A nostalgic article from Ashley Sterne in The Telegraph (Brisbane, Queensland), 25 October 1937.
[Note: a sporan is a small pouch that hangs in front of a
Scotsman's kilt.)
Out of School
By Ashley Sterne
I have hitherto always imagined an
educationalist to be a terribly severe-looking individual, with knobs of
knowledge sticking out of his forehead like walnuts, a head of hair like a
hastily-constructed stork's-nest, and a long, disorderly beard like a
moth-eaten sporan. I must now amend this
mental picture and visualise him as a merry and bright sort of fellow; for I
read that a certain "Prominent Educationalist" has recently been
urging the total abolition of homework for schoolboys.
This much-needed reform is, of
course, no very novel and original idea.
Smith Minor has been advocating it for several generations, but
unfortunately without anybody sitting up and taking notice. Now, however, that the voice of a Man that
Matters has set the wild echoes flying, there seems to be a reasonable chance
of the schoolboy being granted this indoor relief.
How homework ever came to be
imposed upon the wretched scholar must be a matter for conjecture. In my own days at St. Barabbas's, during the
most vicious period of the Victorian era, I can only imagine that our homework
was designed to keep us out of the ale-houses, gin-places, and opium-dens
(which, I agree, are not exactly a good thing for Young England), for we were
regularly burning the midnight therm in our futile endeavours to cope with it. Slacking or ignoring it altogether simply
meant that on the morrow we should, for health and comfort's sake, have to
return to school with our trousers lined with sheet-iron.
Yet consider what we had to
accomplish. Take the Latin stuff we were expected to prepare alone and
unguided. Here's a bit from Platypus
which I well remember sitting up all night over — all adverbs and conjunctions
and prepositions — stuff which I would have defied even John Milton to construe
without a crib.
"Propinque nunc tunc junc punc
zinc dum turn jamdudum teetotum hicockolorum ..."
In despair, I translated it as:
"Caesar, having quartered Gaul Into three halves, at once retired to his
winter-quarters." What it really
means, in good Modern English, is: "Then pious Aeneas splashed himself out
a good four fingers of 20 u.p. Old Falernian from the Sabine jar, and, with a
nod to the terra-cotta bust of Old Man Anchises on the mantelpiece, knocked it
back with his usual cheery 'Here's how!'"
And you, no doubt, will be as surprised as I was at this most unexpected
result.
Then, again, there were those
diabolically harassing mathematical exercises which invariably concerned either
an old market woman buying and selling fruit, or three wasters named A, B, and
C performing a "piece of work."
I cannot remember, at this distance of time, the precise wording of the
problem set us to elucidate, but the following examples reflect the spirit, of
them:—
"An old market-woman buys
Ribston pippins at the rate of 29 for 5 1/2 d. and sells them as Cape
gooseberries at 8 1/2 d. a pint. Calculate
to three decimal-places what relation she was to the person whose photograph
she was looking at. (Brokerage 1/8.)"
Of course, the problem would have
been simple if the old crone had been looking at the actual person. But schoolmasters are always out to catch
chaps whenever they can; otherwise there would be nothing to justify their
trailing half the alphabet after their names.
"A, B, and C are digging an
artesian well. A works twice as fast as
B, who has to attend hospital twice a week for deep-ray therapy. Nevertheless, B works twice as fast as A and C
together, and C can give A a stroke a hole. How much does each draw at the end of the
week? (Reckon £1 to be worth 4.86 dollars.)"
The answer should be 6 quarts, of
course. But the only solution I could
suggest, after three hours' intensive study of the erudite Mr. Pendlebury, was
that it turned blue litmus red.
And then, after the written homework,
there was always something to be got off by heart — such as "Paradise
Lost," or a list of the coaling stations between Archangel and Honolulu, or
possibly the genealogical table showing Hardicanute's descent from Boadicea. I tell you, it was no joke for a lad in the
early 'teens to sit up till long past midnight wrestling with such tasks, his
eyelids propped open with drawing-pins, his brows swathed with cold-tea
bandages, and his feet immersed in strong black coffee.
And when the Schoolboy's Friend has
triumphantly succeeded in getting home-work abolished, I hope that he will see
what he can do about the extirpation of school-exams. The pedagogues may argue
that they are necessary in order to test the height of a boy's knowledge, but as
no school-exam has ever achieved anything except plumb the depths of a boy's
ignorance (none of the set questions is ever part of former instruction), their
futility is obvious. I still retain in
my archives a set of the St. Barabbas's exam-papers, from which I cull the
following specimens:—
"State what you know about Jenkins's
Ear, Peter's Pence, Queen Anne's Bounty, Jessica's First Prayer, Christy's Old
Organ. Give a reason for your answers,
and an example of each."
"On the accompanying blank map
of Tristan da Cunha insert the following geographical features: (a) the Pier
and Bandstand: (h) the Red Lion; (c) the Vicarage, (d) the Gaumont Palace, (e)
the blacksmith's, (f) the route of the underground railway system."
"What chemical reaction takes
place when you pour hydraulic acid on (a) sulphate of zinc, b) the Sultan of
Zanzibar?"
"What is the difference — stop
us if you've heard it — between the table of affinity and the theory of
relativity? Write a life of Einstein,
and illustrate with photographs."
Well, I knew nothing of any of
these things, but all the same, what I knew about other things not covered by
the questions would have filled a pantechnicon. From which it follows that the only way by
which school exams can ever ascertain the extent of a boy's learning is to let
him set his own exam papers. Thereafter
what his tutors wouldn't know about blowing birds' eggs, rearing silkworms, the
market value of three-cornered Cape of Good Hope postage stamps, and the
private lives of such famous individuals as the Young Lady of Nottingham, the
Curate of Kidderminster. and the Old Man of Pernambuco could all be written
upon a couple of confetti.
These reformations would naturally
come rather too late in my young life to be of any advantage to me, but I do
not hesitate to affirm that if I were Wee Georgie Wood or Ivor Vintnor I'd
forthwith buy myself a sachtel and crash straight back to the Lower Third at
dear old St. Barabbas's, if only to feel what it felt like to be home-workless
and examless.
As it is, what a hope of passing myself
off for fourteen, with my left foot done up in a parcel, and wide open spaces
on my skull that stand in dire need of returfing!
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