THE SCHOOLMASTER OF THE FUTURE.
Skilled Mechanic of Old School loquitur:—
It's a nice pretty state of affairs, if you look at the business all round!
If someone don't alter it somehow, Old England must come to the ground.
I've thought it all out a good bit, for it touches us home, don't you see;
It puzzles the swells, so, no doubt, it's too much of a twister for me.
But I look at the thing from a side which they can't have their eye on,—not close,—
A fair forty year at the bench ought to give one the tip, I suppose.
If me and my mates and the masters, the Book and the Bench, could combine
To take the job fairly in hand, I suppose we could strike out a line.
Odd luck if we couldn't, at least; but we don't pull together, you see:
Pull devil pull baker's the game,—it's a mad one, as most will agree.
The Book and the Bench! There's the nip. And a fellow will see—if he'll look—
That although the three R's are good value, a man cannot live by the Book.
True, Bench without Book may be blindish, but Book without Bench may be worse,
To read penny papers won't feed you, if you haven't pence in your purse.
Men can't live on cackle not nohow, the bulk of 'em that is to say;
A few gassy spouts can, of course; for they prate, don't you see, and we pay;
But that rule will not work all round, thanks be!—a skilled hand, a sharp eye
Are the artisan's proper rig-out; and as for the rest of it, why
Mr. Schoolmaster there does his best with his 'ologies, 'isms, and things,
But if a man's lot is to trudge, it is small use a-fitting him wings.
No, I 'm not against learning, not me; but life's battle means gumption and tools,
That is for the general ruck, and the saps who deny it are fools.
I remembered my father, old Millwright, in days as no more will be seen,
When a man put his soul in his work, a mechanic was not a machine.
It would take lots o' "technical" teaching to bring our lads up to his trim,
Or make our mere chippers and filers a match for such workmen as him.
He had been through the mill, a rare grind, for apprenticeship then meant it's name.
I have known him take ten quid a week, only wish I could earn half the same.
Times altered? Of course; so have systems, and not for the better some ways.
I've read, for I can read, you know, of the wild old apprentices' days,
When the shout of "Clubs! Clubs!" roused the town, and political feelings ran high,
And the stiff Spanish courtiers went weak in the hams at the ominous cry.
Wild blades!—but the youngsters could work, knew their craft; but you pale, loose-limbed lout,
The sort of crammed hobbledehoy that the School-Board appears to turn out,
Who can spell out Sedition in penn'orths, and howl it out hot in the Square,
If you give him the "Work" that he yells for with so much wild blather and blare,
What sort of a fist will he make of it? Which of the blustering band
Has a really sound head on his shoulders, a really skilled craft to his hand?
And Capital wrangles with Labour, each hating the other like snakes;
And the Foreigner creeps in and up, and the Board Agent comes and he takes
Our boys, and he crams 'em with kibosh as makes 'em too big for their breeches;
But real true bread-winning knowledge—the stuff that the Bench only teaches—
They don't find set down in their books, with their 'isms and 'ometries—no;
But the nipper's turned out in the world, and then what shall he turn to?—where go?
Cheap clerking, or rule-of-thumb drudgery, bands, and black flags, and that rot?
They may give it what fine names they like, but it simply means going to pot!
And the swells snarl and sneer, and the bobbies are bid to be sharp with their staves,
And the dupes who get all the cracked heads are informed if they don't they'll be slaves.
