Education Dramatized

‘GOING to school!’ What are the mental pictures conjured up by these words? Four walls, desks, cupboards, books (not the cupboards of home by any means, and perhaps a different class of books), blackboards, drawing-models, easels, museum, kindergarten materials — these comprise the skeleton, the bare bones of ‘school.’ Much has been done to emancipate the twentieth-century child from the ancient drudgery of learning, but still, to a great extent, ‘shades of the prisonhouse begin to close upon the growing boy’ when he is old enough to go to school. The desks are made and designed carefully for the express purpose of being sat in. The boy will have to learn to sit still when he longs for movement. Others will dictate to him as to when he ought to move about, and he will move in common with numbers of other children — by rule — by drill. The books, the blackboards and all the other articles of furniture will soon represent to him merely so many pieces of apparatus by means of which he will study, in common with others, uniform lessons; or, perchance, have thin films of information laid over his mind in order that it may be skimmed off again by questioners and examiners. For, although we hear a very great deal in these days about ‘self-expression’ in school, yet those ‘in authority over us’ still appear to require the self-expression served up in the same old dishes of method, accompanied by the flavoring of time-tables, notes, schemes, marks, reports, and examinations which seasoned the mental food of those who went before us. The consequence is that the so-called self-expression is not an expression of what the child really thinks and feels at all; to use our culinary figure again, it is really a kind of mental mock-turtle — an imitation and a sham.

Left to himself, what child would ever have invented a school or a system such as I have pictured? It was invented by grown-ups and is calculated to suit the requirements of adult students possessed of powers of self-repression, concentration, and voluntary attention, rather than the needs of children who by nature do not possess these powers. Enmeshed in such a system, the wise child, finding it does not ‘pay’ to be really original, obligingly forms the habit of thinking what he is expected to think, and he soon becomes quite an adept at finding out what is expected of him without being exactly told. Gradually he gives up the tiresome habit of thinking entirely for himself, which would leave him stranded far behind the other members of his class when it came to a display of results in the ‘skimming’ process to which I have already alluded.

The fact is, every one concerned, from the heads of educational bodies and universities, down to the youngest child in the kindergarten, is still, in spite of reforms, in bondage — slave to the tyranny of outward, visible, and immediate results.

But why, one may ask, is it so very necessary to strive after this self-expression? Is it the newest fad — the latest catch-word? It is necessary if we are really earnest in our desire that the child’s mind shall grow and develop equally with its body. School should be the place in which a child’s mind grows by being supplied with mental food and opportunities of exercise. But he must eat the food himself,and he alone can make the effort which constitutes exercise. In short, we desire that the child shall himself realize the forces that exist within him. If he is really doing this he must needs express himself. Nature has implanted in individuals unlimited capacity for mental growth which needs to be realized by the individual. Such growth is assuredly stunted, arrested, or even killed, if it has no outlet. So strong is the capacity, however, that, if forcibly repressed at its legitimate outlet toward the light, it will find for itself an illegitimate outlet, in another direction. Hence we generally find that healthyminded children will express themselves in what we term naughtiness, acts forbidden by their elders, rather than relinquish all realization of self. The child’s true self has to be reckoned with. It will out — it is one of the forces of nature, for good or ill. Now, if Nature provides certain forces governed by certain laws of her own, I take it that it is ‘good business,’ if nothing higher, to utilize them to the full. If we try to attain our ends by thwarting Nature, we certainly waste our energy. To harness Niagara Falls for our own useful purposes is more rational than trying to stop or divert the Falls.

That is why we need self-expression. We want the child to educate himself, to learn for himself, just as he eats for himself; but we want to know that he really is doing so. We can only know this if he tells us either directly or indirectly about it. I say indirectly, because children, as all teachers and some parents know, are shy birds. It is not always wise to adopt the ‘stand and deliver’ attitude with them. One can generally glean more real knowledge of children from chance conversations overheard in the playground than from years of formal replies to questions asked by the teacher in school.

In my experiences as head teacher ¹ of an elementary school in Sompting, Sussex, England, I realized the need of being able to hear, and join in with real, spontaneous conversations between scholars, and of being able to play with the children; but to the purpose. My scholars had inherited the bad old-school tradition, ‘Talking in school is against the rules.’ Children are wonderfully keen at summing up a situation, and they had come to recognize — generation after generation of them — that only a certain fictitious kind of conversation passed as current in school. My readers will recognize the brand for themselves, I am sure; it has come to be more or less generally recognized in England under the term ‘chalk and talk.’ The only way to get at the true ringing metal beneath this sham was to break away boldly from the whole of the old school-tradition — to create a new tradition entirely. That new tradition was to have, for its guiding principle, agreement with childnature. It was to take account of childish instincts; nor was it to overdo any one instinct to the neglect of another. No less an authority than Mr. E. G. A. Holmes, late chief Inspector of Elementary Schools in England, has tabulated these instincts, which we have been utilizing for some twelve years, in his recent book on Education. They are: —

1. The Communicative instinct — to talk and listen.

2. The Dramatic instinct — to act, to make believe.

3. The Artistic instinct — to draw, paint, and model.

4. The Musical instinct — to sing, and dance.

5. The Inquisitive instinct — to know the why of things.

6. The Constructive instinct — to make and invent things.

The means whereby we endeavored to give full play to all of these instincts, successfully formed our system and consequently our new school-tradition.

Space forbids me here to go further into the psychology of our subject. Just so much as I have written was, I think, necessary to the proper understanding of our philosophy of education. May I now take my readers for another day in school? What school? Well, a modern writer has named it, ‘a school in Utopia.’

It is 8.30 A.M. School proper does not begin until 9 A.M.; but there is n’t any ‘school proper’ in Utopia. Just as soon after breakfast as we can race there, will be the correct time for us. The scholars arrive before the teachers! How busy every one is! Every one is talking, yet there is no undue confusion, no appearance of contraband naughtiness. Nobody seems to have thought of naughtiness, because each one is busy over something he or she particularly wants to do. There is a group of girls busily decorating the room with flowers. They have a plan over it, discussed among themselves, and provided for during their last evening’s ramble. To-day they are carrying out a scheme of primroses with young larch for greenery, and mossy beds for the primroses. Exceedingly pretty and very little like a schoolroom does the finished article look, for the fireplace has a pretty painted wood over-mantel in a delicate combination of two pale greens, and the walls are covered with lovely framed pictures of flowers in water-color — the handiwork of the scholars, but not in the least like the ‘schooly’ brush-work one sees. These are the unaided work of scholars who, observing real flowers from infancy, gradually improved their own expression of them with paint and brush. A propos of brush-work, a little London girl, visiting the school with her father, said, ‘Oh, father, let me do painting like that! ’ Her father replied, ‘But, my dear child, your school is noted for its brush-work.’ ‘Well, we don’t paint like this,’ persisted the embryo self-expressionist; ‘teacher makes a blob here and another there, then we all do the same and teacher says it’s a buttercup; but it is n’t.’ Which I think sufficiently voices the plea of the child for self-expression.

But now the decorative work in the schoolroom is completed and numbers of other scholars begin to arrive. You will notice that each one at once looks for something to do in the way of preparation. Every one seems full of joy and energy, and looks as if coming to school were quite to his taste. They all glance round the room to see what the elder girls have accomplished, for they are nothing if not observant; and they have learned to look for something new and pretty and in season, each day. Besides, they hope one day to be the happy decorators themselves.

And what are all these young people doing that will be of any use educationally — that will justify rates being spent on them? Referring to our table of instincts above, we see that they are exercising their Artistic instinct and their Communicative instinct; and we must remember that their mental, moral, and spiritual growth depends on the exercise of these instincts if the children are to develop all that is best in them.

Now the teachers arrive — and bang goes tradition number one! The oldschool tradition said, ‘Teachers admitted first, and when they ring the school-bell, children enter in due order.’ The teachers held, as it were, permanent passes into the scholastic ‘early doors.’ There is no need of a schoolbell in Utopia; but we ring one at the correct hour just to let folks know the time.

At the sound the moving mosaic of scholars sorts itself into classes; and, without any orders being given, we perceive the most orderly of schools. Every eye is fixed on the face of the head teacher — who, for the convenience of seeing all the scholars, has mounted nimbly on a chair in one corner of the room. Immediately in front of her are the youngest scholars, who have a classroom of their own, and are merely assembled here for the benefit of a morning chat before being dismissed to their own classroom. This is the 1 little ’uns” special time, and consequently the ‘big ’uns’ say nothing unless they have to come to the rescue in a tight place.

‘Now, I’m ready,’ says the head teacher. At once there appear from various safe places, where they have been stored, various specimens of flowers, weeds, leaves, grasses, shells, stones, and what not. Then each child tells in its own way exactly what it has found and observed for itself. We notice that when any difficulty of naming or accounting for phenomena arises, the little ones involuntarily turn to the older scholars, who put them on the right track if they can, but who avoid telling them anything that they can find out for themselves. There can be no mistake about the usefulness of this lesson, for very rarely has any one scholar brought exactly the same specimen as another. It is not dry talk either, for did you observe that twinkle and smile of real pleasure as the first celandine of the year was produced just now? And how quickly that nicelooking big girl at the back exclaimed, ‘Miss Johnson,—

Yes, they soon learn to love and quote Wordsworth. They know he must have hunted for the first celandine, just as they do.

All the specimens exhibited, prayers are said, registers marked, and the younger scholars file off to their classroom. We will stay behind and watch what goes on in the big room, for I have a curious feeling as to what those soapboxes and packing-cases on wheels are doing in school. Surely some naughty boys have dared to bring them within these sacred precincts for an illicit purpose. But, no. The door has scarcely closed upon the little ones, when the owners of the boxes (they are the makers and designers also) jump up, bring the boxes out of their corners and display them more prominently.

‘Look, Miss Johnson, we’ve brought some ships,’ says one. ‘They don’t want much rigging, because they are steamships, you see; and there’s plenty of room to stow the cargo.’

‘ It is geography lesson now, so may we begin ? ’ says another.

‘But what about your play? Have you got it ready for us?’ asks the head teacher.

‘Yes, but we would like to look at a book that is on the library-shelf first, please,’ answers the boy who is apparently the ringleader, and whom his companions address as Mike.

‘All right, get the book, and be off to the other end of the playground where we cannot hear you,’ says the teacher.

As we watch them manipulating their steamships when going out of the room, we see that the driver — or ought I to say captain? — sits on the edge of the box with one leg inside and one walking on the floor outside the wheel. With this leg he propels the ship. One of the more ingenious captains has fixed a small guiding wheel on the edge of his box, by means of which he steers his small front wheels. Am I digressing from my subject? I think not, for are we not watching some healthy, natural, untrammeled children displaying the results of the exercise of the Constructive instinct?

While the boys who are in the play are preparing to show us a Geography Play, the scholars left behind busy themselves with their reading-books and note-books, communicating freely both with their companions and their teacher. There is no babel or confusion, because the remarks are made in low, conversational tones, and the children try to observe the rule that one person shall speak at a time. They are evidently honestly trying to prepare themselves for the better understanding of the play they are about to witness.

Before many minutes have elapsed, however, the players are back again, tapping on the school door for admission. Immediately we are all alert, — there is no need to call, ‘Attention!’ — and, quite informally, just as children play their own games on the street or in the garden, we are soon in the thick of a voyage to America, really emigrating in the soap-box ships.

It is true, we have but a very small space available — only twenty feet by six feet in front of the desks and a fairly wide space between desks and wall where the ships can turn. Various parts of the room are named and the space becomes the Atlantic Ocean. To make the voyage long, the ships sail round the space, out of the door, round the playground and back again. It would require a whole volume to record the play verbatim; although, as it is the children’s and not my own, I may here say that it is quite well worth a volume to itself.

Text-books have been freely used, for of course the basis of the play must be correct as to facts, even if the setting and padding be original. Naturally a great deal of the setting must be left to the imagination. It is the old childish make-believe — the ‘let’s pretend.’ But children do not play ‘let’s pretend’ sitting still in desks, listening to a teacher who is lecturing and questioning for hours on end, do they? That was my reason for letting you see the scholars in Utopia to-day. I wanted you to realize that, while a good many adults have forgotten all their school history, they generally have a very clear and lively recollection of the historical or other plays which they acted with their chums after school hours.

I think most people have recollections of the time in their lives when action seemed the keynote of their characters. Robert Louis Stevenson, who knew something about children and their instincts, says, ‘We grownup people can tell ourselves a story all the while sitting quietly by the fire. This is exactly what a child cannot do — or does not do — at least when he can do anything else. He works all with lay-figures and stage properties. When his story comes to the fighting he must rise, get something by way of a sword, or have a setto with a piece of furniture until he is out of breath.’ So that children see nothing incongruous in styling a projecting desk a cape, or the floor space an ocean. They are frankly delighted when they discover that the north end of the room is really the coldest end, because that makes it easy to call it the North Pole. And if they do not happen to have a packing-case on wheels ready to act as a boat, they will soon show their resourcefulness and imagination by merely turning a chair on its back or inverting a form to drag up and down the floor-ocean.

As a matter of fact it is better not to have real properties — certainly not ready-made ones. Children would far rather make their own accessories or use something else for a make-believe. Richard Jefferies in his book Bevis voices this when he says, ‘He knew that the greatest pleasure is always obtained from inferior and incomplete instruments. Present a perfect yacht, a beautiful horse, a fine gun, or anything complete to a beginner, and the edge of his enjoyment is dulled with too speedy possession. The best way to learn to ride is on a rough pony.’ And in the second chapter of that delightful book Little Women, by Louisa M. Alcott, - as dear to English girls as it is to Americans,— the heroines ‘not rich enough to afford any great outlay for performances, put their wits to work, and — necessity being the mother of invention — made whatever they needed. “A gloomy wood ” was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof and bureaus for walls,’ etc.

When the Utopian scholars wanted a cave or a hermit’s cell, they merely crept under the teacher’s high spindlelegged desk; when they needed a tent they utilized the space between the extended legs of an easel; when the play required red-hot irons, they redchalked the old school-poker; when the exigencies of the case demanded a horse, they did not offer their ‘kingdom for a horse,’ but just got a companion to knuckle down whilst they mounted on his back, and, lo! a prancing war-horse! Not only does this benefit the scholars by exercising their constructive instincts and faculties, but also it makes for a very great economy in expenditure on school-apparatus. The boys are always anxious to bring such simple articles as an old wooden box on wheels; or the girls will volunteer to make costumes. The play is so interesting and makes so strong an appeal to the child mind, that the desired lessons can be inculcated without the use of a book for each child — particularly if there be an open library-shelf to which all can have access in school time; and thus the State may find its little bill for education considerably lessened. Added to this advantage, we are, of course, developing the Dramatic Instinct — one of the most potent and active instincts of childhood.

At the risk of repeating myself I must again insist that, if we neglect any one channel of expression, we are not developing the whole man. If Nature implanted certain instincts, it is not ours to discriminate which, if any, we shall neglect, and help to stunt and kill. Children are born actors. They are constantly impersonating, or making their dolls impersonate, other people. They play at ‘mothers and fathers’; or, with dolls for scholars, they play at being ‘teacher.’ Some people might say this is merely mimicry; but if one listens to the plays, one finds originality rather than mimicry. All who are interested in the education of children know how successful is the kindergarten game among little ones in presenting to their senses and understanding things which it would be otherwise impossible to teach them. In the play for older scholars we visualize facts in a similar way, extending and profiting by our experience with younger scholars.

And let none fear that allowing scholars to play or dramatize their lessons will have the effect of making them stage-struck, or too fond of theatregoing. If ready-made plays were put into the hands of children and rehearsed for public displays and entertainments, with proper dresses, scenery, and properties, this might be the result. But lessons dramatized in childish fashion by the children, with make-believe properties such as you have just seen in Utopia, have merely the effect one desires and aims at.

The geography lesson is ended. Every one looks as fresh and keen as at the start. In fact we cannot believe that nearly an hour has elapsed since the play began. And do the onlookers know any more than they knew before about the voyage to America, and what happened when the ship arrived there? First of all there are very few, if any, onlookers. Every one seems to have been gradually incorporated into the play. A few boys were called upon to form a gang of men, coaling ship (real coal shoveled into the soap-box outside in the school porch, which now became Liverpool docks); others became porters, carrying passengers’ luggage; one or two small-sized children represented the passengers; others put small sacks on board, supposed to be mails. Some of the older girls suggested that they should write real letters in envelopes and include those, — which was done. Then the scholars have been careful to listen to the running fire of dialogue kept up between captain, crew, and passengers. They have gathered that the ship had to anchor out in the Mersey while a small tender took the passengers aboard. The captain has pointed out Liverpool on his right and Birkenhead on his left, while he informed the passengers that Liverpool is one of the largest shipping ports in the world. A line of door-mats placed across the room had to be carefully navigated. He said it was the bar; and the pilot, whom the captain kept in his box until the bar was crossed, explained that it was a sandy bar and constantly changed its shape and position. Said he, ‘We Mersey pilots have to study its changes very carefully, or else we should very soon get a change of situation. ’

Another batch of children (girls this time, because they must have something to do, and ‘girls can’t be sailors, or pilots, or porters, you know ’) walked up and down the docks, pointing out another soap-box being unloaded. Its cargo was raw cotton (we happen to possess some specimens of that material in our school museum), and a little dialogue was indulged in by the girls, to the effect that all this cotton was destined for the Lancashire cotton mills. Another ship was unloading meat — rare sport for a big boy to lift a limp small boy, wrapped up in girls’ pinafores, out of the box and deposit him on the dock-side, while the girls exclaimed, ‘Frozen mutton!’ One of their number pretended to find names printed on the wrapper, ‘Barnes, Downey & Co.,’ and recognized in them the names of two former scholars who had gone abroad.

While all this was going on, the ship going to America had crossed the Mersey bar and sailed round the playground. Then the scholars in the room were told by the players, ‘Now you are in Canada. Land ahead!’ Several little girls waved their pinafores up and down, surrounding the ship. They explained that they were a heavy fog; while the captain, ordering a sharp look-out, explained that the fog was the result of cold currents from the Polar Sea, bringing icebergs (the scholars pretended the easel was an iceberg and all shivered as the ship passed it), meeting warm currents from the Gulf of Mexico. He gave quite a learned dissertation on the condensation of the water-vapor in the air, and by that time the ship was ready to call at St. John’s.

The remainder of the journeyings of the passengers was treated in the same lively fashion, and then — time being up — the boys begged to be allowed to play ‘settlers in Canada,’ on the morrow. They said they could make up a lovely play. They knew where to find a small tree, which they would plant in a tub of mould and bring into the schoolroom to be felled for lumbering. And I venture to assert that few children learn more geography by such easy and pleasant means in so short a time. Besides, there is the eagerness to ‘go on to-morrow,’ — the desire for more, — the willingness to utilize out-of-school hours for the preparation of another play! The question of ‘home lessons’ has often proved a vexed one. That is because a child’s mind is one, and not readily divided into compartments. There should be unity between home and school. There is unity when the idea of a ‘task,’ is removed. A boy or girl — aye, and grown men and women, too — will do far more work when he or she works for pleasure or at a hobby.

But we have n’t time to moralize much more in our Utopian school. There are sounds of revelry proceeding from the infant school. We must see what is afoot. The tiny tots are learning the elements of arithmetic; but there is no blackboard or chalk about. They themselves have papers, with a large number printed thereon, pinned on their breasts.

‘Now, take partners for the dance!’ says the teacher. ‘What number makes the right pair of partners?’

‘Ten,’ answer the tinies.

Then at once, 9 walks up to 1 and says, ‘Will you dance with me?’ and leads his partner to the top of the room. 8 chooses 2, and 7 chooses 3, and so on until all are paired, each one picking out the number which, added to his or her own, will make up ten. If they are correct, they dance; but should they make an error, they stand out. This is a great indignity and seldom occurs, we observe. The dance is a sort of glorified country-dance, of the style of Sir Roger de Coverley.

But listen! A bell rings! Let us pop into the classroom whence the sound comes. What do we see? A shop, a real shop, with a bell on the door to announce the advent of customers, with little girls behind the counter (a desk, with yard-measure pinned thereon), with a cashier presiding over a cash-box of cardboard coins; with real printed bill-heads (kindly provided by a renowned soap-manufacturer), with rolls of ribbon (paperhanger’s trimmings from the wall-paper), with customers buying and receiving correct measurements and change. The teacher watches to see that there are no mistakes; but it is a real game. The children are not reciting a prepared dialogue. They talk spontaneously, as children do when they play out of school.

But we must not linger. Back in the big room there are interesting things happening. As we arrive there we again hear a bell ringing, and then a boy calls, ‘Oyez! Oyez! ’ A crowd of French citizens surround him, while he tells them that he has been appointed to tell them that the English king demands that six of the principal citizens shall march out of Calais with bare heads and feet, ropes round their necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. We immediately recognize that they are dramatizing the surrender of Calais. They have an affecting scene showing the six citizens volunteering, although a touch of humor is patent to us when we observe one of the citizens wearing a pair of French wooden sabots — probably to give a touch of local color! The girl representing the queen has copied her costume from correct pictures, and makes a very dignified speech. When the king has pardoned the citizens she orders that they ‘be taken to my apartment. Take those halters from their necks — give them new clothes and a plentiful dinner!’ The six file past her, making deep obeisance — the last one falling in a dead faint as he attempts to stagger out. We quite enjoy the little play, it is so real and so impressive; and mind, not one of the actors is over fourteen years of age!

It is not necessary to show you more to-day. There is plenty more. But you must come again and again. Then you shall see quiet scholars drawing and doing needlework at their desks, while the strains of Chopin, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Grieg, and Beethoven fill the room with melody and harmony. ‘ And beauty born of murmuring sound’ shall pass into each face. They always accompany such quiet lessons with good music, for they have a fine piano in Utopia. You shall hear real English folk-music. You shall see the folksongs acted as well as hear them sung. You shall see nature-study dramatized. You shall hear original poetry — good verse too!

What is that you say? ‘What about the 3 R’s?’ Why these scholars are taking the 3 R’s in their stride, as it were. When they want information, they read for it. When they want to remember their parts, they write and transcribe them. When they need mathematics they actually measure, weigh, and calculate. You have seen them. How do they strike you? Are they not sane, healthy, promising little citizens? Do not their nice, natural manners impress you? And which ‘day in school’ did you most enjoy? Which made you feel most alive? Which accomplished most? Let these Utopian scholars preach the Gospel of Happiness for other children — let them have their share in leavening the whole lump.