"No, sir."
"You are right. There is not. But selfishness is wrong, very wrong, in whatever form it appears, here and every where else, and that whether I make any rules against it or not."
You will see, from this anecdote, that, though there is but one rule of the school, I by no means intend to say that there is only one way of doing wrong here. That would be very absurd. You must not do any thing which you may know, by proper reflection, to be in itself wrong. This, however, is a universal principle of duty, not a rule of the Mount Vernon School. If I should attempt to make rules which would specify and prohibit every possible way by which you might do wrong, my laws would be innumerable, and even then I should fail of securing my object, unless you had the disposition to do your duty. No legislation can enact laws as fast as a perverted ingenuity can find means to evade them.
You will perhaps ask what will be the consequence if we transgress either the single rule of the school or any of the great principles of duty. In other words, What are the punishments which are resorted to in the Mount Vernon School? The answer is, there are no punishments. I do not say that I should not, in case all other means should fail, resort to the most decisive measures to secure obedience and subordination. Most certainly I should do so, as it would plainly be my duty to do it. If you should at any time be so unhappy as to violate your obligations to yourself, to your companions, or to me—should you misimprove your time, or exhibit an unkind or a selfish spirit, or be disrespectful or insubordinate to your teachers, I should go frankly and openly, but kindly to you, and endeavor to convince you of your fault. I should very probably do this by addressing a note to you, as I suppose this would be less unpleasant to you than a conversation. In such a case, I shall hope that you will as frankly and openly reply, telling me whether you admit your fault and are determined to amend, or else informing me of the contrary. I shall wish you to be sincere, and then I shall know what course to take next. But as to the consequences which may result to you if you should persist in what is wrong, it is not necessary that you should know them beforehand. They who wander from duty always plunge themselves into troubles which they do not anticipate; and if you do what, at the time you are doing it, you know to be wrong, it will not be unjust that you should suffer the consequences, even if they were not beforehand understood and expected. This will be the case with you all through life, and it will be the case here.
I say it will be the case here; I ought rather to say that it will be the case should you be so unhappy as to do wrong and to persist in it. Such persistance, however, never occurs—at least it occurs so seldom, and at intervals so great, that every thing of the nature of punishment, that is, the depriving a pupil of any enjoyment, or subjecting her to any disgrace, or giving her pain in any way in consequence of her faults, except the simple pain of awakening conscience in her bosom, is almost entirely unknown. I hope that you will always be ready to confess and forsake your faults, and endeavor, while you remain in school, to improve in character, and attain, as far as possible, every moral excellence.
I ought to remark, before dismissing this topic, that I place very great confidence in the scholars in regard to their moral conduct and deportment, and they fully deserve it. I have no care and no trouble in what is commonly called the government of the school. Neither myself nor any one else is employed in any way in watching the scholars, or keeping any sort of account of them. I should not at any time hesitate to call all the teachers into an adjoining room, leaving the school alone for half an hour, and I should be confident that, at such a time, order, and stillness, and attention to study would prevail as much as ever. The scholars would not look to see whether I was in my desk, but whether the Study Card was up. The school was left in this way, half an hour every day, during a quarter, that we might have a teachers' meeting, and the studies went on generally quite as well, to say the least, as when the teachers were present. One or two instances of irregular conduct occurred. I do not now recollect precisely what they were. They were, however, fully acknowledged and not repeated, and I believe the scholars were generally more scrupulous and faithful then than at other times. They would not betray the confidence reposed in them. This plan was continued until it was found more convenient to have the teachers' meetings in the afternoons.
When any thing wrong is done in school, I generally state the case, and request the individuals who have done it to let me know who they are. They inform me sometimes by notes and sometimes in conversation; but they always inform me. The plan always succeeds. The scholars all know that there is nothing to be feared from confessing faults to me; but that, on the other hand, it is a most direct and certain way to secure returning peace and happiness.
I can illustrate this by describing a case which actually occurred, though the description is not to be considered so much an accurate account of what took place in a particular instance as an illustration of the general spirit and manner in which such cases are disposed of. I accidentally understood that some of the younger scholars were in the habit, during recesses and after school, of ringing the door-bell and then running away, to amuse themselves with the perplexity of their companions who should go to the door and find no one there. I explained in a few words, one day, to the school, that this was wrong.
"How many," I then asked, "have ever been put to the trouble to go to the door when the bell has thus been rung? They may rise."
A very large number of scholars stood up. Those who had done the mischief were evidently surprised at the extent of the trouble they had occasioned.