, but the advocates ofthis theory cannot explain why a tripe supper should make me dreamof--say--a tiger. Why not a lion or a mouse?

It is an accepted fact now in psychology that the dream is the workingof the unconscious. Some theosophists claim that during sleep yourspirit leaves your body and seeks the astral plane, but I have neverseen anything resembling evidence of this. It may be a fact for allthat. 

Concerning the prophetic aspect of dreams I know nothing. I have heardthat the night before the Tay Bridge disaster a woman dreamt that itwas to take place, and she persuaded her husband not to travel by thatill-fated train, but I cannot vouch for the story. I believe, however, that the dream is prophetic in that the unconscious during the night isworking out the problems of the next day. The popular saying aboutsleeping over a problem shows that there is a real belief in thisaspect. I know a lady who was undergoing analysis. She was sufferingfrom a father complex, that is, her infantile fixation on the fatherhad remained with her, and unconsciously she was approving ordisapproving of every man she met according as he did or did not insome way resemble her father. 

For a few weeks after the analysis began she was always dreaming thatshe was back in her childhood home, and in her dreams she was alwaystrying to get away from home and her father was always restraining herfrom going. Often the figure in the dream was not the father, but theassociations always showed that the figure was standing for the father. One night the figure was the King, and her first association was: "TheKing's name is George. . . . That's father's name too. "

This seems to be a case where the unconscious is striving to find asolution. 

The way the unconscious does things is wonderful. I remember one nightlistening to a lecture by Homer Lane. He brought forward a new theoryabout education, and it was so deep that I did not quite grasp itsmeaning. At the time Alan, Homer Lane's youngest child, was one of thepupils in the school in which I taught. That night I dreamt that I wasstanding before a class. Alan was sitting in the front seat, andbehind him was a boy whom in the dream I called "Homer Lane's youngestchild. " The new theory had become in the language of symbolism Alan'syounger brother . . . In short, Lane's latest. Here again I cannot seewhy any censor should change a theory into a child. 

 * * * * *In my _Log_ I make a very, very poor statement about sex instruction. I say that children should be encouraged to believe in the stork theoryof birth until the age of nine. That was a wrong belief, but then atthat time I had not read Freud or Bloch or Moll. I see now that thechild should be told the truth about sex whenever he asks forinformation. But I fear, that many modern mothers think that they havesexually educated their child when they tell him where babies comefrom. The physiological side of sex is the less important; you cantake a child through all the usual stages--pollination of plants, fertilisation of eggs, right up to human birth, but the child will findno help in these informations when he faces his sex instinct atadolescence. Sex instruction should be psychological; it should dealwith the sex instinct as one form of life force or libido. The childshould be led to face it openly. It should be entirely dissociatedfrom sin, and moral lectures should not be given. 

Who is to give the instruction? That is the difficulty. Most parentsand teachers cannot do it because their own sex instinct is all wrong. Make a remark about sex in the company of adults, and it will bereacted to in two ways; some will grin and laugh; others will beshocked. I hasten to add that the shocked ones are worse than thelaughers. The laugh is a release of sex repressions; the shockedappearance is a compensation for an unconscious over-interest in sex. Anyway neither type is capable of talking about sex to children, andsince humanity is roughly divided into prudes and sinners (not saintsand sinners), there is little hope of a frank sex education for kiddies. 

Many people say: "Oh, leave it to the doctors, " but personally Ihaven't enough faith in doctors. Their attitude to sex is usually nobetter than the attitude of the layman. I know doctors who could giveexcellent instruction to children on the physiology of sex, but theonly doctors of my acquaintance who could teach the psychological sideare psycho-analysts or psycho-therapists of some sort. 

Teachers can tackle the sex problem negatively. Sex activity is a formof life force or interest, and if a child is not finding lifeinteresting enough there is a danger that he will regress to what iscalled auto-eroticism. When we remember that the sexual instinct isthe creative instinct, and that creation in dancing or music or poetryor art of any kind is sublimated sex, that is sex raised to a higherpower, we can readily see that one of the most important parts of ateacher's job is to provide ways and means for creation. I realisethat this is not enough, but, as I say, I cannot see the way to a goodsex education, until every teacher and parent has discovered his or herown sex complexes. Co-education helps, for then the commingling of thesexes affords a harmless and unconscious outlet for sex interest. Butco-education is no panacea, for the sex problems of the individualchild in a co-educational school are almost as immediate as those ofthe child from the segregated school. 

IX. 

This morning I was setting off for Dundee when Willie Marshall enteredthe compartment. He was dressed in his Sunday best, and I wondered whyhe was going to Dundee on a Wednesday. 

"Hullo, Willie!" I cried, "what's on to-day?"

He looked troubled and angry. 

"I've been summoned to serve on the jury that's tryin' that dawmed ratthat stailt ten pund frae the minister, " he said viciously, "and I hadlittle need to lose a day, for I hae far mair work than I can dae. Mossbank's twa cairts cam in yestreen, and he's swearin' like onythingthat he maun hae them by the nicht. " Willie is a joiner, and most ofhis work is building and repairing carts. 

"So you think that Nosie Broon is guilty?" I said with a smile. 

"Of coorse he is, " he cried with emphasis. 

"But, " I said seriously, "you'll maybe alter your mind when you hearthe evidence. "

He grunted. 

"Dawn nae fear! I'll show him that he's no to drag me awa frae ma workfor nothing!"

He opened his _Dundee Courier_, and I sat and thought of the trial byjury method. I would not condemn it on the strength of Willie'sdangerous misunderstanding of what it means, but I do condemn it onother grounds. Weighing evidence is a difficult enough business evenfor the specialist, for it is almost impossible to eliminate emotion informing a judgment. With a jury of citizens, some of them possiblyilliterate, too much depends on the advocates, or on outside causes. 

During the war there was a glaring instance of this. A soldier shotthe man who had been trying to steal his wife's love . . . And theverdict of the jury was Not Guilty. The emotional factor in this casewas that the dead man was a German. I am not arguing that the prisonershould have been hanged or imprisoned, for I think both procedures arebad; I merely point out that in the eyes of legalism the soldier wasguilty, yet the jury threw legalism overboard. 

Another instance of the emotional factor over-ruling legalism is seenin the trial of the man who shot Jaures. He was acquitted. . . . NotGuilty . . . The man who slew one of the best men in Europe. On theother hand the youth who attempted to assassinate Clemenceau wassentenced to death, pardoned, and sent to penal servitude. In Francetherefore it is a crime to kill a politician of the right, but a virtueto kill one of the Socialist left. 

Abstract justice is a figment. No jury and no judge can be impartial. The other day a man was charged with striking a Socialist orator withan ice-pick. The judge lectured the orator on his Bolshevism, and thengave the accused imprisonment for a short term in the second division. Suppose that the Bolshevist had used an ice-pick on a Cabinet Minister!

I do not think that our judges and magistrates ever consciously showpartiality. They are an upright class of men, men above suspicion. Itis their unconscious that shows partiality just as mine does. The armycolonels who tried Conscientious Objectors were upright men, but it waswrong to imagine that they could possibly see the C. O. 's point of view. So it was with the regular R. A. M. C. Doctors. To some of them theneurotic patient was a swinger of the lead, a malingerer. They hadnever heard of the new psychiatry, and the neurotic was a strangecreature to them. Their ignorance supplemented their prejudice, andthey could not possibly have treated these men with justice. 

The truth is that we all make up our minds according as our buriedcomplexes impel us. If I saw a Frenchman fighting a Scot I should takethe Scot's side, because I have a Scot complex. Occasionally ourcomplexes work in the opposite way. I fancy that the few people whosided with the Germans in the war were suffering from an "agin thegovernment" complex, which, if you trace it deep enough is usuallyfound to be an infantile rebellion against the father. In this casethe State represented the father, and Germany was the outside helperwho should conquer the father (or mother) country. Had Germany won, the unpatriotic man would immediately have turned his hate againstPrussia, for then Prussia would have been the father substitute. 

Our loves and hates and fears are within ourselves. I know a man whohas a nagging wife; she has a constant wish for new things. He boughther a hat, and for two days she was happy; then she nagged, and hebought her a dress. Three days later she demanded a necklace, and hegave her a necklace. He may continue giving her everything she asksfor, but if he buys her a Rolls Royce and a house in Park Lane she willbe a dissatisfied woman, for "the fault, dear Brutus, lies not in ourstars but in ourselves. " I advised him to spend his money on havingher psycho-analysed. 

 * * * * *

To-night Tammas Lownie the joiner came into Dauvit's shop. He is aninfrequent attender at Dauvit's parliament, and Dauvit seemed slightlysurprised at his entry. 

"Weel, Tammas, " he said, "it's no often that we see you here. What'sbrocht ye here the nicht?"

Tammas spat in the grate. 

"Oh, it was a fine nicht, and I thought I'd just tak a daunder yont, "he said easily. 

Dauvit looked at him searchingly. 

"Na, na, Tammas, it winna dae! It wasna the fine nicht that brocht yeyont. Ye've got some news I'm thinkin'. "

Tammas laughed loudly. 

"Dauvit, ye're oncanny!" he cried. "Ye seem to read what's at the backo' a man's held. But I have nae news to gie ye. "

Dauvit chuckled. 

"I wudna wonder if ye didna come yont to tell me aboot the eldership, "he said slowly. 

The expression on Tammas's face showed that he _had_ come to tell usthat the minister had asked him to become an elder. 

"'Od, Dauvit, noo that ye come to mention it I wud like to hear yeradvice aboot the matter. I dinna see how I can tak an eldership, Dauvit. "

"How no?" asked Dauvit in surprise. 

Then he added: "But maybe ye ken whether ye've got a sinfu' heart orno. "

"It's no that, " said Tammas hastily, "I'm nae worse than some otherelders I ken, " and he glanced at Jake Tosh. "No, it's no the sin I'mthinkin' o'; it's my trade. "

"But, " I put in, "why shouldn't a joiner be an elder?"

Tammas bit off a chunk of Bogie Roll. 

"That may as may be, dominie, but I'm mair than a joiner; I'm anundertakker. "

"Weel, " said Dauvit, "what aboot that?"

Tammas shook his head sadly. 

"An undertakker canna be an elder, Dauvit. Suppose the minister wasawa preachin' or at the Assembly, and ane o' his congregation wasdeein', me as an elder micht hae to ging to the bedside and offer up abit prayer. "

"There's nothing in that, " said Jake proudly; "I've offered up a bitprayer afore noo when the minister was awa. "

"Aye, Jake, " said Tammas, "but ye see you're a roadman. But anundertakker is a different matter. Goad, lads, I canna gie a man a bitprayer at sax o'clock and syne measure him for his coffin at acht. That wud look like mixin' religion wi' business. "

The assembly thought over this aspect. 

"All the same, " said the smith, "Dr. Hall is an elder, and naebody everthinks o' accusin' him o' mixin' religion wi' his business. "

We all considered this statement. 

"Tammas, " said Dauvit, "if ye want to be an elder tak it, and nevermind the undertakkin'. But if ever ye have to gie a prayer just getJake here to tak on the job. "

He began to laugh here. 

"I mind o' Jeemie Ritchie when he got his eldership. The minister gaedawa to the Assembly in Edinbro, and as it happened auld Jess Tosh wasdeein', so Jeemie was asked to come up and gie her a prayer. Jeemiewas in my shop when the lassie Tosh cam for him, and I never saw a manin sic a state. 

"'Dauvit, ' he cries, 'I canna dae it! I never offered up a prayer inmy life!'

"'Hoots, Jeemie, ' says I, 'it's easy; just bring in a few bitties fraethe Bible. '

"Auld Jeemie he scarted his heid. 

"'Man, Dauvit, ' says he, 'I cudna say twa words o' the Bible. '

"Weel-a-weel, I had to shove him oot o' the shop, and I tell ye, boys, he was shakin' like a shakky-trummly. 

"Weel, in aboot half-an-hour Jeemie cam back, and he was smilin' likeonything. 

"'Hoo did ye get on?' I speered. 

"'Graund!' he cried, '. . . She was deid afore I got there!'"

 * * * * *

When I published my _Log_ a correspondent wrote accusing me of beingdisloyal to my colleagues in the teaching profession. 

"Where is your professional etiquette?" he wrote. 

I had lots of letters from teachers, some flattering, some not. Oneman wrote me from Croydon:--

"Dear Sir, --Are you a fool or merely a silly ass?"

"Both, " I replied, "else I should not have paid 2d. For your letter. "

In haste the poor man hastened to forward two penny stamps, and toapologise for not having stamped the letter he sent me. 

"I really thought that I had stamped it, " he wrote. 

Then I wrote him a nice letter telling him that the mistake was mine, for his first letter had had a stamp on it after all. He never repliedto that, and I suppose that now he goes about telling his friends thatI am a fool, a silly ass, and a typical Scot. 

Authors hear queer things about themselves. The other day a friend ofmine asked for my _Log_ in a West End library. As the librarian handedover the book she shook her head sadly. 

"Isn't it sad about the man who wrote that book?" she said. 

My friend was startled. 

"Sad! What do you mean?"

"Oh, haven't you heard?" asked the librarian in surprise; "he's aconfirmed drunkard now. "

"Impossible!" cried my friend, "with whisky at ten and six a bottle!"

But I meant to write about colleagues. One day a class was holding aself-government meeting, and they sent for me. I was annoyed because Iwas having my after-dinner smoke in the staff-room. However I went up. 

"Hullo!" I said as I entered, "what do you want?"

Eglantine the chairman said: "A member of this class has insulted you. "

"Impossible!" I cried. 

Then Mary got up. 

"I did, " she blurted out nervously; "I said you were just a silly ass. "

"That's all right!" I said cheerfully, "I am, " and I made for the door. Then the class got excited. 

"Aren't you going to do anything?" asked Ian in surprise. 

"Good Lord, no!" I cried. "Why should I?"

"You're on the staff, " said Ian. 

"Look here, " I said impatiently, "I hereby authorise the crowd of youto call me any name you like. "

The class became indignant. 

"You can't criticise the staff, " said one. 

"Why not?" I asked, and they looked at each other in alarm. This wascarrying self-government too far. 

Suddenly Mary jumped up. 

"Then if we can criticise the staff here goes! I accuse Miss Brown offavouritism. "

It was a bombshell. Everyone jumped up, and some cried: "Shame!Withdraw!" The chairman appealed to me. 

"I have nothing to do with it, " I protested. 

Then bitter words flew. They told me that I, as a member of the staff, should squash Mary. Voices became louder, but then the bell rang andthe class had to go to its own class-room to work. 

My colleagues when they heard the story agreed with the children; theyheld that I acted wrongly in listening to an accusation against acolleague. My argument was that I was a guest at a meeting; I had novote, nor would I have interfered had I been a member of the meeting. I was quite sure that if the bell had not broken up the meetingsomebody would have made the discovery that Miss Brown was the properperson to make the accusation to. When they thought that Mary insultedme they sent for me, and I fully expected they would send for MissBrown. Again I argued that if Miss Brown had favourites the class hada right to criticise her. If she had no favourites let her arraign theclass before a meeting of the whole school and accuse them of libel. 

Looking back I still think my attitude was right, for unless the staffcan lay aside all dignity and become members of the gang education isnot free. Yet I see now that I was secretly exulting in thediscomfiture of a colleague . . . A common human failing which none ofus care to recognise in ourselves. It is a sad fact but a true onethat however much Dr. A. Protests when a patient tells him that Dr. B. Is a clumsy fool, unconsciously at least Dr. A. Is gratified at thecriticism of his rival. Psycho-analysts, that is people who aresupposed to know the contents of their unconscious, are just as guiltyin this respect as other doctors, and if anyone doubts this let him aska Freudian what he thinks of the Jungian in the next street. 

My earliest memory of professional jealousy goes back to the age ofseven. I lived next door to a dentist, a real qualified L. D. S. Acrossthe street lived a quack dental surgeon. When trade was dull these twoused to come to their respective doors and converse with each other inthe good old simple way of putting the fingers to the nose. They neverspoke to each other. Life in a northern town was simple in these days. 

 * * * * *

Helen Macdonald is four years old, and her mother and I have somebreezy discussions about her upbringing. Mrs. Mac has a greatadmiration for her own mother, and she is bent on bringing up herdaughter in the way that she was brought up. 

"Mother made me obey and I'll make Helen obey, " she said to-day withdecision. 

"It's dangerous, " I said. 

"No it isn't; it worked well enough in my case anyway. "

"Don't blow your own trumpet, madam!"

She smiled. 

"I don't think I am a bad product of the good old way, " she said with aself-satisfied air. 

"Madam, shall I tell you the truth about yourself?"

She bubbled and drew her chair closer to mine. 

"Do!" she cried, and then added: "But I won't believe the nasty bits. "

Mac chuckled. 

"To begin with, " I said pompously, "you are an awful example of a badeducation. "

She bowed mockingly and Mac guffawed. He is a wee bit afraid of hiswife and he marvels at my courage in ragging her. 

"You, " I continued, "were made to obey as a child, and as a result youbecame dependent on your mother. In short you are your own mother. "

"Don't be silly, " she said with a frown; "I want your serious opinion. "

"And you are getting it, " I replied. "Because you had to obey younever lived your own life, and naturally you never had a mind of yourown. To this day you act as your mother acted. She made her daughterobey; you follow her example; she made scones in such and such a way;you make scones in exactly the same way. "

"That's right!" laughed Mac. 

Mrs. Mac looked thoughtful. 

"Anyway, " she said quickly, "they are excellent scones. "

"Most excellent scones, " I hastened to add, "but my point is that if weall follow our parents there will be no progress. "

"Progress will never bring better scones, " said Mac and he patted hiswife's cheek. 

"Mac, " I said gallantly, "your wife has brought scones to their perfectand utmost evolution. She has made the super-scone. Only, Helen isn'ta scone you know. "

At this point Helen was found trying to pull the marble clock down fromthe mantlepiece. Her mother rescued the clock as it was falling, andshe scolded the fair Helen. 

"You are all theory, " she cried to me. "What would you do in a caselike this?"

"Same as you did, " I answered hastily, and then added: "Only I wouldtry to give her so many interesting things to play with that she'dforget to want the clock. "

Then Mrs. Mac indignantly dragged out Helen's toys from a cupboard. 

"Dozens of them!" she cried, "and she is tired of every one. "

Then I discoursed on toys. The toys of the world are nearly all bad. Helen has a beautiful sleeping doll that cost five pounds; rather Ishould say that Helen _had_ a beautiful sleeping doll that cost fivepounds. On the one occasion that Helen was allowed to play with it shemade a careful attempt to open the head with a pair of scissors to seewhat made the eyes close and open. Then her mother put the doll in abox, packed the box in a trunk, and explained to Helen that the dollwas to lie in that trunk until Helen had a little baby girl of her own. 

I explained to Mrs. Mac that the toy a child needs is one that willtake to pieces. Every toy should be a mine of discovery. The onlygood toys that I know of are Meccano and Primus, but there is much needfor constructive toys for younger children. 

"Mac, " I said, "if you were even a passably good husband you would bemaking Montessori apparatus for your offspring. "

We have many arguments like this. Mrs. Mac's problem is that of amillion mothers; she has to fit the child into an adult environment. Yesterday she was painting in oils. The baker whistled outside and sheran out to get the bread. On her return she found that Helen wasbusily painting the pink wall-paper a prussian blue. 

Wealthy mothers solve the problem by employing nurses, but the solutionis a poor one. Few nurses know enough about children, and many dopositive harm by frightening the child. Nor can the hired nurse givethe infinite amount of love that a child demands. If she could it isprobable that she would be sacked, for no mother likes to see her childlavish his love on another. On more than one occasion I havediscovered that the parents of children who loved me were hostile tome. That is natural. If a father is continually hearing his daughtersay: "Mr. Neill says this; Mr. Neill says that, " I have every sympathywith him when he growls: "Damn this Neill blighter!" On the other handI have no sympathy with him if he expects me to ask his little Ada howher dear charming papa is. 

 * * * * *

A book of ten volumes might well be written on the subject of parentsand teachers. If a teacher were the author no publisher would look atit, for the language would be unprintable. 

To the teacher the parent is an enemy. When Mrs. Brown comes to schoolshe and the dominie chat pleasantly about the weather, while thechildren look on and marvel. Little Willie is amazed to see his mothersmile as she talks, for it was only last night that he heard her say:"That Mr. Smith is by no means a gentleman. Did you see his nails?"Poor little Willie does not know that his mother and the dominie areusing fair smiles to cover a real hostility. Mrs. Brown will talkagreeably all through her visit, but as she is shaking hands on thedoorstep she will say, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Smith, Willie came homelast night saying that he wasn't allowed to play hockey yesterday. Iwant him to play every Wednesday. "

"But, " says Mr. Smith deferentially, "I--er--well, Wednesday is the daywhen the Seniors play, and--er--since Willie is a Junior I--er--I--"

"Oh, thank you so much, " she gushes, "I knew that you would arrangethat he will play on Wednesdays, " and she sails away. 

Or perhaps Mrs. Brown will put it on to her husband. 

"The way things are done at that school are disgraceful, Tom. You mustgo and see Smith and insist that the boy has his hockey. "

Well, the poor father comes up to school, and he and the dominiediscuss the weather and Lloyd George. All the time Brown is trying tomuster up enough courage to tackle the hockey question. 

"Er, " he begins after clearing his throat, "my wife was sayingsomething about--er--what a splendid view you have from here!"

"First rate, " nods the dominie. "Your wife was saying?"

"Er--something about hockey. " He coughs. "Splendid game! I--er--Imust go . . . Er--good-bye. "

No mere man can badger a dominie. 

From the parent's point of view a teacher is a rival when he isn't asort of under-gardener. The parent would never think of arguing withthe doctor when he says that Willie has measles; the doctor is aspecialist in disease, and the parent is not. But it is different withthe dominie. He is a specialist in education, but then so is theparent. That is possibly one of the reasons that the teachingprofession is such a low-class one, for a teacher is merely aspecialist in a world of specialists. Everybody knows how a childought to be brought up. In justice to parents I must confess thatthere are only two teachers in Britain to whom I should trust theeducation of any child of mine. Most teachers are instructionistsonly, and the parent has some ground for suspicion. 

X. 

Duncan was talking about awkward moments to-night, and he told of theshock he got when he joined the army and found that the sergeant of hissquad was an old pupil of his. 

"I think I can beat that, Duncan, " I said, and told him the story of anarmy lecture. I had a commission in the R. G. A. For a short time, andone morning I had to give a lecture to the men of the battery on linesof fire. They were mostly miners, and I tried to make the lecture assimple as possible. I began with the definition of an angle and wenton to circular measurement. I noticed that one man stared at theblackboard in bewilderment, a very stupid looking fellow he was. Whenthe lecture was over I approached him. 

"I don't think you understood what I was trying to tell you, " I said. 

"I did have some difficulty in following it, sir, " he said. 

"H'm! What were you in civil life?"

"Mathematical master in a secondary school, sir. "

I could not rise to the occasion. I fled to the mess and ordered abrandy and soda. 

Speaking about rising to the occasion brings to my mind another armyincident in which I did not shine. I was a recruit in the infantry, and a gym sergeant was putting us through physical jerks. He told usthe familiar tale that although we had broken our mothers' hearts wewouldn't break his; in short he put the wind up us. I got very nervous. 

"Right turn!" he roared, and I thought he said "Right about turn. "

He told the squad to stand easy, and then he eyed me curiously. 

"You! Big fellow! Take that smile off your face!"

I don't know why he said that for I couldn't have smiled at that momentfor anything less than my ticket. He studied me carefully for a bit, then enlightenment seemed to dawn on him. 

"I got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. 

"I know wot's wrong with you! You've got a stupid face; you can'tthink; you never thought in yer life. "

I looked on the ground. 

"_Did_ yer ever think in yer life?"

"No, sergeant, " I said humbly. 

"I blinkin' well thought so!" he said and moved away. 

Then the worm turned. Who was he that he should bully a scholar and agentleman? I would lower him to the dust. 

"Sergeant!"

He turned quickly. 

"Wot d'ye want?" and he tried to freeze me with his look. 

"It isn't my fault I can't think, sergeant; I was unfortunate enough tospend five years at a university. "

His mouth gaped, and his eyes stared, but only for a moment. Then herose to the occasion. 

"I blinkin' well thought so!" he cried. "Squad! . . . . Tshun!"

 * * * * *

It is Sunday night, and I have just been to town. At the Cross I stoodand listened to a revivalist bellowing from a soap-box. His messagewas Salvation but I was more interested in the man than his message. Consciously he is out to save sinners, but I suspect that unconsciouslyhe is out to draw attention to himself. I do not blame him. I do thesame thing when I publish a book; Lloyd George and George Robey and therevivalist and I are all striving each in his little corner to drawattention to ourselves. 

The exhibition impulse is in every child. A child loves to run aboutnaked, but then society in the form of the mother steps in and says:"You must not do that!" But we know that every wish lives on in thedepths of the mind, and the childish wish to exhibit the body appearsin later years as a desire to preach or sing or act or lecture. 

This is the psychology of the testimonials for liver pills which appearin every local paper. It is the psychology of much crime. Many a slumyouth glories in having been birched, simply because his gang looks onhim as a hero. 

I hasten to state that exhibitionism alone does not make a CabinetMinister or a comedian. There are other motives from infancy, animportant one being the desire for power. I recall that as a boy Idelighted in following a drove of cattle and smiting the poor creatureshard with a cudgel. Freud would say that in this way I was releasingsex energy, but I think that the infantile sense of power was at theroot of my cruelty; here was I, a wee boy, controlling a big heavystot. It is love of power that makes little boys want to beengine-drivers. 

To the teacher this love of power is the most vital thing in a child'smake-up. Discipline thwarts the boy at every turn, and our adultauthority is fatally injuring the boy's character. Our task is toprovide the child with opportunity to wield his power. We suppress itand the lad shows his power in destructive instead of constructiveactivities. I find that I keep returning to this subject ofsuppression, but it is the most important evil in education. It doesnot matter how perfect a teacher makes his instruction in arithmetic;if he has not come to see that suppression of a child is a tragedy, hisinstruction is of no value. From an examination point of view, yes;from a spiritual point of view, no. 

 * * * * *

Parents and teachers fail because they cannot see the world as thechild sees it. The child of three is a frank egoist. He cares for noone but himself, and the world is his. Anger him and he would have youdrawn and quartered if he had the power. His instincts prompt him tomaster his environment, and to begin with, when he is a few weeks old, his environment and his own person are indistinguishable. 

Homer Lane gives a delightful description of the child's first effortsand how they are frustrated by ignorant adults. 

"At a very early age the child becomes aware through various processesthat his own hand which he has seen moving across his line of vision isa part of himself, and that he can move it himself. He has discoveredpower. He then enters upon his career. The same motive that willgovern his behaviour for the rest of his life comes into operation, andhe wants to use this new-found power for some purpose that willincrease his enjoyment of life. Up to this time he has had only onepleasure, and that was to do with the commissariat. Having discoveredpower over his fist he therefore wants to put it in his mouth . . . Adifficult task requiring much practice and patient perseverance. 

"As he goes on working he learns that his power increases with effort, and now his motive is modified. At first it was purely materialistic;he wanted to have his fist in his mouth. Now he wants to put it there. His interest is in doing the thing rather than in having it. 

"This is the spiritual element in his present desire, and now comes thefirst mistake in education. The mother, analysing the behaviour of thechild, has noticed his complaint at the difficulty of the task asfatigue sets in, and, misunderstanding the motive of the child shehelps him to put his fist in his mouth. But that is just what thechild did not want, and he protests violently against this interferencewith his purpose in life. 

"The mother again makes a false analysis of the situation, andconcludes that his protest is the result of his disappointment thatthere is no nourishment in the fist. She then gives him food orparegoric, whatever may be her method of dealing with the spiritualunrest of her child, and thus drugs his creative faculties. "

I have said that the infant is an egoist. If his egoism is allowedfull scope he will enter upon the next stage of life, theself-assertive stage, with a huge capacity for being altruistic. Thisstage comes on about the age of six or seven. But if the child has hadparents who believe in moulding character he will have had many severelectures about his selfishness. These lectures will not have cured hisselfishness; they will have driven it underground for the moment. Theselfishness of adults is one result of the moral lecture in childhood, for no wish or emotion will remain buried for ever. 

The age of self-assertion is the rowdy age, and naturally it is nowthat father uses his authority. The child is still ego-centric, but ina different way. At the age of three he was the king of the world; atthe age of seven he is the king of the other boys who play with him. He is now reckoning with society, and he uses society as a backgroundagainst which he may play the hero. Thus be bleeds Jack's nose for noreason in the world other than that he thus asserts himself. If heplays horses with the boy next door he insists upon being the driver. 

It is at this period that he should be free from authority. Ifauthority in the shape of father or teacher or policeman steps in tosuppress his self-assertion the boy becomes an enemy of all authorityand very often anti-social. The "rebel" in the Socialist camp is agood specimen of the man whose self-assertive period was injured byauthority, and I suspect that the truculent drunk is letting off thesteam that he should have let off at the age of eight. 

The third stage in the evolution of a child is the adolescent stage. For the first time the boy becomes a unit in society. Hitherto he hasplayed for his own hand; his games have been games in which personalprowess was the desired aim. Now he feels that he is one of a team. Even before puberty the team-forming impulse is seen; Putter, forinstance, in _The Boy and his Gang_, gives ten to sixteen as the gangage. 

These divisions are purely arbitrary, and children differ much inevolution. The teacher, however, should have a general knowledge ofthese three phases. I have often seen a school prescribe cricket orhockey for boys who are still in the self-assertive stage. The resultwas that, having no team impulse, each boy had no further interest inthe game when the umpire shouted: "Out!"

I used to umpire for boys and girls of eight to eleven, and it was atiresome business. Quite often when a boy had been bowled with thefirst ball, he would throw down the bat in disgust and refuse to givethe other side an innings. There was nothing wrong with the children;what was wrong was that a team phase game was being forced on aself-assertive phase group. 

 * * * * *

Duncan and two other dominies were in to-night and we got on to golfyarns. I remarked that there were very few good ones, and they alltrotted out their favourites. I liked Duncan's best. 

An oldish man was ploughing his way to the tenth hole at St. Andrews, and, when he ultimately holed out in nineteen, he turned to his caddie. 

"Caddie, " he cried in disgust, "this is the worst game I ever played. "

The caddie stared at him open-mouthed. 

"So ye _have_ played afore, have ye?" he gasped in amazement. 

Why are there no cricket or football stories, I wonder? Possiblybecause they are team games; a team is a crowd, and I never heard of ajoke against a crowd. A crowd is an impersonal thing, and no one canjoke about an impersonal thing. I never heard of a joke about the moonor a turnip. Yet are there not jokes against a nation, and a nation isa crowd? Take the joke about the Scot who was brought up at Bow Streetfor being drunk and disorderly. The magistrate, before passingsentence, asked the accused if he had anything to say for himself. 

"Weel, ma lord, it was like this. I travelled frae Glesga to Londonyesterday, and I got into bad company in the train. "

"Bad company?"

"Aye, ma lord. When I got into the train at Glesga Central I had twabottles o' whuskey in my bag, and . . . A' the other men in mycompartment was teetotal. "

That looks like a joke against a long-suffering race, but is it so inreality? Make the traveller an 'Oodersfield' man on his way to see theCup-tie Final at Chelsea, and it is not changed in essence. Only ithas become a convention that the Scot is a hard drinker. It is thepersonal touch that makes the joke, and it is the individual that welaugh at. 

I presume that the typical joke about Scots' meanness appeals toEnglishmen because Englishmen are mean themselves. No joke appeals toa man unless it releases some repressed wish of his own. No oneexpects a devout Roman Catholic to see the point of a joke aboutextreme unction. The professional comedian to be a success must knowwhat the crowd repressions are. Dickens is a great humorist because heknew by intuition what the crowd would laugh at. And that brings me tothe subject of human types. 

Broadly speaking there are two types of man. One is called anextrovert (Latin, to turn outwards); he identifies himself with thecrowd, and he lives the life of the crowd. Lloyd George and HoratioBottomley are typical extroverts; they seem to know instinctively whatthe crowd is thinking, and unconsciously they speak and act as thecrowd wants them to speak and act. Dickens was another, and that iswhy he has so universal an appeal. 

The other type, the introvert type, turns inward. They do not identifythemselves with the crowd. What the public wants does not concernthem; they give the crowd what they think it ought to want. This classincludes the thinkers, the men who are in advance of their time. Anintrovert is never popular with the crowd because the crowd neverunderstands him. He can never get away from himself, and he sums upevents according to the personal effect they have on himself. Yet tothe unconscious of the introvert crowd opinion is of the greatestimportance. 

In the realm of humour the extrovert is a success; what amuses himamuses the crowds. But the introvert laughs alone, and in some caseshe decides that the crowd has no sense of humour, and he becomes acynic. 

It is necessary that the teacher should be able to recognise thedifferent types. The extrovert is popular; he it is who leads thegang. Doubts and fears do not trouble him; life is pleasant and helaughs his way through it. But the introvert is the boy who standsapart in a corner of the playground; he is timid and fears the roughand tumble of team games. He feels inferior and he turns in uponhimself to find superiority. Thus he will day-dream of situations inwhich he is a hero like David Copperfield when he stood at Dora'sgarden gate and saw himself rescuing her from the burning house. 

I think that the job of the teacher is to help each type to a positionmidway between introversion and extroversion. The boy who lives in thecrowd might well be tempted to take more interest in his ownindividuality, and the introvert might well be encouraged to projecthis emotions outward. 

 * * * * *

To-night Mac told me a story about old Simpson the dominie over atPikerton. Last summer an English bishop was touring Scotland, and onemorning he drove up to Simpson's school in a big car, flung open thedoor and walked in. 

"Good morning, children, " he cried. 

The bairns sat gazing at him in awe. He turned to Simpson. 

"My good sir, " he protested, "when I enter a village school in England, the children all rise and say: 'Good morning, sir'!"

"Possibly, " said Simpson dryly, "but in Scotland children are notaccustomed to see strangers walk into a school. Scots visitors alwaysknock at the door and await the headmaster's invitation to enter. "

 * * * * *

Mac and I were talking about education to-night. 

"I never heard you mention the teaching side of education, " heremarked. "Giving a child freedom isn't enough, you know. What aboutHistory and Geography and so on?"

"I think they are jolly well taught in many schools, Mac, " I said. "Itis the psychological side of education that is a thousand years behindthe times. "

"Yes, " said Mac doubtfully, "but suppose you have a school of your own, I presume you'd teach the English yourself?"

I nodded. 

"How would you do it?"

I thought for a while. 

"I'd reverse the usual process, Mac, " I said. "Usually the teacherbegins with Chaucer and works forward to Dickens; I would begin with_Comic Cuts_ and _Dead-wood Dick_ and work back to Chaucer. "

"Oh, do be serious for once, " he said impatiently. 

"I am quite serious, Mac, " I said. "The only thing that matters inschool work is interest, and I know from experience that the child isinterested in _Comic Cuts_ but not in the _Canterbury Tales_. My jobis to encourage the boy's interest in _Comic Cuts_. "

I ignored Macdonald's reference to idiocy, and went on. 

"You see, Mac, what you do is this: you see a boy reading _Dead-woodDick_, and you take his paper away from him and possibly whack thelittle chap for wasting his time. But you don't kill his interest inpenny dreadfuls, and the result is that in later years he reads theSunday paper that supplies the most lurid details of murders andoutrages. My way is to encourage the lad to devour tales of blood andthunder so that in a short time blood and thunder have no more interestfor him. The reason why most of the literature published to-day istripe is that the public likes tripe, and it likes tripe because itsinfantile interest in tripe was suppressed in favour of Chaucer andShakespeare. "

"But, " cried Mac, "isn't Shakespeare better for him than tripe?"

"Yes and no. If every poet were a Shakespeare the world would be adull place; you need the tripe to form a contrast. The best way toenjoy the quintessence of roses, Mac, is to take a walk through thedung-heaps first. "

"What books would you advise your pupils to read?" asked Mac. 

"In their proper sequence . . . _Comic Cuts, Deadwood Dick, 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 InvisibleMan, _ 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, " saidMac. 

I smiled. 

"Mac, I want you to answer this question: have you read Boswell's _Lifeof 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 inthem? If these classics weren't shoved down children's throats theadult population of this country would be sitting of an evening readingand enjoying Milton instead of _John Bull_. "

Mac would not have this. 

"Children must read the classics so that they may get a good style, " hesaid. 

"Style be blowed!" I cried. "The only way to get a style is bywriting. Mac, I should cut out all the lectures about Chaucer andSpenser and Shakespeare, and let the children write during the Englishperiod . . . If I had periods, which I wouldn't. I don't want stylefrom kiddies; I want to see them create in their own way. If they arefree to create they will form their own style. "

In a conversation one always has a tendency to overstate a case, and asthe argument went on I found myself saying wild things. Writing calmlynow I still hold to my attitude concerning style. I love a bookwritten in fine style, but I refuse to impose style on children. Inevery child there is a gigantic protest. Thus the son of prayingparents often turns out to be a scoffer. I had a good instance of thedanger of superimposition of style. 

I had a class of boys and girls of fifteen, sixteen, and seventeenyears of age. For one period a week we all wrote five minute essays, and then we read them out. Sometimes we would make criticisms; forinstance one girl used the word "beastly" in a serious essay, and weall protested against it. Then one day the head-master decided thatthey should write essays for him. He set a serious subject--TheFunction of Authority, I think it was--and then he went over theirbooks with a blue pencil and corrected their spelling and style. 

Three days later my English period came round. I entered the room andfound the class sitting round the fire. 

"Hullo!" I said, "aren't you going to write?"

"No, " growled the class. 

"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 itwas a miserable failure; all the joy in creation had been killed bythat blue pencil. 

I can give an example of the other way, the only way. One boy offifteen hated writing essays, and when I began the five minute essaygame 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 ofhis essays were praised by the class. Then one day he came to me. 

"I don't know anything about stops and things, " he said, "and I wantyou to tell me about them. "

This is my ideal of education; no child ever learns a thing until hewants to learn it. That lad picked up all he wanted to know aboutstops in half-an-hour. He was interested in stops because he wanted towrite better essays. I need hardly say that he had listened tohundreds of lessons on stops during his school career. 

 * * * * *

To-morrow I return to London, and to-night I went over to say good-byeto 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 goback 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 passed into the CivilService and gaed to London. He came hame onexpectedly wan mornin' andhis father he says: 'What in a' the earth brocht ye hame in the montho' 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' yerpatriotism, dominie? I canna onderstand a man no wanting to be buriedin his ain country. For my pairt I wudna like to be buried ony placebut 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 isthe best grund in Scotland. It's a' sand, and they tell me that yercorp will keep for years in that grund. "

Dauvit laughed, but the others seemed to take Jake's preservationargument seriously. 

"Jake, " said Dauvit, "does it no strike ye that to be buried in yernative place is a disgrace?"

"Hoo that, na?" said Jake. 

"Because the man that bides in the place he was born in is of naeimportance. A' the best men leave their native village, aye, and theirnative country. Aye, lads, the best men and the worst women leavetheir native country. "

"I sincerely trust that you are not insinuating that they leavetogether, Dauvit, " I put in hastily. 

"No, they dinna do that, dominie; but whether they meet in London Idinna ken, " and he smiled wickedly. 

Jake spat in the grate. 

"I dinna see what the attraction o' London is, " he said with a touch ofcontempt. 

"It is rather difficult to describe, " I said. "For one thing you feelthat you are in the centre of things. You are in the midst of all thebest plays and concerts and processions . . . And you never think ofgoing to see them. Then all the important people are there, the Kingand Lloyd George and Bernard Shaw . . . But you never see themanywhere. Then there are the places of historic interest, the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's . . . And you don't know where they areuntil your cousins come up for a week's trip, and then you ask apoliceman where the Tower is. And the strange thing is that you get tolove London. "

"There will be a fell puckle funerals I daresay, " said the undertaker. 

"To tell the truth, " I answered, "I have never seen a funeral inLondon. In the suburbs, yes, but never in the centre of the West End. I've often seen them at the crematorium in Golders Green. "

The undertaker frowned. 

"That crematin' business shud be abolished by act o' Parliament, " hesaid gruffly. "It's just a waste o' guid wood and coal. They tell meit taks twa ton o' coal ilka time. "

I was surprised to find that the broad-minded Dauvit agreed with theundertaker in condemning cremation. I suspect that early training hassomething to do with it, and there may be an unconscious connecting ofcremation with hell-fire. Dauvit's argument that cremation woulddestroy the evidence in poisoning cases was a pure rationalisation. 

I wondered why the topic of funerals kept coming up, and I laughinglyput the matter to Dauvit. 

"Maybe it's because we're sad because ye're gaein' awa, " he saidhalf-seriously. "We'll miss yer crack at nichts. "

At last I got up to go. 

"Aweel, Dauvit, I'll be going, " I said. 

"Aweel, so long, " said Dauvit without looking up. The others said"Guidnicht" or "So Long, " and I went out. I was sorry to leave thesegood friends, and they were sorry to lose me; yet we parted, it may be, for years, just as if we were to see each other to-morrow. We are aqueer race. 

XI. 

When I arrived in London to-night I received a blow. A letter awaitedme saying that the landlord of the school I was taking over had decidedto sell the property. Thus all my dreams of a free school vanished insmoke. There isn't a house to rent in London; thousands are for sale, but I have no money to buy. If I had money I should hesitate to buy, for if a school is a success it expands, and the ideal thing to do isto take it out to the country where there is fresh air and space togrow. 

To-night I feel pessimistic; it is difficult to be an optimist when along-planned scheme suddenly falls to pieces. 

I think of my capitalist friend Lindsay. He could buy me a schoolto-morrow, and never miss the money, but I don't think I should acceptit. He would always have a big say in the running of it, and hisideals are not mine. I know other people with money, but I fancy thatthey have no faith in me. That is one of the disadvantages of writinglight books like _A Dominie's Log_. The adult reads it and says:"Funny chap this!" But people have little faith in funny chaps. Youcan be a funny chap if you are a magistrate or a cabinet minister, buta teacher must be a staid dignified person. He must be a man who byhis serious demeanour will impress the children and lead them out ofthe morass of original sin in which they were born. Montessori iscatching on in the educational world not entirely because of herexcellent system; part of her success is due to the fact that she nevermakes a joke; she is always the dignified moral model teacher. 

Poor Montessori! Here I am transferring my irritation at the landlordwho sold my school to her. I beg her pardon. Nor am I really annoyedwith the landlord; the person I am annoyed with is myself. I bungledthat school business. 

Now I feel better. When I am irritated I always think of the travellerfrom St. Andrews. He arrived at Leuchars Junction and had five minutesto wait for the Edinburgh train. He entered the bar and had a drink. He had a second drink, and then awoke to the fact that he had missedthe train. The next train was due in two hours. The barmaid shut thebar between trains and the traveller went out on the platform. It wasa cold rainy November night. He went to the waiting room, but therewas no fire there. 

"Anyway, " he said, "I'll have a smoke, " and he filled his pipe. Thenhe found that he had but one match left. He struck it, and it wentout. He went out to the platform and found an old porter screwing downthe lamps. The porter knelt down to tie his lace and the travellerapproached him. 

"Could you oblige me with a match?"

The old porter eyed him dispassionately. 

"I dinna smoke. I dinna believe in smokin'. I dinna hae a match. "

The traveller walked wearily forward to an automatic machine andinserted his last penny . . . And drew out a bar of butterscotch. Hetossed it over the line, and then he threw his pipe after it. Hewalked along the platform, and then he came back. The old porter wasagain tying his lace. The traveller suddenly rushed at him and kickedhim as hard as he could. 

"What did ye do that for?" demanded the poor old man when he pickedhimself up. 

The traveller turned away in disgust. 

"Och, to hell wi' you; ye're ay tying your lace!" he said. 

Lots of people cannot see the joke in this yarn, and I challenge anyoneto explain the point. 

 * * * * *

Good fortune came to rescue me from sorrowing over my lost school. Itsent me to Holland thuswise: about five hundred Famine Area childrenwere coming from Vienna to England, and I was invited to become one ofthe escort. Then it struck me that I might go over earlier and have alook at the Dutch schools. I hastened to get a few passportphotographs; I looked at them . . . And then I thought I shouldn't riskgoing. However, on second thoughts, I decided to risk it, and went tothe passport office. There a gentleman with a big cigar looked at thephotograph; then he looked at me. 

"The face of a criminal, " his eyes seemed to say as he studied thephoto. 

"Isn't it like me?" I asked in alarm. 

"Quite a good likeness, " he said brusquely, and passed me on to thenext pigeon-hole. 

At last I landed in Flushing, and a kind guard found me a carriage. There I began to learn the Dutch language. "Niet rooken. " Scots_reek_ means _smoke_: hurrah! "do not smoke!"

"Verbodden te spuwen. " "It is forbidden to----" no, that wouldn't benice! Got it! "Do not spit!"

At this juncture a pretty Scheveningen lassie entered and greeted me. Alas! I knew but five words of Dutch, and when I thought the matterover I concluded that they were not very appropriate for carrying on amild flirtation. Still, it's wonderful how much you can do with facialexpression. Just before the train started a man entered. He knewEnglish, and with more kindness than knowledge of humanity he offeredto act as interpreter. The ass! as if a fellow can tell a girl throughan interpreter that her hair is just the shade he admires. This fisherlassie was the only pretty girl I saw in Holland in ten days. 

Rotterdam. My first and abiding impression was that never before had Iseen so many badly-dressed people. If I had money and a profiteeringcomplex I should set up a Bond Street shop in the centre of Rotterdam. No, that's wrong; that wasn't my first impression at all: my firstimpression was of a window filled with cigars at six cents each--oneand a fifth pence. From that moment I loved Holland and the Dutch. What did it matter if their clothes were badly cut? What did anythingmatter? I dived into that shop and bought twenty . . . And ten yardsfarther on discovered a shop with fatter and longer cigars at fivecents each. Three days later in the Hague I walked round the cigarshops for two hours, dying for a smoke, but not daring to buy a cigarat five cents lest in the next street I should find a shop offeringthem at four cents. 

It was in Rotterdam that I discovered how bad my manners were. I wassitting in a cafe when a gentleman entered. He swept off his hat andbowed graciously . . . And I hastily put a protecting hand on thepocket containing my pocket-book. But every man who entered greeted mein the same way, and I realised that I was in a polite country. By theend of the week I was beating the Dutch at their own game, for I sweptoff my hat to every policeman, shopkeeper, tramwayman I spoke to. 

On a Monday morning I walked forth to inspect the Dutch schools. I sawa troop of little girls following a mistress, and I joined theprocession. They turned into a playground, and I followed. Iapproached the lady. 

"Do you speak English?"

"Engelish! Ja!" she said with a smile. 

"I am an English--no, Scots teacher, " I explained, "and I should liketo see the school. "

"I will ask the head-mistress, " she said, and entered the school, whileI stood and admired the bonny white dresses of the girls. 

She returned shaking her head. 

"The head-mistress says that it is not allowed to visit a school inHolland without a permit from the Mansion House. "

"A rotten country!" I growled, and went away. 

In the street I ran into a group of boys led by a master who wassmoking a fat cigar. 

"Speak English?" I asked, lifting my hat gracefully. 

"Nichtenrichtilbricht, " he said; at least that's how it sounded. 

"Thank you, " I said, lifted my hat again, and fell in behind the boys. I was determined to see this thing through. 

I tackled him again when we reached the playground. 

"I the head would see, " I began, "the ober-johnny, the chef. "

"Ja!" he exclaimed with an enlightened grin, and nodded. In tenseconds the chief stood before me. He could speak a broken English, and said he would be glad to show me round. It was a third classschool, and I gathered that in Holland there are three grades of Stateschool; the first class is attended by the rich, the second by themiddle class, and the third by the poor. 

The school was very like a Board School in England. The children satin the familiar desks and were spoon-fed by the familiar teacher. There was nothing new about it. I noticed that hand writing seemed tobe the most important thing, and each class teacher proudly showed meexercise books filled with beautiful copper-plate writing. Mostobliging class teachers they were. Would I like to hear some singing?It was wonderful singing in three parts; what surprised me was that theboys seemed to be just as keen on singing as the girls. I have alwaysfound it otherwise in Scotland and England. 

In this school I got the gratifying news that corporal punishment isnot allowed in Dutch schools, and later I learned that this applies toall reformatories also. 

I think the Dutch are fond of children. Children seem to beeverywhere. I went to the police-station to register as an alien, andas the inspector was examining my passport this wee girl of threetoddled in and climbed on his knees. He laid down his pen and fondledthe child. Then his wife came in; she had been out shopping, andwanted him to admire the big potatoes she had bought. I was delightedto see the human element mingle with the official. A country thatallows wives and children to mix up with its red-tape is on the rightroad to health if not wealth. 

I went to the Hague next day, and English friends met me at the stationand piloted me to their home. Next morning I visited an establishmentcalled the Observatiehuis, and found that the superintendent had spentsix years in England and had an English wife. The observation house, he explained, is a home for bad boys. When convicted they are sentthere and are "observed. " If a boy is well-behaved he is sent to livewith a family and learn a trade; if he is incorrigible he is sent to areformatory. 

I looked in vain for the new psychological way of treating delinquents. There was discipline here, but it was kindly discipline, for Mr. Engelsis a kindly man; the boys sang as they swept the stairs. That wasgood, yet, it was Mr. Engels that brought freedom into the school; hissuccessor may be a bully. 

From Mr. Engels I got a letter of introduction to a real reformatory inAmersfoort, and off I set. Amersfoort is inland and I expected to findmuch language difficulty there, for I thought it unlikely that Englishwould be spoken so far inland. 

Amersfoort is a beautiful old town, and I at once set out to find theCoppleport mentioned in my guide-book. I suppose I looked a lost soul. A youth of eighteen jumped off his cycle and lifted his cap. Then hepointed to a badge he wore in his coat. 

"Boy scout!" he said. 

"Excellent!" I cried, "you speak English?"

He held out his hand. 

"Good bye!" he said; "pleased you to meet!"

"How do you do?" I said. 

He grinned. 

"God damn!" he said sweetly. 

After that conversation seemed to die down. I managed to convey to himthat I was looking for the Coppleport, and he led me to it. Graduallyhis English improved, and he told me of his brother in England. A nicelad. I told him that I had once had a long conversation with the greatB. P. , but he looked blank. 

"Baden Powell, your chief, " I explained. 

He shook his head; he had never heard of B. P. I think now that whatwas wrong was that he did not understand the name as I pronounced it;possibly he knows B. P. Under the sound of Bahah Povell or somethingsimilar. 

On the following morning I went to the reformatory. It was a beautifulbuilding fitted with every appliance necessary . . . And one notnecessary--a solitary confinement room. A young teacher, Mr. Conijn, avery decent chap, who could speak excellent English, showed me round. Every door we came to had to be opened with a key and locked behind us. Here there was more of military discipline than in the Observatiehuis, but none of the boys looked sulky or unhappy. The relations of theboys and the teachers were fine; as Conijn passed a lad he would pullhis hair or pass a funny remark, and the boy would grin and reply. 

"Any self-government?" I asked. 

"We tried it but it was no good. It may work with English boys but notwith Dutch, " said Mr. Conijn. 

"Did you have locked doors?" I asked. 

"Oh, yes. "

"Then self-government hadn't the ghost of a chance to succeed, " Iremarked. 

We entered a class where an old man of about eighty was teaching agroup. 

"Why do these lads keep their eyes on the ground?" I asked. "Is theirspirit crushed out of them?"

Conijn laughed. 

"They are admiring your boots!" he cried. 

I wore a pair of ski-ing boots on my trip, and all Holland staredopen-mouthed at them. If I had been wanted for a murder I don't thinkanyone in Holland could have identified me, for their eyes never gotabove my boots. 

One of the masters, Mr. Van Something-or-other, very trustingly lent mehis bike, and on the following day I cycled to Laren to see theHumanitarian School there. Nearly every road has a cycle path on oneside and a riding path on the other, but in spite of the excellentroads I did not enjoy cycling in Holland; a free wheel was of littlevalue on the flat surface. One delightful feature about cycling inHolland is that there are no mid-day closing times for pubs, but on theother hand you cannot raise much of a thirst in a flat country. 

Well, I reached Laren after many narrow escapes, for I was continuallyforgetting that you keep to the right in Holland. A postman camealong, and I jumped off. 

"Humanitaire School?" I asked as I doffed my hat. 

By his expression I judged that he did not know the institution underthat name. 

"School, " I said, and he nodded and pointed to the village State school. 

"Nay! School Humanitaire!" I persisted. 

At this juncture another man came forward, and the two of them jawedaway gutturally for some time. I began to grow weary. 

"Hell!" I murmured to myself half aloud. 

The postman brightened, and enlightenment came to him. 

"Engelissman!" he exclaimed. 

"Liar!" I cried, "I'm a Scot, " and I left the two of them discussingEngelissmen. 

After much trouble and many bitter words I found the school. Agentleman who looked extremely like Bernard Shaw before Shaw's hairturned grey, was digging in a garden with a lot of boys and girls. Hewas Mr. Elbrink, the head-master. He could speak English and he showedme round. 

The school is rather like what is known as the crank school in England. In a manner it is the super-crank school, for everyone on the staff isteetotal, vegetarian, and a non-smoker. Here it was that I heard ofLightheart for the first time, and I blushed for my ignorance of thegentleman. It appears that he was a great educational reformer, a sortof Froebel I fancied, for handwork seemed to be the main considerationin the school. But I regret to say that the school did not impress memuch. Too many children were doing the same sort of work; they sat indesks and held themselves more or less rigid. Here was benevolentauthority again, not true freedom. All schools in Holland are Stateschools, and the Humanitarian School is one of them. It is almostimpossible for a State school to be very much advanced; I think it isimpossible, for the State is the national crowd, and a large crowd haslittle use for the crank. 

I returned to Amersfoort, where by this time I had become the guest ofthe International School of Philosophy. This is a building standing inabout twenty acres of ground amid the pine forests two miles south ofthe town. I was the sole guest, for the summer classes had notstarted. This school is the beginning of a great movement. Herestudents from every country will meet and discuss life and education. Mr. Reiman, the president, talked long and earnestly to me about thescheme, but I found myself challenging his insistence on spiritualeducation. 

The aim of the school is to develop the spiritual side of man, anexcellent aim . . . So long as man does not imagine that by living onthe higher plane he is annihilating his earthly self. Everyone therewas very, very kind to me, but I did not feel quite in my element, forI am not an obviously spiritual person. I find that I can discuss thehigher life best when I have a glass of Pilsener at my elbow and apenny cigar in my mouth. It is clear that I have a complex about thehigher life, and it may be a sour-grapes complex. All the same Ishould like to attend a summer course at Amersfoort and listen to thewise men dilate on the Bhagavadgita, Psycho-analysis and Religion, Plato, Sufism, and other subjects on the programme; anyway I would haveno prepossessions and prejudices in listening to Dr. G. R. S. Meads'course of lectures on The Mystical Philosophy and Gnosis of theTrismegistic Tractates. 

From Amersfoort I went to Amsterdam. 

"Umsterdum, dree klasse, returig, " I said to the ticket office girl. 

"Third class return?" she asked with a smile and gave me the ticket. 

I was indignant. 

It is the most humiliating thing in the world to ask a question inDutch and to be answered in English. In Rotterdam I had stopped aseafaring looking man and tried to ask him in Dutch what was the way tothe Hotel de France. He listened patiently while I struggled with thelanguage; then he spat on my boot. 

"Hotel de France?" he replied in broad Cockney, "damned if I know. "

On the way to Amsterdam I got into a carriage full of farmers and oneof them made a remark to me. I shook my head. 

"Engelissman?" he said. 

I nodded. 

Then those men began to talk about Engelissmen, and they talked andlaughed all the way to Amsterdam. Every now and then one of them wouldjerk his thumb in my direction. It was a trying journey. 

Arrived in Amsterdam I made for the Rijks Museum. At the door aseedy-looking man touched me on the arm. 

"Guide, sir?"

"No thank you. "

"Two hundred rooms, sir! Official guide. "

"No thank you. "

He kept pace with me, and in a weak moment I inquired his charge. Itwas three guilden (five shillings), and I saw at once that the dirtydog had won, for he took on an air of possession. 

"Righto, " I said resignedly, and he led me into the building. 

He began his tiresome patter. 

"Thees picture was painted in 1547; beautiful ees eet not? Wonderfularteest!"

I sighed. 

"Take me to the Rembrandts, " I said. 

I cannot describe this incident. I hated the beast because I had beenso weak as to accept his services. The beauty of Rembrandt and FranzHals was lost on me; all I could see was the dirty face of that guide. Rembrandt's _Night Watch_ made me forget the creature for a moment, butwhen he began to describe it I fled in horror. We finished up in themodern section, and as I looked at van Gogh and Cézanne and Whistler's_Effie Deans_ his squeaky voice kept up a running commentary. I rushedfrom the building after a ten minutes' tour, paid the worm his threeguilden . . . And then went back and enjoyed the gallery. But I nearlycommitted murder in the Rijks Museum that day. If ever I am hanged itwill be for murdering an official guide. This particular specimenspoiled my visit to Amsterdam. I could not get away from the thoughtof my weakness, and I fled the city. 

In the train going back to Amersfoort a genial Dutchman made a remarkto me. I resolved that I should pretend to be a fellow-countryman. 

"Ja!" I said, and the answer seemed to satisfy him. He went on to sayother things, and when his facial expression seemed to demand anaffirmative I said "Ja!"

After a time he frowned as he said a sentence. 

"Nay!" said I. 

That did it. He became white with anger, and swore at me all the wayto Amersfoort. He had a fine command of language, too, and I wasextremely sorry that I could not understand it. 

On the Saturday I set off on my return journey to Rotterdam, doing atour in American fashion of Leiden on the way. It was like going home, for I liked Rotterdam. I think it was the gay paint on the barges thatattracted me so much. 

On the Sunday morning the Austrian kiddies arrived, and my sight-seeingended. 

XII. 

The Austrian kiddies arrived at the Maas station on Sunday morning, andthe Dutch folk gave them a kindly welcome. The Rotterdam committee wasin charge, and I stood back because it was not my job. The kiddiescame tumbling out of the train with great relief, for they hadtravelled for two nights. All had heavy rucksacks, many of them thepacks of their dead fathers and brothers. 

My eye lit on little Hansi. She stood on the platform crying, and Iwent forward to comfort her. Alas! I knew less German than I didDutch, and I knew not what she said; but one of the Austrian escorttold me that she had been homesick all the way. There is, however, auniversal language that all children understand, and I took wee Hansiin my arms and cuddled her. The flow of tears stopped and she tookfrom a small basket slung to her neck a tiny naked doll. I includedPuppe in the cuddle, and Hansi smiled. A dear wee mite she was, veryvery thin, with great big eyes that were sunken. Her tears did notaffect me, but when she smiled I found myself weeping, and I had toblow my nose hard. 

The four hundred and fifty-eight children were bundled across the roadto a ship, which took them in two parts across the Maas to the largebuilding used by the Cunard Line for emigrants. Many of them thoughtthey were on the way to England, and ten minutes later I found a weechap gazing round in wonder on the land of England. 

"This aint England, anywye, " he said at last in evident disgust; "lookat them clogs! This is Holland. "

The boy was a Londoner resident in Vienna. There were about a dozenEnglish children in the party. Later I found one standing in front ofa group of Austrian boys. 

"Any one o' you, " he was shouting, "I'll box the whole gang o' you!"

This Cockney, his little brother, and their sister were the thorn inthe flesh of the escort. 

"Absolute terrors, " declared everyone, but I liked them. 

Many of the children were middle class, children of doctors, lawyers, architects, and so on; nice kiddies they were. The bigger girls couldspeak English, and I used them as interpreters. 

On the Monday morning the English escort took charge. The first taskwas medical inspection, and the two English doctors and four or fiveDutch doctors prepared for action. Our job was to marshal the kiddies, help them to take their shirts off, and then bundle them into theinspection room. It sounds easy, but it was a weary business. Youlooked down the list for No. 258, and you found a name. 

"Mitzi Dvoracek!" you called, and wondered whether a boy or a girlwould appear. There was no answer . . . And an hour later you found alittle girl who had lost her identity card, and you concluded that shewas Dvoracek, but she wasn't; her name was Leopoldine Czsthmkyghw, orsomething resembling that. 

I was greatly troubled by their questions. Following a method I hadused with indifferent effect while conversing with garrulous Dutchmenin railway carriages, I answered "Ja" and "Nay" alternately. Many ofthe children stared at me in wonder and I marvelled . . . Until Idiscovered that most of them had been asking me the way to thelavatory. After that I just pointed to a door in the wall when a boyasked me a question, and when one lad didn't seem to understand, I tookhim by the back of the neck and shoved him through the door. Then Ifound that he had been asking the time. 

I gave up replying to questions after that. 

The children had all been examined, and one lad stood alone; he had nocard and no one could place him. Then he confessed that he was astowaway who had been too old to join the batch, and had boarded thetrain quietly at Vienna. Mrs. Ensor, the secretary of the Famine AreaCommittee, proved herself a sport by declaring that she would take himto England. The good Dutch folk also rose to the occasion, and wentout and bought him a pair of short trousers. 

In the afternoon I sat down beside a few boys. And then I did a fatalthing. A boy dropped his pencil and I picked it up, threw it over thehouse . . . And then produced it from another lad's pocket. That didit. In two seconds I had a hundred children round me roaring at me. An Austrian lady explained that they were calling me a magician andasking for more. I blushingly told her to explain to them that it wasmy only trick. Sighs of disgust followed, and I was on the point oflosing my popularity when I hastily got the lady to explain to themthat I had a better talent . . . I could make anyone laugh merely bylooking at him. Fifty of them at once challenged me to begin, and Ihad a great time. One lad beat me, but then he had toothache, ablistered heel, and was homesick. 

After a time I asked them to sing to me, and they sang sweet folk songsof their home. They were delightful singers, and the boys sang aseagerly and as well as the girls. In England boys usually hatesinging. I marvelled at their all knowing the same songs, and one ofthe girls explained to me that in Austria every school has the samesongs; more than that, every school has the same class-books, and iftwo children living a hundred miles apart meet on the street they cansay to each other: "I'm at page 67 of my Geography. What page are youat?"

They demanded a song from me, and I sang _Now is the Month of Maying_, and, by special request, _Tipperary_. Then I asked them to sing theirNational Anthem, and the lady began it, but the children did not followher. At my look of surprise the lady said: "They cannot sing itbecause now they feel that they have no Austria left to sing about. "

A man's voice sounded from inside the building, and they rushedindoors, for it was the voice of their beloved Ministry of Healthdoctor, who had brought them from Vienna, and they all loved him. Theyforgot me at once and left me . . . All but one. Little Hansi put herwee hand in mine and snuggled closer . . . And that's why I love her sovery much. 

On Tuesday morning they all took up their packs, and we set off forEngland via the Maas boat and station. We packed into carriages andset off. There was no water on the train, but we laughed and said:"We'll be in Flushing in two hours! We are a special!" We were. Weleft the Maas station at one o'clock, and we travelled until three. Then we drew up . . . And found we were back at the Maas station. Where we had been I don't know, but it was the biggest mystery of mylife. Well, we crawled along past picturesque villages where womenwith white caps and red arms smiled on us and gave us water to drink. And at eight o'clock we reached Flushing all very weary and extremelydirty. The kiddies had a good meal set out on white tablecloths, andthe doctor and I had the best Pilsener of our lives. We handed overthe kiddies to the ship stewards and the fresh escort from England, andretired to rest. 

I awoke at six and found that all the children were on deck, and thebad English boy almost in the water, for his heels were off the groundand his head far down towards the water. He was looking for fish, hesaid. None of the children had seen the sea before, but I think theywere too tired to be excited about it. They did become excited whenthey saw the cliffs of Dover. 

Much to my annoyance a gentleman had been teaching them _God Save theKing_ on the way over. I was annoyed because I knew it was a piece ofjingoism meant for the journalists at Folkestone. When we drew up atthe pier, sure enough the gentleman struck up the tune, and the kiddiessang it. But the girls who could speak English sang _God Save YOURGracious King_. I thought it a beautiful touch; the finest piece ofgood taste I have ever come across. 

I didn't like the well-dressed ladies who came bossing around atFolkestone. Frankly I was jealous. As I was leading the children offthe steamer, one of them touched me on the arm and asked me to make wayfor the children. And I smiled to see that the women in rich dressesmanaged somehow to get in front of the camera. 

We took the children to Sandwich by rail and then to a camp by motorlorry. It was a tiresome job loading and unloading the lorry, butafter six trips I found that every child was in camp. I went off tohave a wash and some tea, and then, glowing with self-satisfaction atall I had done, I lit a cigar and walked outside. A gentleman passedme. 

"Are you a worker?" he demanded. 

"I--er--I suppose I am--in a way, " I said modestly. 

"Well, don't you think you might find something to do?" he asked. "There's plenty to do, you know. "

Then for the first time in my life I understood the old Mons Ribbon menwho used to annihilate the recruit with the terse phrase: "Afore youcame up!"

The pressmen passed by, a dozen of them with the stowaway in theirmidst. Presently they posed him and a dozen cameras snapped while acinema burred. And next day the papers told a romantic story; thestowaway had crept into the train at Vienna, and, foodless, had hiduntil he arrived in Rotterdam. Then darkly he had crept on board theship and had been discovered at Folkestone. Also when next day I sawin the pictorial papers a photograph of a boy violinist playing to hischums, I was not very much surprised to find the title of the photowas: _The Stowaway Entertains His Companions_. As a matter of fact, the fiddler wasn't the stowaway at all, but this incident makes methink hard about history. If a Fleet Street reporter changes one boyinto another, why, we may be all wrong in our history. Henry VIII. Mayonly have had one wife, and the reporter who interviewed him may havehad so much sack to drink that his vision along with the journalistictouch may have manufactured the other five. The tale of King Haroldbeing shot through the eye at the Battle of Hastings may have arisenfrom a reporter's using the figurative expression that William theConqueror "put his eye out. " Nor, after reading the account of thelanding of the Austrian children, can I believe the tale of theminstrel Taillifer who sprang into the water to lead the Normans inlanding. And as for the time-honoured phrases, "Take away thatbauble!" and "England expects every man to do his duty, " I don'tbelieve they were ever uttered--not now. 

I am not singling out journalists as special misreporters. Not one ofus can report an incident truly. There is a good example of this truthin Swift's _Psychology and Everyday Life_, just published. Swiftprepared a stunt as a test for his adult class. In the midst of aserious lecture two men and two women students created a disturbanceoutside in the lobby, then they burst into the room. One held a bananapistol-wise at another's head. Swift dropped a toy bomb, and one ofthe students staggered back crying: "I'm shot!"

One student dropped a parcel containing a brick, and all yelled andmade much noise. The class was seriously alarmed until they wereassured that the whole affair was a put-up job. Each student was askedto write an account of what had happened, and the result of theirattempts is so astounding that the reader becomes uncertain whether anywitness in a law-court ever tells the truth. Few, if any, studentscould identify one of the wranglers; every account said that the bananawas a real pistol; only one or two saw the brick drop. The strangestthing was that many were quite sure of the identity of the actors . . . And one or two of the accounts named students who had long since leftthe college. I write from memory, but the facts were as arresting asthe ones I have given. 

This makes one uneasy about the methods the police adopt to identify aprisoner. If I saw a man shoot another in Piccadilly, it is a thousandto one chance that I should not be able to identify him later. Yetmany a man has been hanged on identification. 

But I meant to finish my account of the Austrian kiddies. The timecame when I had to leave them and return to London. I set out to findmy Hansi to say good-bye to her. I saw her in the distance . . . Andthen I ran away, for I hate saying good-bye. 

I liked those kiddies, dear wee souls, just as sweet as any Englishkiddies, but then children have no nationality; they are lovable forthey all belong to the Never Never Land. Barrie proved himself agenius when he created Peter Pan, for Peter symbolises man's highestwish--to become a little child and never grow up. "Genius, " he says, "is the power of being a boy again at will. " It is true in his case. Yet this kind of genius is retrospective; it is a regression. Thegenius who will help man to look forward instead of backward must notreturn to boyhood; he must go forward to superman. To put itpsychologically, Barrie's genius comes from the unconscious, but whatthe world needs is a man whose genius will come from thesuperconscious, the divine. 

XIII. 

I have just been reading Jack London's _Michael, Brother of Jerry_, andI am full of righteous rage. What a picture! It is the story of howperforming animals are trained, and before I had read half the book Imade a vow that never again will I sit through a performance of animals. 

The tale of Ben Bolt the tiger, if known by the masses, would killevery animal turn on the stage. Ben Bolt, fresh from the jungle, isbroken by the trainers. The method is unspeakable; he is lashed withiron bars and stabbed with forks until in agony he falls senseless inthe arena. This treatment goes on for weeks . . . And in the end manygood, kindly people see Ben Bolt, a miserable, broken animal, sit up ina chair like a human. And they laugh. My God!

Then there is Barney the good-natured mule that was once a family pet. Later he becomes the celebrated bucking mule, and a prize is offered toanyone who will keep on his back for one minute. Audiences go intofits of laughter at his antics. But the audiences do not know thatBarney was trained with a spiked saddle, and that for months life wasone long agony of pain. 

Is my anger due to the cruelty I am repressing in myself? I don't carewhether it is sadism or the spark of the divine in me. All I careabout is that this inferno of pain must cease. 

Never has any book affected me as this one has done. By word of mouthand by my pen I shall try my hardest to send dear old Jack London'smessage round the world. Public opinion is the only thing that canstop the misery of these broken creatures, and I suggest that theanti-vivisectionists turn their energies to this infinitely worse evil. The vivisectionists, at any rate, are working for humanity, but thebrutes who break performing animals are merely amusing crowds of goodpeople who know nothing about what goes on behind the scenes. 

 * * * * *

I see in the newspaper that Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks held upthe traffic in Piccadilly. They appeared on a balcony at the Ritz, andthe crowd went frantic. The super-hero and the super-heroine of thecinema drew the crowd's emotion to them, and Tagore the Indian poetarrived in town at the same time unnoticed. It would seem that thecrowd responds to the presence of the unimportant person only. Londonwent mad over Hawker and Jack Johnson, and Georges Carpentier; and ifCharlie Chaplin were to come over, I fancy London would take a generalholiday. 

No one will contend that these people are of supreme importance in thescheme of life. Charlie is a funny little man; Douglas Fairbanks is afine lump of a fellow; Mary Pickford is a sweet little woman. ButTagore will live longer; Thomas Hardy, Bernard Shaw, Bertrand Russell, Sigmund Freud are of greater moment to humanity, yet each could walkout of Paddington Station and be unrecognised by the crowd. 

The morning paper shows well that the crowd is interested only inunessentials. "Punish the profiteers!" was the press cry a few monthsago. Well, they punished the profiteers . . . And prices continued torise. A few years ago the cry was: "Flog the white slave traffickers!"They flogged them, and yet I still see thousands of white slaves in theWest End of London. And while Europe is sinking into anarchy andbankruptcy to-day, the only remedies the crowd representatives--thepress--can think of are remedies of the Hang-the-Kaiser type. Ibelieve that the crowd still thinks that juvenile crime is mainlycaused by cinema five-part dramas. 

The crowd is rather like the individual unconscious; it is primitive, and like the unconscious it can only wish. The crowd that welcomedMary and Douglas was closely akin to the personal unconscious. Douglasstands to each individual in the crowd as the eternal hero, the man whoalways wins. Each man in the crowd sees in Douglas his own ideal self, so that when the office boy cheers Douglas he is cheering himself. Mary has been well named "the world's sweet-heart"; she is the idealheroine, beautiful, wronged, protected by six foot of masculinity. Both come from the world of make-believe, the world of phantasy. Theirarrival in England simply made a dream come true. 

Now I am certain that if any individual in the great Piccadilly crowdhad met Douglas and Mary on the boat, he or she would have looked atthem with interest, but there would have been no cheering and throwingof roses. What the crowd does is to raise an emotion to a superlativedegree. In a full hall you will laugh at a joke that would not bring asmile to your face in a room. You become absorbed in your crowd, andyou are fully open to your crowd's suggestion. I generally laugh atCharlie Chaplin, but one night a cinema manager, a friend of mine, gaveme a private view of Charlie's latest production. I sat alone in thelarge cinema palace . . . And I couldn't even smile. Had a crowd beenthere to share my laugh, I should have roared. 

The Douglas-Mary episode makes me pessimistic about the future ofdemocracy. For democracy is crowd rule, and the crowd is a baby whenit isn't a savage. Yet we have no real democracy in this country. Wehave a slave state, the exploiters and the exploited, the "haves" andthe "have nots. " Douglas and Mary came over, and the poorbeauty-starved populace forgot for the moment its poverty, and showeredall its pent-up emotion on the people from picture-book land. 

In Elizabethan times the world was a place of wonder; every mariner wascoming home with wondrous tales of Spanish gold and men with necks likebulls. All you had to do to find a reality that was more wonderfulthan fancy was to sail away across the sea. But to-day the world holdsno mystery; there are no pirates to overcome, no prisoned maidens torescue. Reality means toil and taxes and trouble. But there is a landwhere men are dew-lapped like bulls . . . The land of phantasy. Thereis a society where the villain always gets his deserts . . . The landof film pictures. And when your hero and heroine walk out of thepicture and become real flesh and blood, what are you to do? Afterall, you cannot pour all your emotion into your looms and office-desksand counters. Sweet-faced Mary does not know it, but she is one of thebest allies that our capitalist system could have; for if the crowdwere not showering its emotion on her it might well be using it up inthe smashing of all the ugly things in our civilisation. 

 * * * * *

I have been thinking of the crowd in another aspect. Last year in amerry mood I sat down to write a novel. I meant it to be a comedy, but, having no control over the characters, I found that they insistedin making the story a farce. The result was _The Booming of Bunkie_. I thought it a very funny book, and I laughed at some of my own jokesand murmured, "Good!" I impatiently awaited the book's appearance, andwhen the day of publication came I sat down hopefully to await thepress notices. The first one to come in was lukewarm. 

"Why do papers send a funny book to an old fossil of a reviewer with nosense of humour?" I said, testily and waited for the next post. Well, it came; it brought three adverse notices and a letter. 

"Dear Dominie, I admired your _Log_, but why, oh why, did youperpetrate such a monstrosity as _The Booming of Bunkie_?"

Then a friend wrote me a letter. 

"Dear old chap, --You are suffering from the effects of the war. If thewar has induced you to write _Bunkie_, I am all for hanging the Kaiser. "

For weeks I clung to the belief that the crowd had no sense ofhumour . . . Then I re-read my novel. I still hold that it is funny inparts, but I see what is wrong. It is a specialised type of humour, orrather wit, the type that undergraduates might appreciate. In fact Iwas recently gratified to hear that the students of a Scots universitywere rhapsodising about it. The real fault of the book is that it isclever, and to be clever is to be at once suspect. 

I naturally like to think that the circulation of a book is generallyin inverse proportion to its intrinsic merit. J. D. Beresford's novelsare, to me, much better than those of the late Charles Garvice, yet Imake a guess that Garvice's circulation was many times greater thanBeresford's. Still I cannot argue that the reverse is true--thatbecause a book does not go into its second edition it is necessarilygood. I find that the problem of circulations is a difficult one. Icannot, for instance, understand why _The Young Visitors_ sold inthousands; I failed to raise a smile at it. Again, there is my friendalthough publisher, Herbert Jenkins. I didn't think _Bindle_ funny, yet it has been translated into umpteen European languages. Jenkinshimself does not think it funny, and that, possibly, is why he is myfriend. 

The most surprising success to me was Ian Hay's _The First HundredThousand_. I read Pat MacGill's _Red Horizon_ about the same time, andthought Hay was stilted and superior with a public-school man'spatronising Punch-like attitude to the working-class recruits. Ithought that he didn't know what he was writing about, that he had notreached the souls of the men. MacGill, on the other hand, gave me theimpression of a warm, passionate, intense knowledge of men; he wrote asone who lived with ordinary men and knew them through and through. YetI fancy that _The Red Horizon_, popular as it was, did not have thesales of _The First Hundred Thousand_. 

I was lunching with Professor John Adams one day in London. We got onto the subject of circulations, and he said that he had just beenasking the biggest bookseller in London what novel sold best. 

"Have a guess, " said the Professor to me. 

"_David Copperfield_, " I said promptly. 

He laughed. 

"Not bad!" he said, "you've got the author right, but the book is _ATale of Two Cities_. "

He then asked me to guess what two authors sold best among the troopsat the front during the war. 

"Charles Garvice and Nat Gould, " I said, and the Professor thought me awonderful fellow, for I had guessed aright. 

There is a whiskered Ford story which tells that Mr. Ford took a newcar from his factory and invited a visitor to have a spin. Theystarted off, and went seven miles out. Then the car stopped. Fordjumped out and lifted the bonnet. 

"Good Lord!" he cried, "the engine hasn't been put in! The car musthave run seven miles on its reputation!"

I think that books run many miles on reputation alone. Like a snowballthe farther a circulation rolls the more it gathers to itself. Butwhat is it that makes a book popular? The best press notices in theworld will not send the circulation of a book up to a hundred thousandlevel. What sells a book is talk. Scores of people said to me: "Oh, _have_ you read _The Young Visitors_?" I hasten to add, as a Scot, that I personally did not help to increase the circulation; I borrowedthe book from an enthusiast. Talk sells a book, but we have todiscover why people talk about _The Young Visitors_ and notabout--er--_The Booming of Bunkie_. The book that is to sell well mustbe able to touch a chord in the crowd heart, and _The Young Visitors_sold because it touched the infantile chord in the crowd heart; itbrought back the happiest days of life, the schooldays: again, itsnaïve Malapropisms appealed to the crowd, because we are all glad tolaugh at the social and grammatical errors we have made andconveniently forgotten about. 

_Bunkie_ did not reach the hundred thousand level because it was tooclever; it was a purely intellectual essay in wit rather than humour. And the crowd distrusts wit, and that is why the witty plays of OscarWilde are seldom produced, while _Charley's Aunt_ goes on for ever. 

I am tempted to go on to a comparison of wit with humour, but I shallonly remark that wit is an intellectual thing, whereas humour isemotional. Humour is elemental, but wit is cultural. Without alanguage you could have humour, but without language there could be nowit. 

 * * * * *

I have just come across a small book entitled _Hints on SchoolDiscipline_, by Ernest F. Row, B. Sc. 

"Boys will only respect a master whom they fear, " he says. I have beenpreaching this doctrine for years . . . That respect always has fearbehind it . . . And it pleases me to find that an exponent of the oldmethods should support my argument. 

When I began to read the book I was amazed. 

"Good Lord!" I cried, "this chap should have published his book in theyear 1820. He advocates a system that modern psychology has shown tobe fatal to the child. It is army discipline applied to schools. "

I found it hard to finish the book, but I read every word of it andthen I said to myself: "The majority is on the side of Row. Eton, Harrow, many elementary teachers would agree with him. He is evidentlyan honest sort of fellow, and he must be reckoned with. I must try tosee his point of view. "

And I think I see it. He accepts current education with its setsubjects, time-tables, order, morality, and he is trying to adapt theyoung teacher to what is established. Hence to maintain all thesethings, we must have stern discipline and swift punishment. But Iwonder if Row has thought of the other side of the question; I wonderif he has asked himself whether order and time-tables and obedience andrespect are really necessary. I should like to meet him and have achat; I think I should like him, and further, I think that I couldconvert him to the other way . . . If he is under forty. 

Ah! Horrid thought! Is it possible that Row is pulling our legs? No, he writes as an honest man. Perhaps he knows all about the modernmovement; perhaps he has studied Montessori, Freud, Jung, Homer Lane, Edmond Holmes, and found that they are all pathetically wrong. Mayhaphe has proved that the child _is_ a sinner. 

"The young teacher should never address a boy by his Christian name ornickname, " he says. 

Oh, surely he _is_ pulling our legs!

 * * * * *

At intervals during the past few years I have been puzzled when peoplecongratulated me on my village school in Lancashire. I had quite anumber of misunderstandings on the subject. Then one day I discoveredthat there was a village schoolmaster in Lancashire called E. F. O'Neill. I wrote him telling him that I was coming to see his school, and one July morning I alighted at one of the ugliest villages in theworld, and I walked past slag-heaps and all the horrors ofindustrialism to a red building on the outskirts. Three or four boyswere digging in the school garden. I walked into the school, and twoseconds after entering I said to myself: "E. F. O'Neill, you are agreat man!"

There were no desks, and I could see no teacher. Half-a-dozen childrenstood round a table weighing things and cutting things. 

"What's this?" I asked. 

"The shop, " said a girl, and after a little time I grasped the idea. You have paste-board coins, and you come to the shop and buy a pound ofbutter (plasticene), two pounds of sugar (sand), and a bottle ofYorkshire Relish (a brown mixture unrecognisable to me). You pay yoursovereign and the shop-keeper gives you the change, remarks on thelikelihood of the weather's keeping up and turns to the next customer. 

I walked on and found a boy writing. 

"Hullo, sonny, what are you on?"

"My novel, " he said, and showed me the beginning of chapter XII. 

A young man came forward, a slim youth with twinkling eyes. 

"E. F. O'Neill?"

"A. S. Neill?"

We shook hands, and then he began to talk. I wanted to tell him thathis school was a pure delight, but I couldn't get a word in edgeways. If anything, he was over-explanatory, but I pardoned him, for Irealised that the poor man's life must be spent in explaining himselfto unbelievers. I disliked his tacit classing of me with the infidel, and I indignantly took the side of the infidel and asked him questions. Then he gave me of his best. 

He is a great man. I don't think he has any theoretical knowledge, andI believe that anyone could trip him up over Freud or Jung, Montessorior Froebel, Dewey or Homer Lane; but the man seems to know it all byinstinct or intuition. To him creation is everything. I was halfafraid that he might have the typical crank's belief in imposing histaste on the pupils, and I mentioned my doubt. 

"No, " he said, "we have a gramophone with fox-trots, ragtimes, Beethoven and Melba, and the children nearly always choose the bestrecords. "

Love of beauty is a real thing in this school. The playground is fullof bonny corners with flowers and bushes. The school writing books arebound in artistic wallpaper by the children, and hand-made framesenclose reproductions of good pictures on the walls. 

I saw no corporate teaching, and I should have asked O'Neill if he hadany. If he hasn't I think he is wrong, for the other way--thelearn-by-doing individual way--starves the group spirit. Theclass-teaching system has many faults, and O'Neill seems to haveabolished spoon-feeding, but the class has one merit--it is a crowd. Each child measures himself against the others, not necessarily incompetition. Perhaps it is the psychological effect of having anaudience that I am trying to praise. Yes, that is it: theindividual-work way is like a rehearsal of a play to empty seats; theclass-way is like a performance before a crowded house. It is aprojection of one's ego outward. 

"This method, " said O'Neill, "may be out-of-date in a month. "

I think highly of him for these words alone. He has no fixed beliefsabout methods of study; he himself learns by doing, and to-morrow willbe cheerfully willing to scrap the method he is using to-day. If theideal teacher is the man who is always learning, then O'Neill comespretty near that ideal. I wish that every teacher in Britain could seehis school. 

The big problem for the heretical teacher is the problem of order, orrather of disorder. When a child is free from authority, he usuallyleaves his path untidy; he leaves his chisels on the bench or theground; he strews the floor with papers; he throws his books all overthe room. Now O'Neill's school was not untidy, and I marvelled. 

"Oh, the kiddies look after that, " he explained. "They have voluntaryworkers among themselves who do all that, and if a child does not dohis job, the others naturally complain: 'Why did you take it on if youaren't going to do it properly?'"

But somehow I am not convinced; I want to know more about thisbusiness. To find so highly developed a social sense in small childrenruns dead against all my experience. I must write to O'Neill forfurther information. 

 * * * * *

On re-reading the pages of this book I feel like throwing it on thefire. I find myself disagreeing with the statements I made a few weeksago. When I began to write it I was a more or less complete Freudian, and in an airy fashion I explained away my actions. Why should paleblue be my favourite colour? I asked myself this when I painted mycycle blue, and I found a ready answer in a reminiscence . . . My firstsweetheart wore a blue tam-o'-shanter. This is called the "nothingbut" psychology. Do I dream of a train? Quite simple! It is merely"nothing but" a sexual symbol!

Life is too complex for a "nothing but" psychology. Last night a girltold me a sexual dream she had had, but when she gave her associationswe found that the deep meaning of the dream had nothing to do with sex. Freud says that about every dream is the mark of the beast, but then Ithink he believes in original sin. 

I have been thinking a lot recently about the psychology of flogging. It is generally stated that the flogger is a sexual pervert, a Sadist, and undoubtedly there are pathological cases where men find sexualgratification in inflicting or in watching the infliction of pain. Inthe pathological case the gratification is conscious, but I believethat many respectable parents and teachers find an unconsciousgratification. It is absurd to say to a man like Macdonald: "Yourpunishing is 'nothing but' Sadism. " Yet I think that a little testmight decide the matter. If the accused flogger is shocked orindignant at the idea I should be inclined to think that the accusationwas a just one. 

If I say to Simpson: "Excuse my mentioning it, old man, but I don'tthink you love your wife, " he will laugh heartily, for he has beenmarried for a month only, and is still very much in love. His laughshows that his love is real; my rude remark touches no chord in hisunconscious. But suppose I make a similar remark to Smith, who hasbeen very much married for ten years! He will hit me in the eye, thereby betraying the fact that my remark touched what his unconsciousknows to be true. His blow is physically directed to me, butpsychically he is hitting to defend his conscious from his unconscious. 

Hence if a flogger is angry when I accuse him of being a Sadist, Iguess that he is a Sadist. 

I tried the experiment on Macdonald. He shook his head sadly. 

"Poor chap, " he said feelingly, "you're daft!"

"Right!" I said, "you aren't a Sadist, anyway, Mac. You must flogbecause it is your method of self-assertion. As I've told you manytimes, you strap kids because wielding a strap is your childish way ofshowing your power. "

Then Mac became angry, and when I hinted that my remarks must have hitthe bull's-eye . . . He laughed again. He is a baffling study inpsychology. 

"You don't know much about it, old chap, " he said genially. 

"Hardly anything at all, " I said with true modesty, "only I know onething about you, and that is that the fault always lies in yourself. When you flog Tom Murray, you are really chastising the Tom Murray inyourself . . . That is, the part that your wife knows so well--the partof you that leaves the new graip out in the rain all night, that rebelsagainst the authority of the School Board and the inspectorate. Tom isbeing crucified for your transgressions. "

Barrie, wizard as he is, failed to understand the full significance ofShakespeare's line: "The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, butin ourselves. "

 * * * * *

The opposite of the Sadist is the Masochist--the person who findssexual gratification in being beaten or bullied. When 'Arriet proudlyboasts about the black eye that 'Arry gave her on Saturday night, sheis being masochistic, and the woman who likes to be bullied by thestrong, silent man is likewise a masochist. I do not say "nothing but"a masochist, because she is also a Sadist, for Sadism and Masochism arecomplementary in the same person. 

It is an understood fact that many people find joy in suffering, and Ican recollect feeling something akin to joy when the dentist, beforethe days of the local anaesthetic, used to lay hold on my molars. 

Hence I look back to the day when I whacked Peter Smith for cruelty toa calf, and I acknowledge that I was wrong. I recall explaining to himthat I wanted him to realise what suffering meant, but I was completelymistaken. If Peter were a Sadist in his cruelty, my cruelty to him wasgiving unconscious gratification to the Masochistic part of him. Ifhis cruelty to the calf was due to his self-assertion again I did thewrong thing, for the fear evoked by my strap merely inhibited hisdesire to assert himself in cudgelling calves. I think now that therewas nothing to be done; his cruelty showed that his whole education hadbeen wrong. Had he been allowed to create all the way up from one weekold he would have applied his interest to making rabbit-hutches insteadof to beating calves. 

I remember a questioner at one of my lectures. I had been trying toelaborate the release theory, and had said that a boy should beencouraged to make a noise so that he will release all his interest innoise as power. 

"If a boy liked torturing cats, would you encourage him on the theorythat suppression by an adult would cause the child to retain hisinterest in torturing cats?"

"Certainly not, " I said, and the lady crowed. I do dislike questionersat any time, but when they crow . . . . ! However, I tried to hide themurder in my heart by smiling. 

"What would you do?" she asked sweetly. 

"I don't know, madam, " I said, "but I can make a rapid guess . . . Ivery probably would use the toe of my boot on him, thereby showing thatmy own interest in cruelty was still alive. But five minutes later Ishould try to discover what was at the back of the boy's mind. "

Not long ago I studied a small boy whose chief pleasure was in pullingbees' wings off. I never mentioned bees to him, but I got him to talkabout himself. He was suffering from a deep hatred of his teacher, andhe had a bad inferiority complex. He feared to play games likefootball and hockey because of his sense of inferiority. All that waswrong with him was that he was regressing. Life was too difficult forhim, and he took refuge in his infantile past; his pulling off wingswas the destructiveness of the infant. But the important thing toremember is that destructiveness is simply constructiveness gone wrong. The child is born good, and all his instincts are to do good. Badbehaviour is the result of thwarted desire to do good. This is shownin the case of Tommy on page 115. 

 * * * * *

At one time I was absolutely certain that the Great War was caused byeconomic factors; British and German capital were competing, and thelosing party took up the sword. I am not so certain now. It may bethat the cataclysm was a natural ebullition of human nature, and as acause the economic rivalry may have been just as insignificant as themurder of the Archduke. 

During the last few decades education has been almost whollyintellectual and material; intellectual education gave us the don, andmaterial education gave us the cotton-spinner. The emotional and thespiritual in mankind had no outlet. In the unconscious of man there isa God and a Devil, and intellectual activities afford no means ofexpression to either. And when any godlike or devilish libido can findno outlet it regresses to infantile primitive forms; thus, while thebrain of man was concerned with mathematics and logic, the heart of manwas seeking primitive things--cruelty, hate, and blood. 

It may be then that the war was the direct result of the world's badsystem of education. No boy will destroy property if he is free tocreate property, and no nation will take to killing if it is free to becreative. Intellectual education allows no freedom for the creativeimpulse; it not only starves the creative impulse but it drives it intorebellion. An outlet is always a door to purification. The old menwho sat at home hated the Hun because their libido was being bottledup, but the young men who were using up their libido in fighting talkedcheerfully of "Old Fritz. " The chained dog soon becomes savage, andthe chained libido reverts to savagery also. 

I have often said that the outrages of the German troops in Belgiumbecame understandable to me when I studied a Scots school wheresuppressive discipline turned good boys into demons. The brutality ofthe German army was a natural result of the brutality of theirdiscipline. So is it in the individual soul, and in the national soul. Intellectualism and materialism were the Prussian drill-sergeants whoenslaved the emotional life of the citizen and of the nation. War wasa means of releasing this pent-up emotion. 

The ultimate cure for war is the releasing of the beast in the heart ofmankind . . . Not the releasing after chaining him up, but thereleasing of the beast from the beginning. Personally I do not believethat he is a wild beast until we make him one by chaining him; he isprimitive and animal and amoral, but I believe that by kind treatmentwe can make him our ally in living a goodly life. The Devil is merelya chained God. 

The problem for man and for mankind is to reconcile the God and theDevil in himself. The saint represses the devil; the sinner repressesthe god. The atheist cries: "There is no God!" because he hasrepressed the God in himself. Then, again, many people project theirpersonal devil; the men who shouted "Hang the Kaiser!" weresubjectively crying "Hang the Devil in me!"

Who and what is this devil we carry in our hearts? We cannot tame himunless we can know him. The Freudians would say that he is theprimitive unconscious, the tree-dweller in us. But that explanation isnot enough for me. The tiger has no devil in him, and why should ourremote savage ancestors leave us a devil as legacy? Yet the tiger is adevil whenever man formulates a law against killing; the man-eaterbecomes bad because he is a danger to man, and because the tiger is badit is assumed that man is good. The ox that is slaughtered for ourdinners might well look upon man as its special objective devil. 

I have often argued that it is Authority that makes the beast inchildren a wild beast. That is true, but it does not go down to firstcauses. Why do adults exercise authority? To keep down the devil inthemselves, the beast that _their_ parents and teachers made wild byauthority. Truly a vicious circle! But the devil is the cause ofauthority in the beginning. 

Since there is no devil in the tiger and the ox, the animalism of mancannot be his devil. But man made his animalism a devil when he beganto have ideals. Then it was that he began to talk of crucifying theflesh; then it was that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. The devil in man is the negative of man's ego-ideal. The ethical selfsays that honesty is good, and dishonesty comes to be of the devil; itsays that love is good, and hate then becomes devilish. No ego-ideal, no devil. The ox has no ego-ideal; therefore it has no devil. Maninvented the devil to account for his failures. 

This brings me to the question: why should man want to have anego-ideal? Why should he praise self-sacrifice, love, charity, honesty, unselfishness, while he contemns hats, murder, cruelty, stealing, selfishness? It might be argued that he praises thoseattributes that make for the good of the herd, but I cannot take thisargument as final. Rather am I inclined to look for the answer in whatwe vaguely call the divine. I think that there is a power . . . Callit God or intuition or the superconscious or what-not . . . That drawsman toward higher things. This spark of the divine raises man abovethe beast of the field, but yesterday he was the beast of the field, and like the _nouveau riche_, he scorns his humble origins. 

I am forced to conclude that wars will not cease until man realisesthat his ego-ideal must be capable of being the working partner of hisprimitive animalism. When that time comes man will know that he isneither god nor devil, but . . . Mere man. 

 * * * * *

I am spending my days wandering round London suburbs looking for aschool. Of an evening I sit and think about how I shall furnish it. There will be no desks; instead there will be tables for writing anddrawing on, chairs of all descriptions--arm-chairs, deck-chairs, straight backed chairs, stools. The children will make the tables andstools, and we may make a combined effort to make and upholster anarm-chair. 

Then we must have at least one typewriter, not for office use, but forthe children's use. The children will use it to type their novels andpoems, and I think they would be tempted to type out poems from Keatsand Coleridge, binding their own anthologies in leather or colouredpaper. 

There will be no school readers and no school poetry books. I hopethat with the aid of the typewriter each child will make his ownselection of prose and poetry. 

The wall decorations will be left to the children, and if they bringbad, sentimental prints from the Christmas numbers I shall say nothingwhen they hang them up. But as an active member of the community, Ishall bring reproductions of the work of Rembrandt, Velasquez, Angelo, Augustus John, Cezanne, Nevinson; I shall buy _Colour_ every month. 

So with music. I shall sing _Eliza Jane_ with them if they want tosing _Eliza Jane_, but I shall bring to their notice _To Music_(Schumann), Blake's _Jerusalem_, and the bonny old English songs like_Golden Slumbers, Now is the Month of Maying, Polly Oliver_. Then agramophone is a necessity, and all kinds of records will benecessary--Beethoven, Stravinsky, Rimski-Korsikoff, Harry Lauder, FoxTrots, Sousa. O'Neill told me that his Lancashire kiddies have tiredof ragtime, and are now playing classical music only. Personally, Ihaven't reached that standard of taste yet; I still have Fox Trotmoods. I also want a player-piano--an Angelus, if possible. 

Now for the library. I shall leave the choice of periodicals to thecommunity, and I expect to find them select a list of thiskind:--_Scout, Boy's Own Paper, Girl's Own Paper, Popular Mechanics, MyMagazine, Punch, Chips, Comic Cuts, Tit-Bits, Answers, Strand, Sketch, Sphere_. It will be interesting to watch the career of _Chips_; I willnot be surprised if the community tires of _Chips_ in a month. 

Our book library will be stocked from the children's homes, I fancy. Each child will bring his or her favourite novel, and gladly hand itround. I shall certainly hand on my own fiction library:--Conan Doyle, Wells, Jack London, Rider Haggard, Cutcliffe Hyne, Guy Boothby, Barrie, O. Henry, Leacock, Jacobs, Leonard Merrick, Seton Merriman, StanleyWeyman, and a host of others. 

No, this won't do! How can I furnish before my self-governing schooldecides what furniture it will have? The children may demand desks andtime-tables, but I do not think it likely. Anyhow, I am counting mychickens before they are hatched. 

XIV. 

I finish this book in the place where I began it, in Forfarshire, butnot in Tarbonny Village. Hustling Herbert Jenkins sent me the galleyproofs this morning with an urgent demand that I should return them atonce. I do dislike publishers. At first I took them at their ownvaluation: I believed what they said. 

"Machines waiting, " Jenkins would wire. "Send MS. At once. "

And I, simple I, would sit up late correcting proofs. I know betternow. I know that Jenkins always divides time by 20. His "at once"means that twenty days hence he will say to his Secretary: "That newbook of Neill's . . . Has it gone to the printer yet?" And hisSecretary will 'phone down to the office secretary and say: "You've gotto send Neill's new book to the printer. " Then this lady will orderthe office-boy to take the MS. To the printer . . . And I bet thelittle devil reads _Deadwood Dick on the Boomerang Prairie_ as hecrawls to the printer's office with my masterpiece under his arm. 

Hence, understanding Jenkins, I tossed the proofs into a corner thismorning, and went out to continue the game of ring quoits that Nellieand I had to give up as darkness fell last night. Nellie is a Dundeelassie of thirteen and she is spending her holidays with her auntiehere. 

Nellie won, and we sat down on the bank and I began to ask her abouther school-life. 

"I dinna like the school, and I wish I was left, " she said. 

"Tell me why you dislike it, Nellie. "

"If ye speak ye get the strap. "

"What!" I cried, "are you _never_ allowed to speak?"

"Only at playtime, " she replied. "And ye never get less than sixscuds. "

And it was only the other day that a lady wrote me saying that when Ipreach against Prussianism in schools I am merely resuscitating a deadbogey for the purpose of knocking it down. 

I get quite a lot of information of schools from children. I rememberwhen I was in Lyme Regis last Easter I went out sketching one day. AsI passed a village school a troupe of happy children came out. Joy litup their faces. 

"The ideal school!" I cried, and stopped to speak to them. 

"Tell me, children, tell me why you have laughter in your eyes, " Isaid, "tell me of your happy school. "

The oldest boy grinned. 

"Master's gone off for the day to a funeral, " he said. 

I walked on deep in thought. 

Nellie dislikes school. What a tragedy. She is a dear sweet childwith kind eyes and a bonny smile. She spoke frankly to me at first butwhen I told her that I was a teacher she looked at me with fear and (Ismiled at this) dropped her Dundee dialect and answered me in SchoolEnglish. I had to throw plantain heads at her for a full five minutesbefore the look of fear left her eyes and her dialect returned. 

"I dinna believe ye _are_ a teacher, " she said to-night. 

"Why not?"

"Ye're no like ane, " she said hesitatingly. "Ye're ower--ower daft. "

"But why shouldn't a teacher be daft?" I asked. 

"They shud be respectable, " she said, "or the children winna respectthem. "

I looked alarmed. 

"What!" I cried, "don't you respect me?"

She laughed gaily. 

"No!" she cried, then she added seriously: "But I'd like to be at yourschule. "

She returns to Dundee to-morrow, to a class of fifty, where silencereigns. Poor Nellie! What worries me is that when Nellie's teacherreads this book she will most probably agree with Nellie's remark thatI'm "daft". But she won't mean what Nellie meant. 

A telegraph girl approached. 

"Machines are waiting. --Jenkins. "

Nellie looked anxious. 

"That's twa telegrams ye've got the day, " she said. "Is onybody deid?"

I looked at the words on the telegraph form. 

"No, Nellie, unfortunately no!" I said slowly, and I went in to read mygalley proofs. 

THE END.