



Produced by MWS, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)






A DOMINIE'S LOG




WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT.


"A Dominie's Log" was directly due to the Scottish code of Education, by
which it is forbidden to enter general reflections or opinions in the
official log-book.

Requiring a safety-valve, a young Dominie decides to keep a private
log-book. In it he jots down the troubles and comedies of the day's
work. Sometimes he startles even his own bairns by his
unconventionality.

There is a lot in Education that he does not understand. The one thing,
however, that he does comprehend is the Child Mind, and he possesses the
saving quality of humour.


_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

     A DOMINIE ABROAD         7s. 6d. net.
     A DOMINIE DISMISSED      2s. 6d. net.
     A DOMINIE IN DOUBT       2s. 6d. net.
     THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE    2s. 6d. net.
     CARROTY BROON            2s. 6d. net.




A DOMINIE'S LOG

BY
A. S. NEILL

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S S.W.1.


[Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS' BOOK]

_Printed in Great Britain at the Athenæum Printing Works, Redhill._


     AS A BOY I ATTENDED A VILLAGE SCHOOL WHERE THE BAIRNS CHATTERED
     AND WERE HAPPY. I TRACE MY LOVE OF FREEDOM TO MY FREE LIFE THERE,
     AND I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FORMER DOMINIE, MY FATHER.




PREFACE.


The first four installments of this Log were published in the
_Educational News_, under the acting editorship of Mr. Alexander
Sivewright, who was very anxious to publish the Log in full, but
apparently public opinion on the subject of the indiscriminate kissing
of girls forced him to hold up the remainder.

Then teachers began to write me letters. Some of them were very
complimentary; others weren't. These letters worried me, for I couldn't
quite determine whether I was a lunatic or a genius. Then an unknown
lady sent me a tract.

The title of the tract was: "The Sin That Found Him Out." The hero was a
boy called Willie. He never told a lie, and when other boys smote him he
turned the other cheek and prayed for them. "Life to him was one long
prayer," said the tract. Then troubles came. He grew up and his father
took to drink. His elder brother had a disagreement with the local
police about his whereabouts on the night of a certain robbery, and was
decidedly unconvincing. Willie stepped in and took all the blame.

The next chapter takes Willie as a private to the fields of Flanders,
and the penultimate chapter sees him a major-general. The last chapter
contains the moral, but what the moral is I cannot well make out. In
fact I don't know whether the title refers to Willie or his
transgressing brother, but I feel that somewhere in that pamphlet there
is a lesson for me.

Before the tract arrived I thought of publishing the Log as a brilliant
treatise on education. Its arrival altered all my values. I then knew
that I was the educational equivalent of the "awful example" who sits on
the platform at temperance meetings, and with great humility I besought
Mr. Herbert Jenkins to publish my Log as a terrible warning to my fellow
sinners.

A. S. N.

1915.




A DOMINIE'S LOG




I.


"No reflections or opinions of a general character are to be entered in
the log-book."--Thus the Scotch Code.

I have resolved to keep a private log of my own. In the regulation
volume I shall write down all the futile never-to-be-seen piffle about
Mary Brown's being laid up with the measles, and about my anxiety lest
it should spread. (Incidentally, my anxiety is real; I do not want the
school to be closed; I want a summer holiday undocked of any days.) In
my private log I shall write down my thoughts on education. I think they
will be mostly original; there has been no real authority on education,
and I do not know of any book from which I can crib.

To-night after my bairns had gone away, I sat down on a desk and
thought. What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? These boys are
going out to the fields to plough; these girls are going to farms as
servants. If I live long enough the new generation will be bringing
notes of the plese-excuss-james-as-I-was-washing type... and the
parents who will write them went out at that door five minutes ago. I
can teach them to read, and they will read serials in the drivelling
weeklies; I can teach them to write, and they will write pathetic notes
to me by and bye; I can teach them to count, and they will never count
more than the miserable sum they receive as a weekly wage. The "Three
R's" spell futility.

But what of the rest? Can I teach them drawing? I cannot. I can help a
boy with a natural talent to improve his work, but of what avail is it?
In their future homes they will hang up the same old prints--vile things
given away with a pound of tea. I can teach them to sing, but what will
they sing?... the _Tipperary_ of their day.

My work is hopeless, for education should aim at bringing up a new
generation that will be better than the old. The present system is to
produce the same kind of man as we see to-day. And how hopeless he is.
When first I saw Houndsditch, I said aloud: "We have had education for
generations... and yet we have this." Yes, my work is hopeless. What is
the use of the Three R's, of Woodwork, of Drawing, of Geography, if
Houndsditch is to remain? What is the use of anything?

                           *       *       *

I smile as I re-read the words I wrote yesterday, for to-day I feel that
hope has not left me. But I am not any more hopeful about the three R's
and the others. I am hopeful because I have found a solution. I shall
henceforth try to make my bairns realise. Yes, realise is the word.
Realise what? To tell the truth, I have some difficulty in saying. I
think I want to make them realise what life means. Yes, I want to give
them, or rather help them to find an attitude. Most of the stuff I teach
them will be forgotten in a year or two, but an attitude remains with
one throughout life. I want these boys and girls to acquire the habit of
looking honestly at life.

Ah! I wonder if I look honestly at life myself! Am I not a very
one-sided man? Am I not a Socialist, a doubter, a heretic? Am I not
biassed when I judge men like the Cecils and the Harmsworths? I admit
it. I am a partisan, and yet I try to look at life honestly. I try...
and that is the main point. I do not think that I have any of the
current superstitions about morality and religion and art. I try to
forget names; I try to get at essentials, at truth. The fathers of my
bairns are, I think, interested in names. I wonder how many of them have
sat down saying: "I must examine myself, so that I may find out what
manner of man I am." I hold that self-knowledge must come before all
things. When one has stripped off all the conventions, and
superstitions, and hypocrisies, then one is educated.

                           *       *       *

These bairns of mine will never know how to find truth; they will merely
read the newspapers when they grow up. They will wave their hats to the
King, but kingship will be but a word to them; they will shout when a
lawyer from the south wins the local seat, but they will not understand
the meaning of economics; they will dust their old silk hats and march
to the sacrament, but they will not realise what religion means.

I find that I am becoming pessimistic again, and I did feel hopeful
when I began to write. I _should_ feel hopeful, for I am resolved to
find another meaning in education. What was it?... Ah, yes, I am to help
them to find an attitude.

                           *       *       *

I have been thinking about discipline overnight. I have seen a
headmaster who insisted on what he called perfect discipline. His bairns
sat still all day. A movement foreshadowed the strap. Every child jumped
up at the word of command. He had a very quiet life.

I must confess that I am an atrociously bad disciplinarian. To-day
Violet Brown began to sing _Tipperary_ to herself when I was marking the
registers. I looked up and said: "Why the happiness this morning,
Violet?" and she blushed and grinned. I am a poor disciplinarian.

I find that normally I am very, very slack; I don't mind if they talk or
not. Indeed, if the hum of conversation stops, I feel that something has
happened and I invariably look towards the door to see whether an
Inspector has arrived.

I find that I am almost a good disciplinarian when my liver is bad; I
demand silence then... but I fear I do not get it, and I generally
laugh. The only discipline I ask for usually is the discipline that
interest draws. If a boy whets his pencil while I am describing the
events that led to the Great Rebellion, I sidetrack him on the topic of
rabbits... and I generally make him sit up. I know that I am teaching
badly if the class is loafing, and I am honest enough in my saner
moments