except in a few sheltered crafts like the building trades, in which traditional techniques remained intact. In the fluid, ever-changing environment of the United States after 1870, children no longer took it for granted that they would usually follow the occupations of their parents. Kinship networks were no longer adequate, and an alternative method of finding niches for the young or of sorting them out and preparing them for future careers was essential. Americans thrust the responsibility for performing that function upon the schools and, in the process, transformed the system of education so that it could do the job of selection and of vocational training. The schools were the appropriate instruments because they had long asserted the claim that they were useful and at the same time the conveyors of culture; they could demonstrate the validity of their claim by providing a series of filters at the crucial stages of life which would direct each individual to the station his talents deserved. The Jeffersonian view of education as an instrument for defining the aristocracy of talent to lead the Nation thus broadened into a vision of a mechanism for assigning all places in society. The concept of the school as the testing ground for ability was in accord with the democratic impulses gaining power as the century drew to a close. It offered a means of dissolving all the relics of privilege and inherited status which limited equality of opportunity. Within the walls of the school neither family, nor wealth, nor race, nor creed would count, only merit. On this neutral ground, therefore, each person could compete without handicap in the contest for the success to which all aspired. That the practice fell far short of these standards, and that family, race, and creed still counted did not diminish the power of the ideal. own For a century, American schools struggled to adapt themselves for service as channels of social mobility. Only criteria, administration, organization, and teaching that were uniform and standard would enable them to turn out a product bearing credentials recognizable as valid in every part of the country. The old hit-ormiss days when each institution devised its curriculum and hired whatever instructors it could afford were no longer adequate. A system developed within which the child passed through successive, clearly articulated stages to his destination. Elementary, secondary, and higher education formed a three-tiered mechanism of scrutiny, teaching, and testing, in the effort to locate ability and to direct each pupil to his or her proper role in life. To insure the efficiency of the process demanded professionalism of staff. Trained teachers and administrators would not only command knowledge of the subjects taught but also of the procedures for conveying the information and skills and for evaluating the progress of the students. The evolving bureaucratic structure crowded out the casuals who had formerly moved in and out of teaching, the expedients being to insist upon a defined course of preparation and to establish firm qualifications for entering upon and advancing in careers in the schools. In retrospect, the imperfections of the system are evident. Residual biases favored some families, ethnic groups, regions, and classes at the expense of others. From the perspective of the 1970s, the conditions of a more competition seem to have been far from equal, and the very conception of a meritoriented competitive process may be questioned. But viewed in the context of the era in which it developed, the educational system deserves favorable judgment; in a period of rapid change, it undoubtedly furthered social mobility and it inhibited stratification, thus helping to preserve in an industrial environment the open access to opportunity the frontier had provided in the rural past. The evolving American schools after 1870 also performed another social function. Ever more often they were expected, in addition to whatever else they did, to act as agencies of acculturation and assimilation, instructing their charges in a wide variety of modes of correct behavior, ranging in scope from the proper methods of brushing the teeth to safe driving. All those matters of health, hygiene, manners, and morals had formerly been among the duties of the family and the church. Changing circumstances had brought them within the orbit of the school. A relatively homogeneous, largely rural society had been able to leave these concerns in private hands on the assumption that everyone shared the same communal views and attitudes. Any child, reared in any good family and any church, would learn the same lessons of duties to himself and to his neighbors. The few who did not were subject to correction and care by institutions for deviants. lost their binding quality, the influence of parents and churches grew weaker, and the intermixture of diverse peoples undermined the assumption that all shared the same values. Old maxims did not readily apply to the new circumstances; the tried and true injunctions to neighborliness, thrift, honesty, and respect for the rights of others did not as neatly fit the circumstances on the sidewalks of New York as they had down on the farm. The discrepancies were most evident in relationship with the millions of European, Canadian, and Mexican immigrants. The men and women who met the Nation's need for labor seemed totally alien, babbling away in incomprehensible tongues, worshiping in strange churches, and set apart by culture, life style, and ways of thinking. There could be no assurance that the Poles, Italians, Jews, and Turks who resided in close propinquity to one another and to the native Americans could comprehend one another or coexist without conflict or disorder. Yet the children growing up in all such families were Americans; and they would some day have to deal as citizens with New World problems. They could hardly be expected to learn to do so in Old World homes. They would have to find the way through some other agency. The plight of the children of native Americans, while less visible, was almost as grave. They too suffered from the inadequacy of the training available from their parents. As well expect the coachman to teach his sons to drive a locomotive or motor car as expect him to instruct them in the behavior metropolitan life demanded. And indeed, as authority drained away from the family and the church, parents themselves welcomed the opportunity to transfer elsewhere the responsibility for socializing their offspring. The burden fell upon the already overburdened educational system. The schools were repositories of the sciences. which steadily displaced tradition as the source of answers to the important questions of life. To the extent that people sought guidance from medicine. economics, and sociology rather than from the memories of their grandparents, it made sense to entrust children to the institutions which conveyed these organized bodies of knowledge. The schools had the prestige, which family and church lost, to set the standards of correct behavior and thought. Nevertheless, the schools did not threaten the diversity characteristic of society in the United States. No single group had the power through them to impose its preferences upon the others. Neutrality was a political necessity of public educational systems which could not risk the enmity of any bloc of voters; and dissenters, anyway, always had the option of founding private schools of their own. As a result, deviant views were generally tolerated, even if not accorded complete Master Dove's One-Room School toward the schoolhouse. Following 35 or so other boys of assorted ages, sizes, and backgrounds, he neatly vaulted the twofoot wooden fence, ran up the path, and pushed inside the door of the one-room, wooden building. The year was 1775 in the Massachusetts Colony, and Jeremiah Gladstone was nine years old. Once inside, the boys wasted no time in finding their seats, for Master Dove was not noted for dealing kindly with tardy pupils. The Master arrived promptly at 7 a.m. in the spring and fall and 8 a.m. in the winter, and he expected to see his students in their seats when he arrived. Jeremiah was not interested in incurring the Master's wrath, so he wedged himself onto one of the backless benches in the first row, on the side of the room. There were two rows of pine benches on three sides of the room, facing the huge, pot-bellied stove in the center. Behind the benches, against each wall, there was a continuous, sloping shelf at waist level which the older students used - as a support to lean against while they were studying, and as a desk while they were writing. There was a narrower shelf under it on which they could store their books and supplies. Within the square of the outer benches, there was a line of lower benches for the smaller children. The space in the middle of the room served as a kind of stage for recitations. The Master's desk was in the front of the room, next to the door. Jeremiah knew that inside that massive piece of oak were the tops, balls, marbles, and other forbidden items which Master Dove confiscated from his pupils with uncanny regularity. Just yesterday, Jeremiah himself had been the victim of the Master's quick hand, and had lost the prized penknife which his older brother Thomas had entrusted to him last summer. He had promised to guard it while Thomas was away at college in nearby Cambridge, and Jeremiah dreaded disappointing his brother. While he brooded, the din in the classroom mounted to an earsplitting pitch. Then suddenly it stopped, and the room became silent. Jeremiah dragged himself out of his miserable reverie and waited expectantly for Master Dove to march through the door. As usual, he prayed that one of these days the Master would arrive having been transformed the previous night into a kind, twinkling man; maybe someone like his uncle Joseph, who always had a piece of maple sugar in his pocket and could make anyone laugh. But, alas, today was not the day, for in strode Master Dove looking rigid and sour, brandishing the dreaded, ever-present ferule, with his three-cornered hat riding majestically atop his impeccable gray wig. Even his worn gray silk waistcoat with its rows of silver buttons rode rigidly on his lanky frame, as if reluctant to flow naturally for fear of being punished. Jeremiah found it hard to believe that the schoolmaster had been born with such a sour disposition, and he was forever looking for some sad, mystical reason for Master Dove's transformation. The lad's father, who knew a lot about most things and didn't put much stock in sad mysticism, said that Master Dove was probably "of a sour bent" because he had to work very hard, not only teaching his pupils but also helping to maintain the school building, for which he was paid only £30 per year. Jeremiah thought that was a lot of money to pay such a crotchety person. "Good morning, Master Dove," chanted the boys in unison, at no seeming cue other than the Master's arrival at his desk. He peered over the top of his square, tortoiseshell glasses, and gazed at his charges who shifted uncomfortably against one another. Jeremiah knew by heart what the procedure for the day would be. It would start with the "first class" (the oldest boys) reading from the Scriptures. Then would come the thawing and watering of the ink, in preparation for writing, which consumed a major portion of the morning. Not a meticulous person by nature, Jeremiah didn't care much for the discipline involved in copying for page after page such phrases as "Contentment is a virtue" or "Procrastination is the thief of time" - two of Master Dove's favorites until he had mastered the letters. He was consoled, nevertheless, by his fascination with the ink he used and the process of inkmaking that his father had taught him when he started going to school. Together they had gathered the bark of swamp maple and boiled it in an iron kettle to give it a more perfect black color. When it thickened, they had added copperas, or green vitriol to it. Jeremiah loved to dip his quill pen into the ink and make huge swirls on his paper, but he knew that paper was scarce and must not be wasted. After writing, it would be the turn of the second class to read from the Scriptures, and then the turn of Jeremiah's class. After that, the smallest children would be called out to read a sentence or two from their reader, the Hornbook, since they were not yet ready to read from the Scriptures. Jeremiah still had his Hornbook, which really wasn't a book at all. It was a thin runs the Glass, n's life doth pass. book and Heart all never part. feels the rod, blesses God. nd roop S P. Korah's swallowed - Lion bold - Lamb doth old. Moon gives ght Nightingales sing In time of spring. Peter denies His Lord, and cries. Rachel doth mourn For her first-born. Samuel anoints Whom God appoints. board on which was pasted a printed leaf containing the alphabet and some short sentences. This was covered with a thin sheet of transparent horn to protect it from the invariably dirty fingers it would fall prey to. Promptly at half past ten each morning, the boys were allowed to go outside for a short recess. On the way back inside, each child was permitted a drink of water from the pail near the door, but Jeremiah was always one of the last ones back inside so he generally got only a longing look at the water, and a menacing look from Master Dove. The rest of the morning was spent working on spelling, and Jeremiah liked to make this part of the day into a game. While Master Dove read out words from the handsome WATTS Compleat SPELLING-BOOK, and then waited as the class spelled the words out loud, Jeremiah tried to see how often he could be the first to finish. And then it was time for lunch. Jeremiah walked the half-mile home for lunch with his cousin George, who was 11 and in the first class, and George's brother Matthew, who was seven and, to Jeremiah's mind, a hateful pest. Jeremiah wished his own brothers were closer to him in age so they could walk home from school with him, but Thomas was 15 and studying at Harvard College, and Jabez was only three. Nearer his own age were his two sisters, ten-year-old Abigail, and Rebecca, who was eight and his favorite. Their days were spent at home with their mother, learning how to cook and sew, because as Jeremiah's father rightly said, "A gentleman has no interest in an educated woman." Jeremiah thought that this made sense because most girls were silly anyway, although he recently overheard his parents saying that some of the daughters of the townspeople were attending school for a couple of hours ame of night. God's voice obey. Xerxes the Great did die, And so must you and I. Youth forward slips Death soonest nips. Zaccheus, he Did climb the tree, His Lord to see. each day after the boys went home. Supposedly the schools were built for everyone, rich or poor, and to some people that even meant girls. Abigail and Rebecca, however, took dancing lessons instead because their parents thought that was more important. After lunch, Jeremiah returned to school for the afternoon, which commenced with each class reading out loud in turn from The New England Primer, an 88-page, 31/2-inch by 4 1/2-inch leather-bound book which, except for some spelling lessons and an occasional illustration, didn't hold Jeremiah's interest. He knew it was important to learn the Westminster Catechism, but he had great difficulty memorizing the tedious questions and answers. He forced himself to concentrate on it because he knew he would have to recite a portion this Sunday in church, and he definitely didn't want to disgrace his family by not being prepared. Aside from the obvious embarrassment in church for any child who had not memorized his catechism, Master Dove's own brand of disapproval, manifested with the help of the ferule, was not something Jeremiah coveted. When each class had completed.its reading from the primer, there was more spelling, and finally some arithmetic. There was no textbook for this study, but Master Dove, like most schoolmasters, gave each boy pages of handwritten rules and problems from a manuscript sum-book which he had studied from when he was a boy. Jeremiah couldn't imagine that the Master had ever been a boy, much less one who had had as much trouble struggling with problems and sums as Jeremiah himself did. The boys were usually weary by this time, because the day was long, and they knew it was almost five o'clock, the time that school was dismissed. The fire in the stove was waning, and Jeremiah was chilly and hungry. The dismally vacant walls and stained, gritty windows didn't do much to cheer him up, and he sorely wished there was something of interest in the classroom for him to look at. Across the room, two of the youngest boys were fidgeting and pushing each other, trying to see who would be forced off the bench and into the Master's wrath first. Jeremiah hoped that school would end before the Master caught them. "And tomorrow, Jeremiah Gladstone will light the fire before school." Master Dove planted his hat firmly on his curls, and strode from the room. Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief and suddenly, forgetting his fatigue, hunger, or the cold, ran from the schoolhouse to find that squirrel. -JUDITH SELDEN Ms. Selden is a junior high school English teacher in Weston, Massachusetts. |