The Philosopher. Did you ever go on a personally conducted tour of the ruins of Rome, and have the things you were to see and think pointed out to you by a guide?
The Lady. Yes, and I hated it!
The Philosopher. You are not a great archaeologist and you never expect to be one, and yet you thought you could get more out of those ruins yourself than with the assistance of that pesky guide. You preferred to be free—to see or not to see, to wonder and ponder and look again or pass by. And don’t you think the children in your charge might enjoy their trip a little more if they didn’t have to listen to the mechanically unctuous clatter of a guide?
The Lady. If one could only be sure they wouldn’t just waste their time!
The Philosopher. Madam, are you quite sure that you, as a teacher, are not wasting your time?
The Lady. You make me wonder whether that may not be possible. But sheer idleness—
The Philosopher. Was Newton busy when he lay down under that tree? Did he have an appointment with the apple? Did he say he would give it ten minutes, and come again next day if it seemed worth while? What is disinterested curiosity, in plain English?
The Lady. Idle curiosity—I fear.
The Philosopher. I fear you are right. Then you would say that the way to approach Truth, in school and out, is to cultivate idle curiosity?
The Lady. I did not intend to say anything of the kind. But you compel me to say it.