“French, German, Latin, Greek, bits of mathematics, botany, geography, bits of history, book-keeping, music lessons, some water-colour painting; it’s very mixed,” said Oswald.
“It’s miscellaneous.”
Mr. Mackinder roused himself to a word of defence: “The boys don’t specialize.”
“But this is a diet of scraps,” said Oswald, reviving one of the most controversial topics of the catechism. “Nothing can be done thoroughly.”
“We are necessarily elementary.”
“It’s rather like the White Knight in Alice in Wonderland packing his luggage for nowhere.”
“We have to teach what is required of us,” said Mr. Mackinder.
“But what is education up to?” asked Oswald.
As Mr. Mackinder offered no answer to that riddle, Oswald went on. “What is Education in England up to, anyhow? In Uganda we knew what we were doing. There was an idea in it. The old native tradition was breaking up. We taught them to count and reckon English fashion, to read and write, we gave them books and the Christian elements, so that they could join on to our civilization and play a part in the great world that was breaking up their little world. We didn’t teach them anything that didn’t serve mind or soul or body. We saw the end of what we were doing. But half this school teaching of yours is like teaching in a dream. You don’t teach the boy what he wants to know and needs to know. You spend half his time on calculations he has no use for, mere formal calculations, and on this dead language stuff——! It’s like trying to graft mummy steak on living flesh. It’s like boiling fossils for soup.”
Mr. Mackinder said nothing.