International Education Series

EDITED BY
WILLIAM T. HARRIS, A. M., LL. D.

Volume XVII.

THE
INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES.

12mo, cloth, uniform binding.

The International Education Series was projected for the purpose of bringing together in orderly arrangement the best writings, new and old, upon educational subjects, and presenting a complete course of reading and training for teachers generally. It is edited by W. T. Harris, LL. D., United States Commissioner of Education, who has contributed for the different volumes in the way of introductions, analysis, and commentary. The volumes are tastefully and substantially bound in uniform style.

VOLUMES NOW READY.

Vol. I.—THE PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION. By Johann K. F. Rosenkranz, Doctor of Theology and Professor of Philosophy, University of Königsberg. Translated by Anna C. Brackett. Second edition, revised, with Commentary and complete Analysis. $1.50.

Vol. II.—A HISTORY OF EDUCATION. By F. V. N. Painter, A. M., Professor of Modern Languages and Literature, Roanoke College, Va. $1.50.

Vol. III.—THE RISE AND EARLY CONSTITUTION OF UNIVERSITIES. With a Survey of Mediæval Education. By S. S. Laurie, LL. D., Professor of the Institutes and History of Education, University of Edinburgh. $1.50.

Vol. IV.—THE VENTILATION AND WARMING OF SCHOOL BUILDINGS. By Gilbert B. Morrison, Teacher of Physics and Chemistry, Kansas City High School. $1.00.

Vol. V.—THE EDUCATION OF MAN. By Friedrich Froebel. Translated and annotated by W. N. Hailmann, A. M., Superintendent of Public Schools, La Porte, Ind. $1.50.

Vol. VI.—ELEMENTARY PSYCHOLOGY AND EDUCATION. By Joseph Baldwin, A.M., LL. D., author of “The Art of School Management.” $1.50.

Vol. VII.—THE SENSES AND THE WILL. (Part I of “The Mind of the Child.”) By W. Preyer, Professor of Physiology in Jena. Translated by H. W. Brown, Teacher in the State Normal School at Worcester, Mass. $1.50.

Vol. VIII.—MEMORY: What it is and how to Improve it. By David Kay, F. R. G. S., author of “Education and Educators,” etc. $1.50.

Vol. IX.—THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE INTELLECT. (Part II of “The Mind of the Child.”) By W. Preyer, Professor of Physiology in Jena. Translated by H. W. Brown. $1.50.

Vol. X.—HOW TO STUDY GEOGRAPHY. A Practical Exposition of Methods and Devices in Teaching Geography which apply the Principles and Plans of Ritter and Guyot. By Francis W. Parker, Principal of the Cook County (Illinois) Normal School. $1.50.

Vol. XI.—EDUCATION IN THE UNITED STATES: Its History from the Earliest Settlements. By Richard G. Boone, A. M., Professor of Pedagogy, Indiana University. $1.50.

Vol. XII.—EUROPEAN SCHOOLS: or, What I Saw in the Schools of Germany, France, Austria, and Switzerland. By L. R. Klemm, Ph. D., Principal of the Cincinnati Technical School. Fully illustrated. $2.00.

Vol. XIII.—PRACTICAL HINTS FOR THE TEACHERS OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS. By George Howland, Superintendent of the Chicago Public Schools. $1.00.

Vol. XIV.—PESTALOZZI: His Life and Work. By Roger de Guimps. Authorized Translation from the second French edition, by J. Russell, B. A. With an Introduction by Rev. R. H. Quick, M. A. $1.50.

Vol. XV.—SCHOOL SUPERVISION. By J. L. Pickard, LL. D. $1.00.

Vol. XVI.—HIGHER EDUCATION OF WOMEN IN EUROPE. By Helene Lange, Berlin. Translated and accompanied by comparative statistics by L. R. Klemm. $1.00.

Vol. XVII.—ESSAYS ON EDUCATIONAL REFORMERS. By Robert Herbert Quick, M. A., Trinity College, Cambridge. Only authorized edition of the work as rewritten in 1890. $1.50.

Vol. XVIII.—A TEXT-BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY. By Johann Friedrich Herbart. Translated by Margaret K. Smith. $1.00.

Vol. XIX.—PSYCHOLOGY APPLIED TO THE ART OF TEACHING. By Joseph Baldwin, A. M., LL. D. $1.50.

Vol. XX.—ROUSSEAU’S ÉMILE: or, Treatise on Education. Translated and annotated by W. H. Payne, Ph. D., LL. D., Chancellor of the University of Nashville. $1.50.

Vol. XXI.—THE MORAL INSTRUCTION OF CHILDREN. By Felix Adler. $1.50.

Vol. XXII.—ENGLISH EDUCATION IN THE ELEMENTARY AND SECONDARY SCHOOLS. By Isaac Sharpless, LL. D., President of Haverford College. $1.00.

Vol. XXIII.—EDUCATION FROM A NATIONAL STANDPOINT. By Alfred Fouillée. $1.50.

Vol. XXIV.—MENTAL DEVELOPMENT IN THE CHILD. By W. Preyer, Professor of Physiology in Jena. Translated by H. W. Brown. $1.00.

Vol. XXV.—HOW TO STUDY AND TEACH HISTORY. By B. A. Hinsdale, Ph. D., LL. D., University of Michigan. $1.50.

Vol. XXVI.—SYMBOLIC EDUCATION: A Commentary on Froebel’s “Mother Play.” By Susan E. Blow. $1.50.

Vol. XXVII.—SYSTEMATIC SCIENCE TEACHING. By Edward Gardnier Howe. $1.50.

Vol. XXVIII.—THE EDUCATION OF THE GREEK PEOPLE. By Thomas Davidson. $1.50.

Vol. XXIX.—THE EVOLUTION OF THE MASSACHUSETTS PUBLIC-SCHOOL SYSTEM. By G. H. Martin, A.M. $1.50.

Vol. XXX.—PEDAGOGICS OF THE KINDERGARTEN. By Friedrich Froebel. 12mo. $1.50.

Vol. XXXI.—THE MOTTOES AND COMMENTARIES OF FRIEDRICH FROEBEL’S MOTHER PLAY. By Susan E. Blow and Henrietta R. Eliot. $1.50.

Vol. XXXII.—THE SONGS AND MUSIC OF FROEBEL’S MOTHER PLAY. By Susan E. Blow. $1.50.

Vol. XXXIII.—THE PSYCHOLOGY OF NUMBER, and its Applications to Methods of Teaching Arithmetic. By James A. McLellan, A. M., and John Dewey, Ph. D. $1.50.

Vol. XXXIV.—TEACHING THE LANGUAGE-ARTS. Speech, Reading, Composition. By B. A. Hinsdale, Ph. D., LL. D., Professor of Science and the Art of Teaching in the University of Michigan. $1.00.

Vol. XXXV.—THE INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE CHILD. Part I. Containing Chapters on Perception, Emotion, Memory, Imagination, and Consciousness. By Gabriel Compayré. Translated from the French by Mary E. Wilson, B. L. Smith College, Member of the Graduate Seminary in Child Study, University of California. $1.50.

Vol. XXXVI.—HERBART’S A B C OF SENSE-PERCEPTION, AND INTRODUCTORY WORKS. By William J. Eckoff, Ph. D., Pd. D., Professor of Pedagogy in the University of Illinois; Author of “Kant’s Inaugural Dissertation.” $1.50.

Vol. XXXVII.—PSYCHOLOGIC FOUNDATIONS OF EDUCATION. By William T. Harris, A. M., LL. D.

Vol. XXXVIII.—THE SCHOOL SYSTEM OF ONTARIO. By the Hon. George W. Ross, LL. D., Minister of Education for the Province of Ontario. $1.00

Vol. XXXIX.—PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF TEACHING. By James Johonnot. $1.50.

Vol. XL.—SCHOOL MANAGEMENT AND SCHOOL METHODS. By Joseph Baldwin.

OTHERS IN PREPARATION.

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 72 Fifth Avenue.

INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES

ESSAYS ON
EDUCATIONAL REFORMERS

BY
ROBERT HEBERT QUICK
M. A. TRIN. COLL., CAMBRIDGE
FORMERLY ASSISTANT MASTER AT HARROW, AND LECTURER ON
THE HISTORY OF EDUCATION AT CAMBRIDGE
LATE VICAR OF SEDBERGH

ONLY AUTHORIZED EDITION OF THE WORK
AS REWRITTEN IN 1890

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1896

Copyright, 1890,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

To
DR. HENRY BARNARD,
The first United States Commissioner of Education,
WHO IN A LONG LIFE OF
SELF-SACRIFICING LABOUR HAS GIVEN TO THE ENGLISH
LANGUAGE AN EDUCATIONAL LITERATURE,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED,
WITH THE ESTEEM AND ADMIRATION OF
THE AUTHOR.

Οὺ γὰρ ἔστι περὶ ὅτου θειοτέρου ἄνθρωπος ἄν βουλεύσαιτο, ὴ περὶ παιδείας καὶ τῶν αὑτοῦ και τῶν οἰκείων. Plato in initio Theagis (p. 122 B).

Socrates saith plainlie, that “no man goeth about a more godlie purpose, than he that is mindfull of the good bringing up both of hys owne and other men’s children.”—Ascham’s Scholemaster. Preface.

Fundamentum totius reipublicæ est recta juventutis educatio.

The very foundation of the whole commonwealth is the proper bringing up of the young.—Cic.

EDITOR’S PREFACE.

Many years ago I proposed to my friend Mr. Quick to rewrite his Educational Reformers, making some additions (Sturm and Froebel, for example), and allow me to place it in this series of educational works. I had read his essays when they first appeared, and noted their great value as a contribution to the right kind of educational literature. They showed admirable tact in the selection of the materials; the “epoch-making” writers were chosen and the things that had been said and done of permanent value were brought forward. Better than all was the running commentary on these materials by Mr. Quick himself. His style was popular, taking the reader, as it were, into confidential relations with him from the start, and offering now and then a word of criticism in the most judicial spirit, leaning neither to the extreme of destructive radicalism, which seeks revolution rather than reform, nor, on the other hand, to the extreme of blind conservatism, which wishes to preserve the vesture of the past rather than its wisdom.

I have called this book of Mr. Quick the most valuable history of education in our mother-tongue, fit only to be compared with Karl von Raumer’s Geschichte der Pädagogik for its presentation of essentials and for the sanity of its verdicts.

I made my proposal that he “rewrite” his book because I knew that he considered his first edition hastily written and, in many respects, not adequate to the ideal he had conceived of the book. I knew, moreover, that years of continued thinking on a theme necessarily modifies one’s views. He would wish to make some changes in matter presented, some in judgments rendered, and many more in style of presentation.

Hence it has come about that after this lapse of time Mr. Quick has produced a substantially new book, which, retaining all or nearly all of the admirable features of the first edition, has brought up to their standard of excellence many others.

The history of education is a vast field, and we are accustomed to demand bulky treatises as the only adequate ones. But the obvious disadvantage of such works has led to the clearly defined ideal of a book like Mr. Quick’s, which separates the gold from the dross, and offers it small in bulk but precious in value.

The educational reformers are the men above all others who stimulate us to think about education. Every one of these was an extremist, and erred in his judgment as to the value of the methods which prevailed in his time, and also overestimated the effects of the new education that he proposed in the place of the old. But thought begins with negations, and originality shows itself first not in creating something new, but in removing the fettering limitations of its existing environment. The old is attacked—its good and its bad are condemned alike. It has been imposed on us by authority, and we have not been allowed to summon it before the bar of our reason and ask of it its credentials. It informs us that it presented these credentials ages ago to our ancestors—men older and wiser than we are. Such imposition of authority leaves us no choice but to revolt. We, too, have a right to think as well as our ancestors; we, too, must clear up the ground of our belief and substitute insight for blind faith in tradition.

These educational reformers are prophets of the clearing-up period (Aufklärung) of revolution against mere authority.

While we are inspired to think for ourselves, however, we must not neglect that more important matter of thinking the truth. Free-thinking, if it does not reach the truth, is not of great value. It sets itself as puny individual against the might of the race, which preserves its experience in the forms of institutions—the family, the social organism, the state, the Church.

Hence our wiser and more scientific method studies everything that is, or exists, in its history, and endeavors to discover how it came to be what it is. It inquires into its evolution. The essential truth is not the present fact, but the entire process by which the present fact grew to be what it is. For the living force that made the present fact made also the past facts antecedent to the present, and it will go on making subsequent facts. The revelation of the living forces which make the facts of existence is the object of science. It takes all these facts to reveal the living force that is acting and producing them.

Hence the scientific attitude is superior to the attitude of these educational reformers, and we shall in our own minds weigh these men in our scales, asking first of all: What is their view of the world? How much do they value human institutions? How much do they know of the substantial good that is wrought by those institutions? If they know nothing of these things, if they see only incumbrance in these institutions, if to them the individual is the measure of all things, we can not do reverence to their proposed remedies, but must account their value to us chiefly this, that they have stimulated us to thinking, and helped us to discover what they have not discovered—namely, the positive value of institutions.

All education deals with the boundary between ignorance and knowledge and between bad habits and good ones. The pupil as pupil brings with him the ignorance and the bad habits, and is engaged in acquiring good habits and correct knowledge.

This situation gives us a general recipe for a frequently recurring type of educational reformer. Any would-be reformer may take his stand on the boundary mentioned, and, casting an angry look at the realm of ignorance and bad habit not yet conquered, condemn in wholesale terms the system of education that has not been efficient in removing this mental and moral darkness.

Such a reformer selects an examination paper written by a pupil whose ignorance is not yet vanquished, and parades the same as a product of the work of the school, taking great pains to avoid an accurate and just admeasurement of the actual work done by the school. The reformer critic assumes that there is one factor here, whereas there are three factors—namely, (a) the pupil’s native and acquired powers of learning, (b) his actual knowledge acquired, and (c) the instruction given by the school. The school is not responsible for the first and second of these factors, but it is responsible only for what increment has grown under its tutelage. How much and what has the pupil increased his knowledge, and how much his power of acquiring knowledge and of doing?

The educational reformer is always telling us to leave words and take up things. He dissuades from the study of language, and also undervalues the knowledge of manners and customs and laws and usages. He dislikes the study of institutions even. He “loves Nature,” as he informs us. Herbert Spencer wants us to study the body, and to be more interested in biology than in formal logic; more interested in natural history than in literature. But I think he would be indignant if one were to ask him whether he thought the study of the habits and social instincts of bees and ants is less important than the study of insect anatomy and physiology. Anatomy and physiology are, of course, important, but the social organism is more important than the physiological organism, even in bees and ants.

So in man the social organism is transcendent as compared with human physiology, and social hygiene compared with physiological hygiene is supreme.

To suppose that the habits of plants and insects are facts, and that the structure of human languages, the logical structure of the mind itself as revealed in the figures and modes of the syllogism and the manners and customs of social life, the deep ethical principles which govern peoples as revealed in works of literature—to suppose that these and the like of these are not real facts and worthy of study is one of the strangest delusions that has ever prevailed.

But it is a worse delusion to suppose that the study of Nature is more practical than the study of man, though this is often enough claimed by the educational reformers.

The knowledge of most worth is first and foremost the knowledge of how to behave—a knowledge of social customs and usages. Any person totally ignorant in this regard would not escape imprisonment—perhaps I should say decapitation—for one day in any city of the world—say in London, in Pekin, in Timbuctoo, or in a pueblo of Arizona. A knowledge of human customs and usages, next a knowledge of human views of Nature and man—these are of primordial necessity to an individual, and are means of direct self-preservation.

The old trivium or threefold course of study at the university taught grammar, logic, and rhetoric—namely, (1) the structure of language, (2) the structure of mind and the art of reasoning, (3) the principles and art of persuasion. These may be seen at once to be lofty subjects and worthy objects of science. They will always remain such, but they are not easy for the child. In the course of mastering them he must learn to master himself and gain great intellectual stature. Pedagogy has wisely graded the road to these heights, and placed much easier studies at the beginning and also made the studies more various. Improvements in methods and in grading—devices for interesting the pupil—so essential to his self-activity, for these we have to thank the Educational Reformers.

W. T. Harris.

Washington, D. C., 1890.

PREFACE TO EDITION OF 1868.

“It is clear that in whatever it is our duty to act, those matters also it is our duty to study.” These words of Dr. Arnold’s seem to me incontrovertible. So a sense of duty, as well as fondness for the subject, has led me to devote a period of leisure to the study of Education, in the practice of which I have been for some years engaged.

There are countries where it would be considered a truism that a teacher in order to exercise his profession intelligently should know something about the chief authorities in it. Here, however, I suppose such an assertion will seem paradoxical; but there is a good deal to be said in defence of it. De Quincey has pointed out that a man who takes up any pursuit without knowing what advances others have made in it works at a great disadvantage. He does not apply his strength in the right direction, he troubles himself about small matters and neglects great, he falls into errors that have long since been exploded. An educator is, I think, liable to these dangers if he brings to his task no knowledge but that which he learnt for the tripos, and no skill but that which he acquired in the cricket ground or on the river. If his pupils are placed entirely in his hands, his work is one of great difficulty, with heavy penalties attached to all blundering in it; though here, as in the case of the ignorant doctor and the careless architect, the penalties, unfortunately, are paid by his victims. If (as more commonly happens) he has simply to give a class prescribed instruction, his smaller scope of action limits proportionally the mischief that may ensue; but even then it is obviously desirable that his teaching should be as good as possible, and he is not likely to employ the best methods if he invents as he goes along, or simply falls back on his remembrance of how he was taught himself, perhaps in very different circumstances. I venture to think, therefore, that practical men in education, as in most other things, may derive benefit from the knowledge of what has already been said and done by the leading men engaged in it, both past and present.

All study of this kind, however, is very much impeded by want of books. “Good books are in German,” says Professor Seeley. I have found that on the history of Education, not only good books but all books are in German or some other foreign language.[1] I have, therefore, thought it worth while to publish a few such imperfect sketches as these, with which the reader can hardly be less satisfied than the author. They may, however, prove useful till they give place to a better book.

Several of the following essays are nothing more than compilations. Indeed, a hostile critic might assert that I had used the scissors with the energy of Mr. Timbs and without his discretion. The reader, however, will probably agree with me that I have done wisely in putting before him the opinions of great writers in their own language. Where I am simply acting as reporter, the author’s own way of expressing himself is obviously the best; and if, following the example of the gipsies and Sir Fretful Plagiary, I had disfigured other people’s offspring to make them pass for my own, success would have been fatal to the purpose I have steadily kept in view. The sources of original ideas in any subject, as the student is well aware, are few, but for irrigation we require troughs as well as water-springs, and these essays are intended to serve in the humbler capacity.

A word about the incomplete handling of my subjects. I have not attempted to treat any subject completely, or even with anything like completeness. In giving a sketch of the opinions of an author one of two methods must be adopted; we may give an epitome of all that he has said, or by confining ourselves to his more valuable and characteristic opinions, may gain space to give these fully. As I detest epitomes, I have adopted the latter method exclusively, but I may sometimes have failed in selecting an author’s most characteristic principles; and probably no two readers of a book would entirely agree as to what was most valuable in it: so my account must remain, after all, but a poor substitute for the author himself.

For the part of a critic I have at least one qualification—practical acquaintance with the subject. As boy or master, I have been connected with no less than eleven schools, and my perception of the blunders of other teachers is derived mainly from the remembrance of my own. Some of my mistakes have been brought home to me by reading works on education, even those with which I do not in the main agree. Perhaps there are teachers who on looking through the following pages may meet with a similar experience.

Had the essays been written in the order in which they stand, a good deal of repetition might have been avoided, but this repetition has at least the advantage of bringing out points which seem to me important; and as no one will read the book as carefully as I have done, I hope no one will be so much alive to this and other blemishes in it.

I much regret that in a work which is nothing if it is not practically useful, I have so often neglected to mark the exact place from which quotations are taken. I have myself paid the penalty of this carelessness in the trouble it has cost me to verify passages which seemed inaccurate.

The authority I have had recourse to most frequently is Raumer (Geschichte der Pädagogik). In his first two volumes he gives an account of the chief men connected with education, from Dante to Pestalozzi. The third volume contains essays on various parts of education, and the fourth is devoted to German Universities. There is an English translation, published in America, of the fourth volume only. I confess to a great partiality for Raumer—a partiality which is not shared by a Saturday Reviewer and by other competent authorities in this country. But surely a German author who is not profound, and is almost perspicuous, has some claim on the gratitude of English readers, if he gives information which we cannot get in our own language. To Raumer I am indebted for all that I have written about Ratke, and almost all about Basedow. Elsewhere his history has been used, though not to the same extent.

C. A. Schmid’s Encyclopädie des Erziehungs-und-Unterrichtswesens is a vast mine of information on everything connected with education. The work is still in progress. The part containing Rousseau has only just reached me. I should have been glad of it when I was giving an account of the Emile, as Raumer was of little use to me.

Those for whom Schmid is too diffuse and expensive will find Carl Gottlob Hergang’s Pädagogische Realencyclopädie useful. This is in two thick volumes, and costs, to the best of my memory, about eighteen shillings. It was finished in 1847.

The best sketch I have met with of the general history of education is in the article on Pädagogik in Meyers Conversations-Lexicon.[2] I wish someone would translate this article; and I should be glad to draw the attention of the editor of an educational periodical, say the Museum or the Quarterly Journal of Education, to it.

I have come upon references to many other works on the history of Education, but of these the only ones I have seen are Theodore Fritz’s Esquisse d’un Système complet d’instruction et d’éducation et de leur histoire (3 vols., Strasburg, 1843), and Carl Schmidt’s Geschichte der Pädagogik (4 vols.). The first of these gives only the outline of the subject. The second is, I believe, considered a standard work. It does not seem to me so readable as Raumer’s history, but it is much more complete, and comes down to quite recent times.

For my account of the Jesuit schools and of Pestalozzi, the authorities will be found elsewhere (pp. 34 and 383). In writing about Comenius I have had much assistance from a life of him prefixed to an English translation of his School of Infancy, by Daniel Benham (London, 1858). For almost all the information given about Jacotot, I am indebted to Mr. Payne’s papers, which I should not have ventured to extract from so freely if they had been before the public in a more permanent form.

I am sorry I cannot refer to any English works on the history of Education, except the essays of Mr. Parker and Mr. Furnivall, and Christian Schools and Scholars, which are mentioned above, but we have a very good treatise on the principles of education in Marcel’s Language as a Means of Mental Culture (2 vols., London, 1853). Edgeworth’s Practical Education seems falling into undeserved neglect, and Mr. Spencer’s recent work is not universally known even by schoolmasters.

If the following pages attract but few readers, it will be some consolation, though rather a melancholy one, that I share the fate of my betters.

R. H. Q.

Ingatestone, Essex, May, 1868.

PREFACE TO EDITION OF 1890.

When I was a young man (i.e., nearly forty years ago), I once did what those who know the ground would declare a very risky, indeed, a fool-hardy thing. I was at the highest point of the Gemmi Pass in Switzerland, above the Rhone Valley; and being in a hurry to get down and overtake my party I ran from the top to the bottom. The path in those days was not so good as it is now, and it is so near the precipice that a few years afterwards a lady in descending lost her head and fell over. No doubt I was in great danger of a drop of a thousand feet or so. But of this I was totally unconscious. I was in a thick mist, and saw the path for a few yards in front of me and nothing more. When I think of the way in which this book was written three and twenty years ago I can compare it to nothing but my first descent of the Gemmi. I did a very risky thing without knowing it. My path came into view little by little as I went on. All else was hid from me by a thick mist of ignorance. When I began the book I knew next to nothing of the Reformers, but I studied hard and wrote hard, and I turned out the essays within the year. This feat I now regard with amazement, almost with horror. Since that time I have given more years of work to the subject than I had then given months, and the consequence is I find I can write fast no longer. The mist has in a measure cleared off, and I cannot jog along in comfort as I did when I saw less. At the same time I have no reason to repent of the adventure. Being fortunate in my plan and thoroughly interested by my subject, I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations in getting others to take an interest in it also. The small English edition of 500 copies was, as soon as I reduced the price, sold off immediately, and the book has been, in England, for twenty years “out of print.” But no less than three publishing firms in the United States have reprinted it (one quite recently) without my consent, and, except in the edition of Messrs. R. Clarke & Co., Cincinnati, with omissions and additions made without my knowledge. It seems then that the book will live for some years yet, whether I like it or not; and while it lives I wish it to be in a form somewhat less defective than at its first appearance. I have therefore in a great measure re-written it, beside filling in a gap here and there with an additional essay. Perhaps some critics will call it a new book with an old title. If they do, they will I trust allow that the new book has at least two merits which went far to secure the success of the old, 1st, a good title, and 2nd, a good plan. My plan in both editions has been to select a few people who seemed specially worth knowing about, and to tell concerning them in some detail just that which seemed to me specially worth knowing. So I have given what I thought very valuable or very interesting, and everything I thought not particularly valuable or interesting I have ruthlessly omitted. I have not attempted a complete account of anybody or anything; and as for what the examiner may “set,” I have not once given his questions a thought.

As the book is likely to have more readers in the country of its adoption than in the country of its birth, I have persuaded my friend Dr. William T. Harris, the United States Commissioner of Education, to put it into “The International Education Series” which he edits. So the only authorized editions of the book are the English edition, and the American edition published by Messrs. D. Appleton & Co.

R. H. Q.

Earlswood Cottage, Redhill, Surrey, England, 28th July, 1890.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

I
EFFECTS OF THE RENASCENCE.

§ 1. The history of education, much as it has been hitherto neglected, especially in England, must have a great future before it. If we ignore the Past we cannot understand the Present, or forecast the Future. In this book I am going to speak of Reformers or Innovators who aimed at changing what was handed down to them; but the Radical can no more escape from the Past, than the Conservative can stereotype it. It acts not by attraction only, but no less by repulsion. There have been thinkers in latter times who have announced themselves as the executioners of the Past and laboured to destroy all it has bequeathed to us. They have raised the ferocious cry, “Vive la destruction! Vive la mort! Place à l’avenir! Hurrah for destruction! Hurrah for death! Make room for the world that is to be!” But their very hatred of the Past has brought them under the influence of it. “Do just the opposite of what has been done and you will do right,” said Rousseau; and this rule of negation would make the Past regulate the Present and the Future no less than its opposite, “Do always what is usual.”

If we cannot get free from the Past in the domain of thought, still less can we in action. Custom is to all our activities what the mainspring is to the watch. We may bring forces into play to make the watch go faster or slower, but if we took out the mainspring it would not go at all. For our mainspring we are indebted to the Past.

§ 2. In studying the Past we must give our special attention to those periods in which the course of ideas takes, as the French say, a new bend.[3] Such a period was the Renascence. Then it was that the latest bend was given to the educational ideal of the civilized world; and though we seem now again to have arrived at a period of change, we are still, perhaps far more than we are aware, affected by the ideas of the great scholars who guided the intellect of Europe in the Revival of Learning.

§ 3. From the beginning to the end of the fifteenth century the balance was trembling between two kinds of culture, and the fate of the schoolboy depended on the result. In this century men first got a correct conception of the globe they were inhabiting. Hitherto they had not even professed to have any knowledge of geography; there is no mention of it in the Trivium and Quadrivium which were then supposed to form the cycle of things known, if not of things knowable. But Columbus and Vasco da Gama were grand teachers of geography, and their lessons were learnt as far as civilization extended.

The impetus thus given to the study of the earth might, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, have engrossed the mind of Europe with the material world, had not the leaning to physical science been encountered and overcome by an impulse derived from another discovery. About the time of the discovery of America there also came to light the literatures of Greece and Rome.

§ 4. When I speak of the discovery of the ancient literatures as rivalling that of America, this use of the word “discovery” may be disputed. It may be urged that though the Greek language and literature were unknown in the West of Europe till they were brought there by the fugitives after the fall of Constantinople in 1453, yet the works of the great Latin writers had always been known in Italy, and Dante declares himself the disciple of Virgil. And yet I cannot give up the word “discovery.” In the life of an individual it sometimes happens that he suddenly acquires as it were a new sense. The world around him remains the same as before, but it is not the same to him. A film passes from his eyes, and what has been ordinary and unmeaning suddenly becomes a source of wonder and delight to him. Something similar happens at times in the history of the general mind; indeed our own century has seen a remarkable instance of it. In reading the thoughts of great writers of earlier times, we cannot but be struck, not only with their ignorance of the material world, but also with their ignorance of their ignorance. Little as they know, they often speak as if they knew everything. Newton could see that he was like a child discovering a few shells while the unexplored ocean lay before him; but in those days it required the intellect of a Newton to understand this. To the other children the ocean seemed to conceal nothing, and they innocently thought that all the shells, or nearly all, had been picked up. It was reserved for the people of our own century to become aware of the marvels which lie around us in the material world, and to be fascinated by the discovery. If the human race could live through several civilizations without opening its eyes to the wonders of the earth it inhabits, and then could suddenly become aware of them, we may well understand its retaining unheeded the literatures of Greece and Rome for centuries, and at length as it were discovering them, and turning to them with unbounded enthusiasm and delight.

As students of education we can hardly attach too much importance to this great revolution. For nearly three centuries the curriculum in the public schools of Europe remained what the Renascence had made it. We have again entered on an age of change, but we are still much influenced by the ideas of the Renascence, and the best way to understand the forces now at work is to trace them where possible to their origin. Let us then consider what the Renascence was, and how it affected the educational system.

§ 5. In endeavouring to understand the Renascence, we cannot do better than listen to what Mark Pattison says of it in his “Life of Casaubon”:—“In the fifteenth century was revealed to a world which had hitherto been trained to logical analysis, the beauty of literary form. The conception of style or finished expression had died out with the pagan schools of rhetoric. It was not the despotic act of Justinian in closing the schools of Athens which had suppressed it. The sense of art in language decayed from the same general causes which had been fatal to all artistic perception. Banished from the Roman Empire in the sixth century or earlier, the classical conception of beauty of form re-entered the circle of ideas after near a thousand years of oblivion and abeyance. Cicero and Virgil, Livius and Ovid, had been there all along, but the idea of composite harmony on which their works were constructed was wanting. The restored conception, as if to recoup itself for its long suppression, took entire possession of the mind of Europe. The first period of the Renascence passed in adoration of the awakened beauty, and in efforts to copy and multiply it.”

§ 6. Here Mark Pattison speaks as if the conception of beauty of form belonged exclusively to the ancients and those who learnt of them. This seems to require some abatement. There are points in which mediæval art far excelled the art of the Renascence. The thirteenth century, as Archbishop Trench has said, was “rich in glorious creations of almost every kind;” and in that century our great English architect, Street, found the root of all that is best in modern art. (See “Dublin Afternoon Lectures,” 1868.)

But there are expressions of beauty to which the Greeks, and those who caught their spirit, were keenly alive, and to which the people of the Middle Age seem to have been blind. The first is beauty in the human form; the second is beauty in literature.

The old delight in beauty in the human form has never come back to us. Mr. Ruskin tells us we are an ugly race, with ill-shapen limbs, and well pleased with our ugliness and deformity, and in reply we only mutter something about the necessity of clothing both for warmth and decency. But as to the other expression of beauty, beauty in literature, the mind of Europe again became conscious of it in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The re-awakening of this sense of beauty we call the Renascence.

§ 7. Before we consider the effect of this intellectual revolution on education, let us be sure that we are not “paying ourselves with words,” and that we know exactly what we mean by “literature.”

When the conceptions of an individual mind are expressed in a permanent form of words, we get literature. The sum total of all the permanent forms of expression in one language make up the literature of that language; and if no one has given his conceptions a form which has been preserved, the language is without a literature. There are then two things essential to a literary work: first, the conceptions of an individual mind; second, a permanent form of expression. Hence it follows that the domain of literature is distinct from the domain of natural or mathematical science. Science does not give us the conceptions of an individual mind, but it tells us what every rational person who studies the subject must think. And science is entirely independent of any form of words: a proposition of Euclid is science; a sonnet of Wordsworth’s is literature. We learn from Euclid certain truths which we should have learnt from some one else if Euclid had never existed, and the propositions may be conveyed equally well in different forms of words and in any language. But a sonnet of Wordsworth’s conveys thought and feeling peculiar to the poet; and even if the same thought and feeling were conveyed to us in other words, we should lose at least half of what he has given us. Poetry is indeed only one kind of literature, but it is the highest kind; and what is true of literary works in verse, is true also in a measure of literary works in prose. So great is the difference between science and literature, that in literature, as the first Lord Lytton said, the best books are generally the oldest; in science they are the newest.

§ 8. At present we are concerned with literature only. There are two ways in which a work of literature may excite our admiration and affect our minds. These are, first, by the beauty of the conceptions it conveys to us; and second, by the beauty of the language in which it conveys them. In the greatest works the two excellences will be combined.[4]

Now the literary taste proper fastens especially on the second of the two, i.e., on beauty of expression; and the Renascence was the revival of literary taste. “It was,” as Mark Pattison says, “the conception of style or finished expression which had died out with the pagan schools of rhetoric, and which re-entered the circle of ideas after a thousand years of oblivion and abeyance.” If we lose sight of this, we shall be perplexed by the unbounded enthusiasm which we find in the sixteenth century for the old classics. What great evangel, we may ask, had Cicero and Virgil and Ovid, or even Plato and the Greek dramatists, for men who lived when Europe had experienced a thousand years of Christianity? The answer is simple. They had none whatever. Their thoughts and conceptions were not adapted to the wants of the new world. The civilization of the Christian nations of the sixteenth century was a very different thing from the civilization of Greece and Rome. It had its own thoughts, its own problems, its own wants. The old-world thoughts could not be thought over again by it. This indeed was felt though not admitted by the Renascence scholars themselves. Had it been the thoughts of the ancients which seemed to them so valuable they would have made some effort to diffuse those thoughts in the languages of the modern world. Much as a great literary work loses by translation, there may still be enough left of it to be a source of instruction and delight. The thoughts of Aristotle, conveyed in a Latin translation of an Arabic translation, profoundly affected the mind of Europe in the Middle Ages. The Bible, or Book par excellence, is known to few indeed in its original form. Some great writers—Cervantes, and Shakespeare, and the author of the “Arabian Nights”—please and instruct nations who know not the sound of the languages wherein their works are composed. If then the great writers of Greece and Rome had been valued for their matter, their works would have been translated by the Renascence scholars as the Bible was translated by the Reformers, and the history of modern education would have taken a very different turn from that which awaited it. But it was not so. The Renascence scholars did all they could to discourage translations. For the grand discovery which we call the Revival of Learning was, not that the ancients had something to say, but that whatever they had to say they knew how to say it.

§ 9. And thus it happens that in the period of change, when Europe was re-arranging its institutions, developing new ideas and settling into new grooves of habit, we find the men most influential in education entirely fascinated by beauty of expression, and this in two ancient languages, so that the one thing needful for the young seemed to them an introduction to the study of ancient writings. The inevitable consequence was this: education became a mere synonym for instruction in Latin and Greek. The only ideal set up for the “educated” was the classical scholar.

§ 10. Perhaps the absurdity of taking this ideal, an ideal which is obviously fitted for a small class of men only, and proposing it for general adoption, was partly concealed from the Renascence scholars by the peculiar circumstances of their age. No doubt they thought literature would in the future be a force capable of much wider application than it had ever been before. True, literature had till then affected a small class only. Literature meant books, books meant MSS., and MSS. were rare and costly. Literature, the embodiment of grand thoughts in grand words, had existed before letters, or at least without letters. The Homeric poems, for example, had been known to thousands who could not read or write. But beauty of expression naturally got associated and indeed confounded with the art by which it was preserved; so the creations of the mind, when embodied in particular combinations of words, acquired the name of literature or letters, and became almost exclusively the affair of those who had opportunities of study, opportunities afforded only to the few. During the Middle Ages every one who could read was allowed his “privilege of clergy;” that is, he was assumed to be a clergyman. Literature then was not thought of as a means of instruction. But at the very time that the beauty of the ancient writings dawned on the mind of Europe, a mechanical invention seemed to remove all hindrances to the spread of literature. The scholars seized on the printing press and thought by means of it to give all “the educated” a knowledge of classics.

§ 11. We cannot help speculating what would have been the effect of the discovery of printing if it had been made at another time. As there may be literature without books, so there may be books without literature. If at the time of the invention of printing there had been no literature, no creations of individual minds embodied in permanent forms of speech, books might have been used as apparatus in a mental gymnasium, or they might have been made the means of conveying information. But just then the intellect of Europe was tired of mental gymnastics. It had taken exercise in the Trivium like a squirrel in its revolving cage, and was vexed to find it made no progress.[5] As for information there was little to be had. The age of observation and of physical science was not yet. So the printing press was entirely at the service of the new passion for literature and the scholars dreamed of the general diffusion of literary culture by means of printed books.

§ 12. For some two centuries the literary spirit had supreme control over the intellect of Europe, and the literary spirit could then find satisfaction nowhere but in the study of the ancient classics. The natural consequence was that throughout this period the “educated man” was supposed to be identified with the classical scholar. The great rival of the literary spirit, the scientific spirit which cares for nothing but sequences independent of the human mind, began to show itself early in the seventeenth century: its first great champion was Francis Bacon. But by this time the school course of study had been settled, and two centuries had to elapse before the scientific spirit could unsettle it again. Even now when we speak of a man as “well-educated” we are commonly understood to mean that in his youth he was taught the two classical languages.

§ 13. The taking of the classical scholar as the only ideal of the educated man has been a fruitful source of evil in the history of education.

I. This ideal exalted the learner above the doer. As far back as Xenophon, we find a contest between the passive ideal and the active, between the excellence which depends on a knowledge of what others have thought and done and the excellence which comes of thinking and doing. But the excellence derived from learning had never been highly esteemed. To be able to repeat Homer’s poetry was regarded in Greece as we now regard a pleasing accomplishment; but the dignity of the learned man as such was not within the range of Greek ideas. Many of the Romans after they began to study Greek literature certainly piqued themselves on being good Greek scholars, and Cicero occasionally quotes with all the airs of a pedant; but so thoroughly was the contrary ideal, the ideal of the doer, established at Rome, that nobody ever dreamt of placing its rival above it. In the decline of the Empire, especially at Alexandria, we find for the first time honours paid to the learned man; but he was soon lost sight of again. At the Renascence he burst into sudden blaze, and it was then discovered that he was what every man would wish to be. Thus the Renascence scholars, notwithstanding their admiration of the great nations of antiquity, set up an ideal which those nations would heartily have despised. The schoolmaster very readily adopted this ideal; and schools have been places of learning, not training, ever since.

§ 14. II. The next defect I observe in the Renascence ideal is this: it attributes to literature more direct power over common life than literature has ever had, or is ever likely to have.

I say direct power, for indirectly literature is one of the grand forces which act on all of us; but it acts on us through others, its most important function being to affect great intellects, the minds of those who think out and act out important changes. Its direct action on the mass of mankind is after all but insignificant. We have seen that literature consists in permanent forms of words, expressing the conceptions of individual minds; and these forms will be studied only by those who are interested in the conceptions or find pleasure in the mode in which they are expressed. Now the vast majority of ordinary people are without these inducements to literary study. They take a keen interest in everything connected with their relations and intimate friends, and a weaker interest in the thinkings and sayings and doings of every one else who is personally known to them; but as to the mental conceptions of those who lived in other times, or if now alive are not known even by sight, the ordinary person is profoundly indifferent to them; and of course delight in expression, as such, is out of the question. The natural consequence is that the habit of reading books is by no means common. Mark Pattison observes that there are few books to be found in most English middle-class homes, and he says: “The dearth of books is only the outward and visible sign of the mental torpor which reigns in those destitute regions” (see “Fortnightly Review,” November, 1877). I much doubt if he would have found more books in the middle-class homes of the Continent. There is only one kind of reading that is nearly universal—the reading of newspapers; and the newspaper lacks the element of permanence, and belongs to the domain of talk rather than of literature.

Even when we get among the so-called “educated,” we find that those who care for literature form a very small minority. The rest have of course read Shakespeare and Milton and Walter Scott and Tennyson, but they do not read them. The lion’s share of our time and thoughts and interests must be given to our business or profession, whatever that may be; and in few instances is this connected with literature. For the rest, whatever time or thought a man can spare from his calling is mostly given to his family, or to society, or to some hobby which is not literature.

And love of literature is not shown in such reading as is common. The literary spirit shows itself, as I said, in appreciating beauty of expression, and how far beauty of expression is cared for we may estimate from the fact that few people think of reading anything a second time. The ordinary reader is profoundly indifferent about style, and will not take the trouble to understand ideas. He keeps to periodicals or light fiction, which enables the mind to loll in its easy chair (so to speak) and see pass before it a series of pleasing images. An idea, as Mark Pattison says, “is an excitant, comes from mind and calls forth mind; an image is a sedative;” and most people when they take up a book are seeking a sedative.

So literature is after all a very small force in the lives of most men, and perhaps even less in the lives of most women. Why then are the employments of the school-room arranged on the supposition that it is the grand force of all? The reason is, that we have inherited from the Renascence a false notion of the function of literature.

§ 15. III. I must now point out a fault in the Renascence ideal which is perhaps the most remarkable of all. Those by whom this ideal was set up were entirely possessed by an enthusiasm for literature, and they made the mistake of attributing to literature a share in general culture which literature seems incapable of taking. After this we could little have expected that the new ideal would exclude literature from the schoolroom, and yet so it has actually turned out.

As a literary creation contains the conceptions of an individual mind expressed in a permanent form of words, it exists only for those who can understand the words or at least the conceptions.

From this it follows that literature for the young must have its expression in the vernacular. The instances are rare indeed in which any one below the age of fifteen or sixteen (perhaps I might put the limit a year or two higher) understands any but the mother tongue. In the mother tongue indeed some forms of literature exercise a great influence over young minds. Ballad literature seems especially to belong to youth, the youth of nations and of individuals. Aristotle educated Alexander with Homer; and we can easily imagine the effect which the Iliad must have had on the young Greeks. Although in the days of Plato instruction was not confined to literature, he gives this account of part of the training in the Athenian schools: “Placing the pupils on benches, the instructors make them read and learn by heart the poems of good poets in which are many moral lessons, many tales and eulogies and lays of the brave men of old; that the boys may imitate them with emulation and strive to become such themselves.” Here we see a very important function attributed to literature in the bringing up of the young; but the literature so used must obviously be in the language of the learners.

The influence of a literary work may, however, extend itself far beyond the limits of its own language. When our minds can receive and take pleasure in the conceptions of a great writer, he may speak to us by an interpreter. At the Renascence there were books in the world which might have affected the minds of the young—Plutarch, Herodotus, and above all Homer. But, as I have already said, it was not the conceptions, but the literary form of the ancients, which seemed to the Renascence scholars of such inestimable value, so they refused to give the conceptions in any but the original words. “Studying the ancients in translations,” says Melancthon, “is merely looking at the shadow.” He could not have made a greater mistake. As far as the young are concerned the truth is exactly the reverse. The translation would give the substance: the original can give nothing but the shadow. Let us take the experience of Mr. Kinglake, the author of “Eothen.” This distinguished Eton man, fired by his remembrances of Homer, visited the Troad. He had, as he tells us, “clasped the Iliad line by line to his brain with reverence as well as love.” Well done, Eton! we are tempted to exclaim when we read this passage: here at least is proof that some literature was taught in those days of the dominion of the classics. But stop! It seems that this clasping did not take place at Eton, but in happy days before Eton, when Kinglake knew no Greek and read translations. “Heroic days are these,” he writes, “but the Dark Ages of schoolboy life come closing over them. I suppose it’s all right in the end: yet, by Jove! at first sight it does seem a sad intellectual fall.... The dismal change is ordained and thin meagre Latin (the same for everybody) with small shreds and patches of Greek, is thrown like a pauper’s pall over all your early lore; instead of sweet knowledge, vile monkish doggrel, grammars and graduses, dictionaries and lexicons, horrible odds and ends of dead languages are given you for your portion, and down you fall from Roman story to a three-inch scrap of ‘Scriptores Romani’—from Greek poetry down, down, to the cold rations of ‘Poetæ Græci,’ cut up by commentators and served out by schoolmasters!” (“Eothen,” the Troad.)

We see from this how the Renascence ideal had the extraordinary effect of banishing literature from the school-room. Literature has indeed not ceased to influence the young; it still counts for much more in their lives than in the lives of their seniors; but we all know who are the writers who affected our own minds in childhood and youth, and who affect the minds of our pupils now—not Eutropius or Xenophon, or Cæsar or Cicero, but Defoe and Swift and Marryatt and Walter Scott. The ancient writings which were literature to Melancthon and Erasmus, as they are still to many in our universities and elsewhere, can never be literature to the young. Most of the classical authors read in the schoolroom could not be made literature to young people even by means of translations, for they were men who wrote for men and women only. We see that it would be absurd to make an ordinary boy of twelve or fourteen study Burke or Pope. And if we do not make him read Burke, whose language he understands, why do we make him read Cicero whose language he does not understand? If he cannot appreciate Pope, why do we teach him Horace? The Renascence gives us the explanation of this singular anomaly. The scholars of that age were so delighted with the “composite harmony” of the ancient classics that the study of these classics seemed to them the one thing worth living for. The main, if not the only object they kept in view in bringing up the young was to gain for them admission to the treasure house; and though young people could not understand the ancient writings as literature, they might at least study them as language and thus be ready to enjoy them as literature in after-life. Thus the subject of instruction in the schoolroom came to be, not the classics but, the classical languages. The classics were used as school books, but the only meaning thought of was the meaning of the detached word or at best of the detached sentence. You ask a child learning to read if he understands what he is reading about, and he says, “I can’t think of the meaning because I am thinking of the words.” The same thing happened in the schoolboy’s study of the classics, and so it has come to pass that to this day the great writers of antiquity discharge a humble function which they certainly never contemplated.

“Great Cæsar’s body dead and turned to clay

May stop a hole to keep the wind away.”

And great Cæsar’s mind has been turned to uses almost as paltry. He has in fact written for the schoolroom not a commentary on the Wars of Gaul—nothing of the kind—but simply a book of exercises in Latin construing; and an excellent book it would be if he had only graduated the difficulties better.

§ 16. IV. There is yet another weakness about the Renascence ideal—a weakness from which most ideals are free.

Most ideals have this merit at least, that he who makes even a feeble and abortive attempt to reach them is benefited in proportion to his advance, however small that advance may be. If he fails to seize the coat of gold, he carries away, as the proverb tells us, at least one of the sleeves; or, to use George Herbert’s metaphor—

“ ... Who aimeth at the sky,

Shoots higher far than he who means a tree.”

But the learned ideal has not even this advantage. The first stage, the study of the ancient languages, is so totally different from the study of the ancient literatures to which it is the preliminary, that the student who never goes beyond this first stage either gets no benefit at all, or a benefit which is not of the kind intended. Suppose I am within a walk, though a long one, of the British Museum, and hearing of some valuable books in the library, which I can see nowhere else, I set off to consult them. In this case it makes no difference to me how valuable the books are if I do not get as far as the Museum.[6] My friends may comfort me with the assurance that the walk must have done me good. Perhaps so; but I left home to get a knowledge of certain books, not to exercise my legs. Had exercise been my object I should probably have chosen another direction.

Now schoolmasters, since the Renascence, have been in the habit of leading all their pupils through the back slums of the Seven Dials and Soho in the direction of the British Museum, with the avowed purpose of taking them to the library, although they knew full well that not one pupil in ten, not one in fifty, would ever reach the door. To produce a few scholars able to appreciate the classics of Greece and Rome they have sacrificed everybody else; and according to their own showing they have condemned a large portion of the upper classes, nearly all the middle classes, and quite all the poorer classes to remain “uneducated.” And, according to the theory of the schoolroom, one-half of the human race—the women—have not been supposed to need education. For them “accomplishments” have been held sufficient.

§ 17. V. In conclusion I must point out one effect of the Renascence ideal which seems to me no less mischievous than those I have already mentioned. This ideal led the schoolmasters to attach little importance to the education of children. Directly their pupils were old enough for Latin Grammar the schoolmasters were quite at home; but till then the children’s time seemed to them of small value, and they neither knew nor cared to know how to employ it. If the little ones could learn by heart forms of words which would afterwards “come in useful,” the schoolmasters were ready to assist such learning by unsparing application of the rod, but no other learning seemed worthy even of a caning. Absorbed in the world of books they overlooked the world of nature. Galileo complains that he could not induce them to look through his telescope, for they held that truth could be arrived at only by comparison of MSS. No wonder then that they had so little sympathy with children, and did not know how to teach them. It is by slow degrees that we are breaking away from the bad tradition then established, are getting to understand children, and with such leaders as Rousseau, Pestalozzi, and Froebel, are investigating the best education for them. We no longer think of them as immature men and women, but see that each stage has its own completeness, and that there is a perfection in childhood which must precede the perfection of manhood just as truly as the flower goes before the fruit. “Childhood,” says Rousseau, “has its own ways of seeing, feeling, thinking;” and it is by studying these that we find out how children should be educated. Our connexion with the world of nature seems much closer in our early years than ever afterwards. The child’s mind seems drawn out to its surroundings. He is intensely interested in the new world in which he finds himself, and whilst so many of us grown people need a flapper, like the sages of Laputa, to call our attention from our own thoughts to anything that meets the eye or ear, the child sees and hears everything, and everything seen or heard becomes associated in his mind not so much with thought as with feeling. Hence it is that we most of us look back wistfully to our early days, and confess sorrowfully that though years may have brought “the philosophic mind,”

“ ... Nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.”

The material world then seems to supply just those objects, whether birds, beasts, or flowers, by which the child is attracted, and on which his faculties will therefore be most naturally and healthily employed. But the Renascence schoolmasters had little notion of this. If you think that the greatest scholar is the greatest man, you will, as a matter of course, place at the other end of the scale those who are not scholars at all. An English inspector, who seems to have thought children had been created with due regard to the Revised Code of the Privy Council, spoke of the infants who could not be classed by their performances in “the three R’s” as “the fag end of the school;” and no doubt the Renascence schoolmasters considered the children the fag end of humanity. The great scholars were indeed far above the race of pedants; but the schoolmasters who adopted their ideal were not. And what is a pedant? “A man who has got rid of his brains to make room for his learning.”[7] The pedantic schoolmasters of the Renascence wished the mind of the pupil to be cleared of everything else, that it might have room for the languages of Greece and Rome. But what if the mind failed to take in its destined freight? In that case the schoolmasters had nothing else for it, and were content that it should go empty.

II.
RENASCENCE TENDENCIES.

§ 1. In considering and comparing the two great epochs of intellectual activity and change in modern times, viz., the sixteenth century and the nineteenth, we cannot but be struck with one fundamental difference between them.

§ 2. It will affect all our thoughts, as Sir Henry Maine has said, whether we place the Golden Age in the Past or in the Future. In the nineteenth century the “good time” is supposed to be “coming,” but in the sixteenth century all thinkers looked backwards. The great Italian scholars gazed with admiration and envy on the works of ancient Greece and Rome, and longed to restore the old languages, and as much as possible the old world, so that such works might be produced again. Many were suspected, not altogether perhaps without reason, of wishing to uproot Christianity itself,[8] that they might bring back the Golden Age of Pericles.

§ 3. At the same time another movement was going on, principally in Germany. Here too, men were endeavouring to throw off the immediate past in order to revive the remote past. The religious reformers, like the scholars, wished to restore a golden age, only a different age, not the age of the Antigone, but the age of the Apostles’ Creed. Thus it happened that the scholars and the reformers joined in attaching the very highest importance to the ancient languages. Through these languages, and, as they thought, through them alone, was it possible to get a glimpse into the bygone world in which their soul delighted.

§ 4. But though all joined in extolling the ancient writings, we find at the Renascence great differences in the way of regarding these writings and in the objects for which they were employed. A consideration of these differences will help us to understand the course of education when the Renascence was a force no longer.

§ 5. Very powerful in education were the great scholars, of whom Erasmus was perhaps the greatest, certainly the most celebrated. In devoting their lives to the study of the ancients their object was not merely to appreciate literary style, though this was a source of boundless delight to them, but also to understand the classical writings and the ancient world through them. These men, whom we may call par excellence the Scholars, cared indeed before all things for literature; but with all their delight in the form they never lost sight of the substance. They knew the truth that Milton afterwards expressed in these memorable words: “Though a linguist should pride himself to have all the tongues that Babel cleft the world into, yet if he have not studied the solid things in them as well as the words and lexicons, he were nothing so much to be esteemed a learned man as any yeoman or tradesman competently wise in his mother dialect only.” (Tractate to Hartlib, § 4).

So Erasmus and the scholars would have all the educated understand the classical authors. But to understand words you must know the things to which the words refer. Thus the Scholars were led to advocate a partial study of things a kind of realism. But we must carefully observe a peculiarity of this scholastic realism which distinguished it from the realism of a later date—the realism of Bacon. The study of things was undertaken not for its own sake, but simply in order to understand books. Perhaps some of us are conscious that this kind of literary realism has not wholly passed away. We may have observed wild flowers, or the changes in tree or cloud, because we find that the best way to understand some favourite author, as Wordsworth or Tennyson. This will help us to understand the realism of the sixteenth century. The writings of great authors have been compared to the plaster globes (“celestial globes” as we call them), which assist us in understanding the configuration of the stars (Guesses at Truth, j. 47). Adopting this simile we may say that the Scholars loved to study the globe for its own sake, and when they looked at stars they did so with the object of understanding the globe. Thus we read of doctors who recommended their pupils to look at actual cases of disease as the best commentary on the works of Hippocrates and Galen. This kind of realism was good as far as it went, but it did not go far. Of course the end in view limited the study, and the Scholars took no interest in things except those which were mentioned in the classics. They had no desire to investigate the material universe and make discoveries for themselves. This is why Galileo could not induce them to look through his telescope; for the ancients had no telescopes, and the Scholars wished to see nothing that had not been seen by their favourite authors. First then we have the Scholars, headed by Erasmus.

§ 6. Next we find a party less numerous and for a time less influential, who did care about things for the sake of the things themselves; but carried away by the literary current of their age, they sought to learn about them not directly, but only by reading. Here again we have a kind of realism which is not yet extinct. Some years ago I was assured by a Graduate of the University of London who had passed in chemistry, that, as far as he knew, he had never seen a chemical in his life: he had got all his knowledge from books. While such a thing is possible among us, we need not wonder if those who in the sixteenth century prized the knowledge of things, allowed books to come between the learner and the object of his study, if they regarded Nature as a far-off country of which we could know nothing but what great authors reported to us.

As this party, unlike the Scholars, did not delight in literature as such, but simply as a means of acquiring knowledge, literary form was not valued by them, and they preferred Euclid to Sophocles, Columella to Virgil. Seeking to learn about things, not immediately, but through words, they have received from Raumer a name they are likely to keep—Verbal Realists. In the sixteenth century the greatest of the Verbal Realists also gave a hint of Realism proper; for he was no less a man than Rabelais.

§ 7. Lastly we come to those who, as it turned out, were to have more influence in the schoolroom than the Scholars and the Verbal Realists combined. I do not know that these have had any name given them, but for distinction sake we may call them Stylists. In studying literature the Scholars cared both for form and substance, the Verbal Realists for substance only, and the Stylists for form only. The Stylists gave up their lives, not, like the scholars, to gain a thorough understanding of the ancient writings and of the old world, but to an attempted reproduction of the ancient languages and of the classical literary form.

§ 8. In marking these tendencies at the Renascence, we must remember that though distinguished by their tendencies, these Scholars, Verbal Realists, and Stylists, were not divided into clearly defined parties. Categories like these no doubt assist us in gaining precision of thought, but we must not gain precision at the expense of accuracy. The tendencies we have been considering did not act in precisely opposite directions, and all were to some extent affected by them. But one tendency was predominant in one man and another in another; and this justifies us in calling Sturm a Stylist, Erasmus a Scholar, and Rabelais a Verbal Realist.

§ 9. In one respect they were all agreed. The world was to be regenerated by means of books. Nothing pleased them more than to think of their age as the Revival of Learning.

III.
STURMIUS.
1507-1589.

§ 1. The curriculum bequeathed by the Renascence and stereotyped in the School Codes of Germany, in the Ratio of the Jesuits, and in the English public school system, was greatly influenced by the most famous schoolmaster of the fifteen hundreds, John Sturm, who was for over forty years Rector of the Strassburg Gymnasium.

§ 2. Sturm was a fine specimen of the successful man: he knew what his contemporaries wanted, and that was just what he wanted. “He was a blessed fellow,” as Prince Hal says of Poins, “to think as every man thought,” and he not only “kept the roadway” himself, but he also “personally conducted” great bands of pupils over it, at one time “200 noblemen, 24 counts and barons, and 3 princes.” What could schoolmaster desire more?

§ 3. But I frankly own that Sturm is no favourite of mine, and that I think that he did much harm to education. However, his influence in the schoolroom was so great that I must not leave him unnoticed; and I give some information, taken mainly from Raumer’s account of him, which is translated in Henry Barnard’s “German Teachers and Educators.” I have also looked at the exhaustive article by Dr. Bossier in K. A. Schmid’s Encyklopädie (sub v.)

§ 4. John Sturm, born at Schleiden in the Eifel, not far from Cologne, in 1507, was one of 15 children, and would not have had much teaching had not his father been steward to a nobleman, with whose sons he was brought up. He always spoke with reverence and affection of his early teachers, and from them no doubt he acquired his thirst for learning. With the nobleman’s sons and under the guidance of a tutor he was sent to Liège, and there he attended a school of the “Brethren of the Life in Common,” alias Hieronymites. Many of the arrangements of this school he afterwards reproduced in the Strassburg Gymnasium, and in this way the good Brethren gained an influence over classical education throughout the world.

§ 5. Between the age of 15 and 20 Sturm was at Lyons, and before the end of this period he was forced into teaching for a maintenance. He then, like many other learned men of the time, turned printer. We next find him at the University of Paris, where he thought of becoming a doctor of medicine, but was finally carried away from natural science by the Renascence devotion to literature, and he became a popular lecturer on the classics. From Paris he was called to Strassburg (then, as now, in Germany) in 1537. In 1538 he published his plan of a Gymnasium or Grammar School, with the title, “The right way of opening schools of literature (De Literarum Ludis recte aperiendis),” and some years afterwards (1565) he published his Letters (Classicæ Epistolæ) to the different form-masters in his school.

§ 6. The object of teaching is three-fold, says Sturm, “piety, knowledge, and the art of expression.” The student should be distinguished by reasonable and neat speech (ratione et oratione). To attain this the boys in his school had to give seven years to the acquirement of a pure Latin style; then two years more were devoted to elegance; then five years of collegiate life were to be given to the art of Latin speech. This course is for ten years carefully mapped out by Sturm in his Letters to the masters. The foundation is to be laid in the tenth class, which the child enters at seven years old, and in which he learns to read, and is turned on to the declensions and conjugations. We have for all classes the exact “pensum,” and also specimens of the questions put in examination by the top boy of the next class above, a hint which was not thrown away upon the Jesuits.

§ 7. Sturm cries over the superior advantages of the Roman children. “Cicero was but twenty when he delivered his speeches in behalf of Quintius and Roscius; but in these days where is there the man even of eighty, who could make such speeches? Yet there are books enough and intellect enough. What need we further? We need the Latin language and a correct method of teaching. Both these we must have before we can arrive at the summit of eloquence.”

§ 8. Sturm did not, like Rabelais, put Greek on a level with Latin or above it. The reading of Greek words is begun in the sixth class. Hebrew, Sturm did not himself learn till he was nearly sixty.

§ 9. With a thousand boys in his school, and carrying on correspondence with the leading sovereigns of his age, Sturm was a model of the successful man. But in the end “the religious difficulty” was too much even for him, and he was dismissed from his post by his opponents “for old age and other causes.” Surely the “other causes” need not have been mentioned. Sturm was then eighty years old.

§ 10. The successful man in every age is the man who chooses a popular and attainable object, and shows tremendous energy in pursuit of it. Most people don’t know precisely what they want; and among the few who do, nine-tenths or more fail through lack of energy. But Sturm was quite clear in his aim, and having settled the means, he showed immense energy and strength of will in going through with them. He wanted to restore the language of Cicero and Ovid and to give his pupils great power of elegant expression in that language. Like all schoolmasters he professed that piety and knowledge (which in more modern phrase would be wisdom and knowledge) should come first, but like most schoolmasters he troubled himself mainly, if not exclusively, about the art of expression. As an abstract proposition the schoolmaster admits that to have in your head something worth saying is more important than to have the power of expression ready in case anything worth saying should “come along.” But the schoolmaster’s art always has taken, and I suppose, in the main, always will take for its material the means of expression; and by preference it chooses a tongue not vulgar or “understanded of the people.” Thus the schoolmasters with Sturm at their head set themselves to teach words—foreign words, and allowed their pupils to study nothing else, not even the mother tongue. The satirist who wrote Hudibras has stated for us the result—

“No sooner are the organs of the brain

Quick to receive and stedfast to retain

Best knowledges, but all’s laid out upon

Retrieving of the curse of Babylon.

...

And he that is but able to express

No sense in several languages

Will pass for learneder than he that’s known

To speak the strongest reason in his own.”[9]

§ 11. One of the scholars of the Renascence, Hieronymus Wolf, was wise enough to see that there might be no small merit in a boy’s silence: “Nec minima pueri virtus est tacere cum recte loqui nesciat” (Quoted by Parker). But this virtue of silence was not encouraged by Sturm, and he determined that by the age of sixteen his pupils should have a fair command of expression in Latin and some knowledge of Greek.[10] Latin indeed was to supplant the mother tongue, and boys were to be severely punished for using their own language. By this we may judge of the pernicious effects of following Sturm. And it is a mistake to suppose that the unwisdom of tilting at the vernacular was not so much Sturm’s, as of the age in which he lived. The typical English schoolmaster of the century, Mulcaster, was in this and many other ways greatly in advance of Sturm. To him it was plain that we should “care for that most which we ever use most, because we need it most.”[11] The only need recognized by Sturm was need of the classical languages. Thus he and his admirers led the unlucky schoolboy straight into that “slough of Despond”—verbalism, in which he has struggled ever since;

“Plunged for some sense, but found no bottom there,

So learned and floundered on in mere despair.”[12]

IV.
SCHOOLS OF THE JESUITS.

§ 1. Since the Revival of Learning, no body of men has played so prominent a part in education as the Jesuits. With characteristic sagacity and energy they soon seized on education as a stepping-stone to power and influence; and with their talent for organization, they framed a system of schools which drove all important competitors from the field, and made Jesuits the instructors of Catholic, and even, to some extent, of Protestant Europe. Their skill in this capacity is attested by the highest authorities, by Bacon[13] and by Descartes, the latter of whom had himself been their pupil; and it naturally met with its reward: for more than one hundred years nearly all the foremost men throughout Christendom, both among the clergy and laity, had received the Jesuit training, and in most cases retained for life an attachment to their old masters.

§ 2. About these Jesuit schools—once so celebrated and so powerful, and still existing in great numbers, though little remains of their original importance—there does not seem to be much information accessible to the English reader. I have, therefore, collected the following particulars about them; and refer any one who is dissatisfied with so meagre an account, to the works which I have consulted.[14] The Jesuit schools, as I said, still exist, but they did their great work in other centuries; and I therefore prefer to speak of them as things of the past.[15]

§ 3. When the Jesuits were first formally recognized by a Bull of Paul III in 1540, the Bull stated that the Order was formed, among other things, “especially for the purpose of instructing boys and ignorant persons in the Christian religion.” But the Society well understood that secular was more in demand than religious learning; and they offered the more valued instruction, that they might have the opportunity of inculcating lessons which, to the Society at least, were the more valuable. From various Popes they obtained powers for founding schools and colleges, for giving degrees, and for lecturing publicly at universities. Their foundations rapidly extended in the Romance countries, except in France, where they were long in overcoming the opposition of the Regular clergy and of the University of Paris. Over the Teutonic and Slavonic countries they spread their influence first by means of national colleges at Rome, where boys of the different nations were trained as missionaries. But, in time, the Jesuits pushed their camps forward, even into the heart of the enemy’s country.

§ 4. The system of education to be adopted in all the Jesuit institutions was settled during the Generalship of Aquaviva. In 1584 that General appointed a School Commission, consisting of six distinguished Jesuits from the various countries of Europe. These spent nearly a year in Rome, in study and consultation; and the fruit of their labours was the ground-work of the Ratio atque Institutio Studiorum Societatis Jesu. This, however, did not take its final form till twelve other commissioners had been at work upon it. It was then (1599) revised and approved by Aquaviva and the Fifth and Sixth General Assemblies. By this code the Jesuit schools were governed till 1832, when the curriculum was enlarged so as to include physical science and modern languages.

§ 5. The Jesuits who formed the Societas Professa, i.e., those who had taken all the vows, had spent from fifteen to eighteen years in preparation, viz., two years as novices and one as approved scholars, during which they were engaged chiefly in religious exercises, three years in the study of philosophy and mathematics, four years of theology, and, in the case of the more distinguished students, two years more in repetition and private theological study. At some point in this course, mostly after the philosophy, the students were sent, for a while, to teach the “lower studies” to boys.[16] The method of teaching was to be learnt in the training schools, called Juvenats,[17] one of which was founded in each province.

Few, even of the most distinguished students, received dispensation from giving elementary instruction. Salmeron and Bobadilla performed this duty in Naples, Lainez in Florence, Borgia (who had been Viceroy of Catalonia) in Cordova, Canisius in Cologne.

§ 6. During the time the Jesuit held his post as teacher he was to give himself up entirely to the work. His private studies were abandoned; his religious exercises shortened. He began generally with the boys in the lowest form, and that he might be able to study the character of his pupils he went up the school with them, advancing a step every year, as in the system now common in Scotland. But some forms were always taught, as the highest is in Scotland, by the same master, who remained a teacher for life.

§ 7. Great care was to be taken that the frequent changes in the staff of masters did not lead to alteration in the conduct of the school. Each teacher was bound to carry on the established instruction by the established methods. All his personal peculiarities and opinions were to be as much as possible suppressed. To secure this a rigid system of supervision was adopted, and reports were furnished by each officer to his immediate superior. Over all stood the General of the Order. Next came the Provincial, appointed by the General. Over each college was the Rector, who was appointed (for three years) by the General, though he was responsible to the Provincial, and made his reports to him. Next came the Prefect of Studies, appointed, not by the Rector, but by the Provincial. The teachers were carefully watched both by the Rector and the Prefect of Studies, and it was the duty of the latter to visit each teacher in his class at least once a fortnight, to hear him teach. The other authorities, besides the masters of classes, were usually a House Prefect, and Monitors selected from the boys, one in each form.

§ 8. The school or college was to be built and maintained by gifts and bequests which the Society might receive for this purpose only. Their instruction was always given gratuitously. When sufficient funds were raised to support the officers, teachers, and at least twelve scholars, no effort was to be made to increase them; but if they fell short of this, donations were to be sought by begging from house to house. Want of money, however, was not a difficulty which the Jesuits often experienced.

§ 9. The Jesuit education included two courses of study, studia superiora et inferiora. In the smaller colleges only the studia inferiora were carried on; and it is to these lower schools that the following account mainly refers. The boys usually began this course at ten years old and ended it at sixteen.[18]

§ 10. The pupils in the Jesuit colleges were of two kinds: 1st, those who were training for the Order, and had passed the Novitiate; 2nd, the externs, who were pupils merely. When the building was not filled by the first of these (the Scholastici, or Nostri, as they are called in the Jesuit writings), other pupils were taken in to board, who had to pay simply the cost of their living, and not even this unless they could well afford it. Instruction, as I said, was gratuitous to all. “Gratis receive, gratis give,” was the Society’s rule; so they would neither make any charge for instruction, nor accept any gift that was burdened with conditions.

§ 11. Faithful to the tradition of the Catholic Church, the Society did not estimate a man’s worth simply according to his birth and outward circumstances. The Constitutions expressly laid down that poverty and mean extraction were never to be any hindrance to a pupil’s admission; and Sacchini says: “Do not let any favouring of the higher classes interfere with the care of meaner pupils, since the birth of all is equal in Adam, and the inheritance in Christ.”[19]

§ 12. The externs who could not be received into the building were boarded in licensed houses, which were always liable to an unexpected visit from the Prefect of Studies.

§ 13. The “lower school” was arranged in five classes (since increased to eight), of which the lowest usually had two divisions. Parallel classes were formed wherever the number of pupils was too great for five masters. The names given to the several divisions were as follows:

Each was “absolved” in a year, except Rhetorica, which required two years (Stöckl, p. 237).

Jesuits and Protestants alike in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries thought of little but literary instruction, and that too connected only with Latin and Greek. The subject-matter of the teaching in the Jesuit schools was to be “præter Grammaticam, quod ad Rhetoricam, Poësim et Historiam pertinet,” in addition to Grammar, whatever related to Rhetoric, Poetry, and History. Reading and writing the mother-tongue might not be taught without special leave from the Provincial. Latin was as much as possible to supersede all other languages, even in speaking; and nothing else might be used by the pupils in the higher forms on any day but a holiday.[20] To gain a supply of Latin words for ordinary use, the pupils committed to memory Latin conversations on general topics, such as Francis Pomey’s “Indiculus Universalis” and “Colloquia Scholastica.”

§ 14. Although many good school-books were written by the Jesuits, a great part of their teaching was given orally. The master was, in fact, a lecturer, who expounded sometimes a piece of a Latin or Greek author, sometimes the rules of grammar. The pupils were required to get up the substance of these lectures, and to learn the grammar-rules and parts of the classical authors by heart. The master for his part had to bestow great pains on the preparation of his lectures.[21]

§ 15. Written exercises, translations, &c., were given in on every day, except Saturday; and the master had, if possible, to go over each one with its writer and his appointed rival or æmulus.

§ 16. The method of hearing the rules, &c., committed to memory was this:—Certain boys in each class, who were called Decurions, repeated their tasks to the master, and then in his presence heard the other boys repeat theirs. The master meanwhile corrected the written exercises.[22]

§ 17. One of the leading peculiarities in the Jesuits’ system was the pains they took to foster emulation—“cotem ingenii puerilis, calcar industriæ—the whetstone of talent, the spur of industry.” For this purpose all the boys in the lower part of the school were arranged in pairs, each pair being rivals (æmuli) to one another. Every boy was to be constantly on the watch to catch his rival tripping, and was immediately to correct him. Besides this individual rivalry, every class was divided into two hostile camps, called Rome and Carthage, which had frequent pitched battles of questions on set subjects. These were the “Concertations,” in which the boys sometimes had to put questions to the opposite camp, sometimes to expose erroneous answers when the questions were asked by the master[23] (see Appendix: Class Matches, p. 529). Emulation, indeed, was encouraged to a point where, as it seems to me, it must have endangered the good feeling of the boys among themselves. Jouvency mentions a practice of appointing mock defenders of any particularly bad exercise, who should make the author of it ridiculous by their excuses; and any boy whose work was very discreditable, was placed on a form by himself, with a daily punishment, until he could show that some one deserved to change places with him.

§ 18. In the higher classes a better kind of rivalry was cultivated by means of “Academies,” i.e., voluntary associations for study, which met together, under the superintendence of a master, to read themes, translations, &c., and to discuss passages from the classics. The new members were elected by the old, and to be thus elected was a much-coveted distinction. In these Academies the cleverer students got practice for the disputations, which formed an important part of the school work of the higher classes.

§ 19. There was a vast number of other expedients by which the Jesuits sought to work on their pupils’ amour propre, such as, on the one hand, the weekly publication of offences per præconem, and, on the other, besides prizes (which could be won only by the externs), titles and badges of honour, and the like. “There are,” says Jouvency, “hundreds of expedients of this sort, all tending to sharpen the boys’ wits, to lighten the labour of the master, and to free him from the invidious and troublesome necessity of punishing.”

§ 20. The school-hours were remarkably short: two hours and a half in the morning, and the same in the afternoon; with a whole holiday a week in summer, and a half holiday in winter. The time was spent in the first form after the following manner:—During the first half-hour the master corrected the exercises of the previous day, while the Decurions heard the lesson which had been learnt by heart. Then the master heard the piece of Latin which he had explained on the previous day. With this construing, was connected a great deal of parsing, conjugating, declining, &c. The teacher then explained the piece for the following day, which, in this form, was never to exceed four lines. The last half-hour of the morning was spent in explaining grammar. This was done very slowly and carefully: in the words of the Ratio Studd.: “Pluribus diebus fere singula præcepta inculcanda sunt”—“Generally take a single rule and drive it in, several days.” For the first hour of the afternoon the master corrected exercises, and the boys learnt grammar. If there was time, the master put questions about the grammar he had explained in the morning. The second hour was taken up with more explanations of grammar, and the school closed with half an hour’s concertation, or the master corrected the notes which the pupils had taken during the day. In the other forms, the work was very similar to this, except that Greek was added, and also in the higher classes a little mathematics.

§ 21. It will be observed from the above account, that almost all the strength of the Jesuit teaching was thrown into the study of the Latin language, which was to be used, not only for reading, but also in writing and speaking. But under the name of “erudition” some amount of instruction in other subjects, especially in history and geography, was given in explaining, or rather lecturing on, the classical authors. Jouvency says that this lecture must consist of the following parts:—1st, the general meaning of the whole passage; 2nd, the explanation of each clause, both as to the meaning and construction; 3rd, any information, such as accounts of historical events, or of ancient manners and customs, which could be connected with the text; 4th, in the higher forms, applications of the rules of rhetoric and poetry; 5th, an examination of the Latinity; 6th, the inculcation of some moral lesson. This treatment of a subject he illustrates by examples. Among these is an account of a lesson for the first (i.e., lowest) class in the Fable of the Fox and the Mask:—1st, comes the argument and the explanation of words; 2nd, the grammar and parsing, as vulpes, a substantive of the third declension, &c., like proles, clades, &c. (here the master is always to give among his examples some which the boys already know); 3rd, comes the eruditio—something about foxes, about tragedy, about the brain, and hence about other parts of the head; 4th, Latinity, the order of the words, choice of the words, synonyms, &c. Then the sentences may be parodied; other suitable substantives may be found for the adjectives and vice versâ; and every method is to be adopted of showing the boys how to use the words they have learnt. Lastly, comes the moral.

§ 22. The practical teacher will be tempted to ask, How is the attention of the class to be kept up whilst all this information is given? This the Jesuits did partly by punishing the inattentive. Every boy was subsequently required to reproduce what the teacher had said, and to show his written notes of it. But no doubt this matter of attention was found a difficulty. Jouvency tells the teachers to break off from time to time in their lectures, and to ask questions; and he adds: “Variæ sunt artes excitandæ attentionis quas docebit usus et sua cuique industria suggeret.—Very various are the devices for arousing attention. These will occur with practice and pains.”

For private study, besides written exercises and learning by heart, the pupils were recommended subjects to get up in their own time; and in this, and also as to the length of some of the regular lessons, they were permitted to decide for themselves. Here, as everywhere, the Jesuits trusted to the sense of honour and emulation—those who did extra work were praised and rewarded.

§ 23. One of the maxims of this system was: “Repetitio mater studiorum.” Every lesson was connected with two repetitions—one before it began, of preceding work, and the other at the close, of the work just done. Besides this, one day a week was devoted entirely to repetition. In the three lowest classes the desire of laying a solid foundation even led to the second six months in the year being given to again going over the work of the first six months.[24] By this means boys of extraordinary ability could pass through these forms in eighteen months, instead of three years.

§ 23. Thoroughness in work was the one thing insisted on. Sacchini says that much time should be spent in going over the more important things, which are “veluti multorum fontes et capita (as it were the sources and starting points of many others)”; and that the master should prefer to teach a few things perfectly, to giving indistinct impressions of many things.[25] We should remember, however, that the pupils of the Jesuits were not children. Subjects such as grammar cannot, by any expenditure of time and trouble, be perfectly taught to children, because children cannot perfectly understand them; so that the Jesuit thoroughness is not always attainable.

§ 24. The usual duration of the course in the lower schools was six years—i.e., one year in each of the four lower classes, and two years in the highest class. Every year closed with a very formal examination. Before this examination took place, the pupils had lessons in the manner of it, so that they might come prepared, not only with a knowledge of the subjects, but also of the laws of writing for examination (“scribendi ad examen leges”). The examination was conducted by a commission appointed for the purpose, of which commission the Prefect of Studies was an ex officio member. The masters of the classes, though they were present, and could make remarks, were not of the examining body. For the vivâ voce the boys were ushered in, three at a time, before the solemn conclave. The results of the examination, both written and verbal, were joined with the records of the work done in the past year; and the names of those pupils who had distinguished themselves were then published in order of merit, but the poll was arranged alphabetically, or according to birthplace.

§ 25. As might be expected, the Jesuits were to be very careful of the moral and religious training of their pupils. “Quam maxime in vitæ probitate ac bonis artibus doctrinaque proficiant ad Dei gloriam.” (Ratio Studd., quoted by Schmid.) And Sacchini tells the master to remember how honourable his office is; as it has to do, not with grammar only, but also with the science and practice of a Christian and religious life: “atque eo quidem ordine ut ipsa ingenii eruditio sit expolitio morum, et humana literatura divinæ ancilletur sapientiæ.”[26]

Each lesson was to begin with prayer or the sign of the Cross. The pupils were to hear Mass every morning, and were to be urged to frequent confession and receiving of the Holy Communion. The Father Confessor was always a Jesuit, but he was not a master in the school.

§ 26. The bodily health also was to be carefully attended to. The pupils were not to study too much or too long at a time. Nothing was to be done for a space of from one or two hours after dinner. On holidays excursions were made to farms in the country.[27]

§ 27. Punishments were to be as light as possible, and the master was to shut his eyes to offences whenever he thought he might do so with safety. Grave offences were to be visited with corporal punishment, performed by a “corrector,” who was not a member of the Order. Where this chastisement did not have a good effect, the pupil was to be expelled.[28]

§ 28. The dry details into which I have been drawn by faithfully copying the manner of the Ratio Studiorum may seem to the reader to afford no answer to the question which naturally suggests itself—To what did the school-system of the Jesuits owe its enormous popularity? But in part, at least, these details do afford an answer. They show us that the Jesuits were intensely practical. The Ratio Studiorum hardly contains a single principle; but what it does is this—it points out a perfectly attainable goal, and carefully defines the road by which that goal is to be approached. For each class was prescribed not only the work to be done, but also the end to be kept in view. Thus method reigned throughout—perhaps not the best method, as the object to be attained was assuredly not the highest object—but the method, such as it was, was applied with undeviating exactness. In this particular the Jesuit schools contrasted strongly with their rivals of old, as indeed with the ordinary school of the present day. The Head Master, who is to the modern English school what the General, Provincial, Rector, Prefect of Studies, and Ratio Studiorum combined were to a school of the Jesuits, has perhaps no standard in view up to which the boy should have been brought when his school course is completed.[29] The masters of forms teach just those portion of their subject in which they themselves are interested, in any way that occurs to them, with by no means uniform success; so that when two forms are examined with the same examination paper, it is no very uncommon occurrence for the lower to be found superior to the higher. It is, perhaps, to be expected that a course in which uniform method tends to a definite goal would on the whole be more successful than one in which a boy has to accustom himself by turns to half-a-dozen different methods, invented at haphazard by individual masters with different aims in view, if indeed they have any aim at all.

§ 29. I have said that the object which the Jesuits proposed in their teaching was not the highest object. They did not aim at developing all the faculties of their pupils, but mainly the receptive and reproductive faculties. When the young man had acquired a thorough mastery of the Latin language for all purposes, when he was well versed in the theological and philosophical opinions of his preceptors, when he was skilful in dispute, and could make a brilliant display from the resources of a well-stored memory, he had reached the highest point to which the Jesuits sought to lead him.[30] Originality and independence of mind, love of truth for its own sake, the power of reflecting, and of forming correct judgments were not merely neglected—they were suppressed in the Jesuits’ system. But in what they attempted they were eminently successful, and their success went a long way towards securing their popularity.[31]

§ 30. Their popularity was due, moreover, to the means employed, as well as to the result attained. The Jesuit teachers were to lead, not drive their pupils, to make their learning, not merely endurable, but even acceptable, “disciplinam non modo tolerabilem, sed etiam amabilem.” Sacchini expresses himself very forcibly on this subject. “It is,” says he, “the unvarying decision of wise men, whether in ancient or modern times, that the instruction of youth will be always best when it is pleasantest: whence this application of the word ludus. The tenderness of youth requires of us that we should not overstrain it, its innocence that we should abstain from harshness.... That which enters into willing ears the mind as it were runs to welcome, seizes with avidity, carefully stows away, and faithfully preserves.”[32] The pupils were therefore to be encouraged in every way to take kindly to their learning. With this end in view (and no doubt other objects also), the masters were carefully to seek the boys’ affections. “When pupils love the master,” says Sacchini, “they will soon love his teaching. Let him, therefore, show an interest in everything that concerns them and not merely in their studies. Let him rejoice with those that rejoice, and not disdain to weep with those that weep. After the example of the Apostle let him become a little one amongst little ones, that he may make them adult in Christ, and Christ adult in them ... Let him unite the grave kindness and authority of a father with a mother’s tenderness.”[33]

§ 31. In order that learning might be pleasant to the pupils, it was necessary that they should not be overtasked. To avoid this, the master had to study the character and capacity of each boy in his class, and to keep a book with all particulars about him, and marks from one to six indicating proficiency. Thus the master formed an estimate of what should be required, and the amount varied considerably with the pupil, though the quality of the work was always to be good.

§ 32. Not only was the work not to be excessive, it was never to be of great difficulty. Even the grammar was to be made as easy and attractive as possible. “I think it a mistake” says Sacchini, “to introduce at an early stage the more thorny difficulties of grammar: ... for when the pupils have become familiar with the earlier parts, use will, by degrees, make the more difficult clear to them. His mind expanding and his judgment ripening as he grows older the pupil will often see for himself that which he could hardly be made to see by others. Moreover, in reading an author, examples of grammatical difficulties will be more easily observed in connection with the context, and will make more impression on the mind, than if they are taught in an abstract form by themselves. Let them then, be carefully explained whenever they occur.”[34]

§ 33. Perhaps no body of men in Europe (the Thugs may, in this respect, rival them in Asia) have been so hated as the Jesuits. I once heard Frederick Denison Maurice say he thought Kingsley could find good in every one except the Jesuits, and, he added, he thought he could find good even in them. But why should a devoted Christian find a difficulty in seeing good in the Jesuits, a body of men whose devotion to their idea of Christian duty has never been surpassed?[35] The difficulty arose from differences in ideal. Both held that the ideal Christian would do everything “to the greater glory of God,” or as the Jesuits put it in their business-like fashion, “A.M.D.G.,” (i.e., ad majorem Dei gloriam). But Maurice and Kingsley thought of a divine idea for every man. The Jesuits’ idea lost sight of the individual. Like their enemy, Carlyle, the Jesuits in effect worshipped strength, but Carlyle thought of the strength of the individual, the Jesuits of the strength of “the Catholic Church.” “The Catholic Church” was to them the manifested kingdom of God. Everything therefore that gave power to the Church tended “A.M.D.G.” The Company of Jesus was the regular army of the Church, so, arguing logically from their premises, they made the glory of God and the success of the Society convertible terms.

§ 34. Thus their conception was a purely military conception. A commander-in-chief, if he were an ardent patriot and a great general, would do all he could to make the army powerful. He would care much for the health, morals, and training of the soldiers, but always with direct reference to the army. He would attend to everything that made a man a better soldier; beyond this he would not concern himself. In his eyes the army would be everything, and a soldier nothing but a part of it, just as a link is only a part of a chain. Paulsen, speaking of the Jesuits, says truly that no great organization can exist without a root idea. The root idea of the army is the sacrifice and annihilation of the individual, that the body may be fused together and so gain a strength greater than that of any number of individuals. Formed on this idea the army acts all together and in obedience to a single will, and no mob can stand its charge. Ignatius Loyola and succeeding Generals took up this idea and formed an army for the Church, an army that became the wonder and the terror of all men. Never, as Compayré says, had a body been so sagaciously organized, or had wielded so great resources for good and for evil.[36] (See Buisson, ij, 1419.)

§ 35. To the English schoolmaster the Jesuits must always be interesting, if for no other reason at least for this—that they were so intensely practical. “Les Jésuites ne sont pas des pédagogues assez desintéressés pour nous plaire.—The Jesuits as schoolmasters,” says M. Compayré, “are not disinterested enough for us.” (Buisson, sub v. Jésuites, ad f.). But disinterested pedagogy is not much to the mind of the Englishman. It does not seem to know quite what it would be after, and deals in generalities, such as “Education is not a means but an end;” and the end being somewhat indefinite, the means are still more wanting in precision. This vagueness is what the English master hates. He prefers not to trouble himself about the end. The wisdom of his ancestors has settled that, and he can direct his attention to what really interests him—the practical details. In this he resembles the Jesuits. The end has been settled for them by their founder. They revel in practical details, in which they are truly great, and here we may learn much from them. “Ratio applied to studies” says Father Eyre,[37] “more naturally means Method than Principle; and our Ratio Studiorum is essentially a Method or System of teaching and learning.” Here is a method that has been worked uniformly and with singular success for three centuries, and can still give a good account of its old rivals. But will it hold its own against the late Reformers? As regards intellectual training the new school seeks to draw out the faculties of the young mind by employing them on subjects in which it is interested. The Jesuits fixed a course of study which, as they frankly recognized, could not be made interesting. So they endeavoured to secure accuracy by constant repetition, and relied for industry on two motive powers: 1st, the personal influence of the master; and, 2nd, “the spur of industry”—emulation.

§ 36. To acquire “influence” has ever been the main object of the Society, and his devotion to this object makes a great distinction between the Jesuit and most other instructors. His notion of the task was thus expressed by Father Gerard, S. J., at the Educational Conference of 1884: “Teaching is an art amongst arts. To be worthy of the name it must be the work of an individual upon individuals. The true teacher must understand, appreciate, and sympathize with those who are committed to him. He must be daily discovering what there is (and undoubtedly there is something in each of them) capable of fruitful development, and contriving how better to get at them and to evoke whatever possibilities there are in them for good.” The Jesuit master, then, tried to gain influence over the boys and to use that influence for many purposes; to make them work well being one of these, but not perhaps the most important.

§ 37. As for emulation, no instructors have used it so elaborately as the Jesuits. In most English schools the prizes have no effect whatever except on the first three or four boys, and the marking is so arranged that those who take the lead in the first few lessons can keep their position without much effort. This clumsy system would not suit the Jesuits. They often for prize-giving divide a class into a number of small groups, the boys in each group being approximately equal, and a prize is offered for each group. The class matches, too, stimulate the weaker pupils even more than the strong.

§ 38. In conclusion, I will give the chief points of the system in the words of one of its advocates and admirers, who was himself educated at Stonyhurst:

“Let us now try to put together the various pieces of this school machinery and study the effect. We have seen that the boys have masters entirely at their disposition, not only at class time, but at recreation time after supper in the night Reading Rooms. Each day they record victory or defeat in the recurring exercises or themes upon various matters. By the quarterly papers or examinations in composition, for which nine hours are assigned, the order of merit is fixed, and this order entails many little privileges and precedencies, in chapel, refectory, class room, and elsewhere. Each master, if he prove a success and his health permit, continues to be the instructor of the boys in his class during the space of six years. ‘It is obvious’ says Sheil, in his account of Stonyhurst, ‘that much of a boy’s acquirements, and a good deal of the character of his taste, must have depended upon the individual to whose instructions he was thus almost exclusively confined.’ And in many cases the effects must be a greater interest felt in the students by their teachers, a mutual attachment founded on long acquaintance, and a more thorough knowledge, on the part of the master, of the weak and strong points of his pupils. Add to the above, the ‘rival’ and ‘side’ system, the effect of challenges and class combats; of the wearing of decorations and medals by the Imperators on Sundays, Festival Days, Concertation Days, and Examination Days; of the extraordinary work—done much more as private than as class work—helping to give individuality to the boy’s exertions, which might otherwise be merged in the routine work of the class; and the ‘free time’ given for improvement on wet evenings and after night prayers; add the Honours Matter; the Reports read before the Rector and all subordinate Superiors, the Professors, and whole body of Students; add the competition in each class and between the various classes, and even between the various colleges in England of the Society; and only one conclusion can be arrived at. It is a system which everyone is free to admire or think inferior to some other preferred by him; but it is a system.” (Stonyhurst College, Present and Past, by A. Hewitson, 2nd edition, 1878, pp. 214, ff.)

§ 39. Yes, it is a system, a system built up by the united efforts of many astute intellects and showing marvellous skill in selecting means to attain a clearly conceived end. There is then in the history of education little that should be more interesting or might be more instructive to the master of an English public school than the chapter about the Jesuits.[38]

V.
RABELAIS.
(1483-1553.)

§ 1. To great geniuses it is given to think themselves in a measure free from the ordinary notions of their time and often to anticipate the discoveries of a future age. In all literature there is perhaps hardly a more striking instance of this “detached” thinking than we find in Rabelais’ account of the education of Gargantua.

§ 2. We see in Rabelais an enthusiasm for learning and a tendency to verbal realism; that is, he turned to the old writers for instruction about things. So far he was a child of the Renascence. But in other respects he advanced far beyond it.

§ 3. After a scornful account of the ordinary school books and methods by which Gargantua “though he studied hard, did nevertheless profit nothing, but only grew thereby foolish, simple, dolted, and blockish,” Rabelais decides that “it were better for him to learn nothing at all than to be taught suchlike books under suchlike schoolmasters.” All this old lumber must be swept away, and in two years a youth may acquire a better judgment, a better manner, and more command of language than could ever have been obtained by the old method.

We are then introduced to the model pupil. The end of education has been declared to be sapiens et eloquens pietas; and we find that though Rabelais might have substituted knowledge for piety, he did care for piety, and valued very highly both wisdom and eloquence. The eloquent Roman was the ideal of the Renascence, and Rabelais’ model pupil expresses himself “with gestures so proper, pronunciation so distinct, a voice so eloquent, language so well turned and in such good Latin that he seemed rather a Gracchus, a Cicero, an Æmilius of the time past than a youth of the present age.”

§ 4. So a Renascence tutor is appointed for Gargantua and administers to him a potion that makes him forget all he has ever learned. He then puts him through a very different course. Like all wise instructors he first endeavours to secure the will of the pupil. He allows Gargantua to go the accustomed road till he can convince him it is the wrong one. This seems to me a remarkable proof of wisdom. How often does the “new master” break abruptly with the past, and raise the opposition of the pupil by dispraise of all he has already done! By degrees Ponocrates, the model tutor, inspired in his pupil a great desire for improvement. This he did by bringing him into the society of learned men, who filled him with ambition to be like them. Thereupon Gargantua “put himself into such a train of study that he lost not any hour in the day, but employed all his time in learning and honest knowledge.” The day was to begin at 4 a.m., with reading of “some chapter of the Holy Scripture, and oftentimes he gave himself to revere, adore, pray, and send up his supplications to that good God, whose word did show His majesty and marvellous judgments.” This is the only hint we get in this part of the book on the subject of religious or moral education: the training is directed to the intellect and the body.

§ 5. The remarkable feature in Rabelais’ curriculum is this, that it is concerned mainly with things. Of the Seven Liberal Arts of the Middle Ages, the first three were purely formal: grammar, logic, rhetoric; while the following course: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music, were not. The effect of the Renascence was to cause increasing neglect of the Quadrivium, but Rabelais cares for the Quadrivium only; Gargantua studies arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music, and the Trivium is not mentioned. Great use is made of books and Gargantua learned them by heart; but all that he learned he at once “applied to practical cases concerning the estate of man.” It was the substance of the reading, not the form, that was thought of. At dinner “if they thought good they continued reading or began to discourse merrily together; speaking first of the virtue, propriety, efficacy, and nature of all that was served in at that table; of bread, of wine, of water, of salt, of flesh, fish, fruits, herbs, roots, and of their dressing. By means whereof he learned in a little time all the passages that on these subjects are to be found in Pliny, Athenæus, &c. Whilst they talked of these things, many times to be more certain they caused the very books to be brought to the table; and so well and perfectly did he in his memory retain the things above said, that in that time there was not a physician that knew half so much as he did.” Again, out of doors he was to observe trees and plants, and “compare them with what is written of them in the books of the ancients, such as Theophrastus, Dioscorides, &c.” Here again, actual realism was to be joined with verbal realism, for Gargantua was to carry home with him great handfuls for herborising. Rabelais even recommends studying the face of the heavens at night, and then observing the change that has taken place at 4 in the morning. So he seems to have been the first writer on education (and the first by a long interval), who would teach about things by observing the things themselves. It was this Anschauungs-prinzip—use of sense-impressions—that Pestalozzi extended and claimed as his invention two centuries and a half later. Rabelais also gives a hint of the use of hand-work as well as head-work. Gargantua and his fellows “did recreate themselves in bottling hay, in cleaving and sawing wood, and in threshing sheaves of corn in the barn. They also studied the art of painting or carving.” The course was further connected with life by visits to the various handicraftsmen, in whose workshops “they did learn and consider the industry and invention of the trader.”

Thus, even in the time of the Renascence, Rabelais saw that the life of the intellect might be nourished by many things besides books. But books were still kept in the highest place. Even on a holiday, which occurred on some fine and clear day once a month, “though spent without books or lecture, yet was the day not without profit; for in the meadows they repeated certain pleasant verses of Virgil’s Agriculture, of Hesiod, of Politian’s Husbandry.” They also turned Latin epigrams into French rondeaux.

This course of study, “although at first it seemed difficult, yet soon became so sweet, so easy, and so delightful, that it seemed rather the recreation of a king than the study of a scholar.”

In preferring the Quadrivial studies to the Trivial, and still more in his use of actual things, Rabelais separates himself from all the teachers of his time.

§ 6. Very remarkable too is the attention he pays to physical education. A day does not pass on which Gargantua does not gallantly exercise his body as he has already exercised his mind. The exercises prescribed are very various, and include running, jumping, swimming, with practice on the horizontal bar and with dumb-bells, &c. But in one respect Rabelais seems behind our own writer, Richard Mulcaster. Mulcaster trained the body simply with a view to health. Rabelais is thinking of the gentleman, and all his physical exercises are to prepare him for the gentleman’s occupation, war. The constant preparation for war had a strong and in some respects a very beneficial influence on the education of gentlemen in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds, as it has had on that of the Germans in the eighteen hundreds. But to be ready to slaughter one’s fellow creatures is not an ideal aim in education; and besides this, one half of the human race can never (as far as we can judge at present) be affected by it. We therefore prefer the physical training recommended by the Englishman.

Mr. Walter Besant by his Readings in Rabelais (Blackwood, 1883), has put Rabelais’ wit and wisdom where we can get at most of it without searching in the dung-hill. But he has unfortunately omitted Gargantua’s letter to Pantagruel at Paris (book ij, chap. 8), where we get the curriculum as proposed by Rabelais, a chapter in which no scavenger is needed.

I will give some extracts from it:—

“Although my deceased father of happy memory, Grangousier, had bent his best endeavours to make me profit in all perfection and political knowledge, and that my labour and study was fully correspondent to, yea, went beyond his desire; nevertheless, the time then was not so proper and fit for learning as it is at present, neither had I plenty of such good masters as thou hast had; for that time was darksome, obscured with clouds of ignorance and savouring a little of the infelicity and calamity of the Goths, who had, wherever they set footing, destroyed all good literature, which in my age hath by the Divine Goodness been restored unto its former light and dignity, and that with such amendment and increase of knowledge that now hardly should I be admitted unto the first form of the little grammar school boys (des petits grimaulx): I say, I, who in my youthful days was (and that justly) reputed the most learned of that age. Now it is that the old knowledges (disciplines) are restored, the languages revived. Greek (without which it is a shame for any one to call himself learned), Hebrew, Chaldee, Latin. Printing (Des impressions) too, so elegant and exact, is in use, which in my day was invented by divine inspiration, as cannon were by suggestion of the devil. All the world is full of men of knowledge, of very learned teachers, of large libraries; so that it seems to me that neither in the age of Plato, nor of Cicero, nor of Papinian was there such convenience for studying as there is now. I see the robbers, hangmen, adventurers, ostlers of to-day more learned then the doctors and the preachers of my youth. Why, women and girls have aspired to the heavenly manna of good learning ... I mean you to learn the languages perfectly first of all, the Greek as Quintilian wishes, then the Latin, then Hebrew for the Scriptures, and Chaldee and Arabic at the same time; and that thou form thy style in Greek on Plato, in Latin on Cicero. Let there be no history which thou hast not ready in thy memory, in which cosmography will aid thee. Of the Liberal Arts, geometry, arithmetic, music, I have given thee a taste when thou wast still a child, at the age of five or six [Pantagruel was a giant, we must remember]; carry them on; and know’st thou all the rules of astronomy? Don’t touch astrology for divination and the art of Lullius, which are mere vanity. In the civil law thou must know the five texts by heart.

“ ... As for knowledge of the works of Nature, I would have thee devote thyself to them so that there may be no sea, river, or spring of which thou knowest not the fishes; all the birds of the air, all the trees, forest or orchard, all the herbs of the field, all the metals hid in the bowels of the earth, all the precious stones of the East and the South, let nothing be unknown to thee.

“Then turn again with diligence to the books of the Greek physicians, and the Arabs, and the Latin, without despising the Talmudists and the Cabalists; and by frequent dissections acquire a perfect knowledge of the other world, which is Man. And some hours a-day begin to read the Sacred Writings, first in Greek the New Testament and Epistles of the Apostles; then in Hebrew the Old Testament. In brief, let me see thee an abyss and bottomless pit of knowledge, for from henceforth as thou growest great and becomest a man thou must part from this tranquillity and rest of study ... And because, as Solomon saith, wisdom entereth not into a malicious mind, and science without conscience is but the ruin of the soul, thou shouldst serve, love, and fear God, and in Him centre all thy thoughts, all thy hope; and by faith rooted in charity be joined to Him, so as never to be separated from Him by sin.”

The influence of Rabelais on Montaigne, Locke, and Rousseau has been well traced by Dr. F. A. Arnstädt. (François Rabelais, Leipzig, Barth, 1872.)

VI.
MONTAIGNE.
(1533-1592.)

§ 1. The learned ideal established by the Renascence was accepted by Rabelais, though he made some suggestions about Realien[39] that seem to us much in advance of it. When he quotes the saying “Magis magnos clericos non sunt magis magnos sapientes” (“the greatest clerks are not the greatest sages”), this singular piece of Latinity is appropriately put into the mouth of a monk, who represents everything the Renascence scholars despised. In Montaigne we strike into a new vein of thought, and we find that what the monk alleges in defence of his ignorance the cultured gentleman adopts as the expression of an important truth.

§ 2. We ordinary people see truths indeed, but we see them indistinctly, and are not completely guided by them. It is reserved for men of genius to see truths, some truths that is, often a very few, with intense clearness. Some of these men have no great talent for speech or writing, and they try to express the truths they see, not so much by books as by action. Such men in education were Comenius, Pestalozzi, and Froebel. But sometimes the man of genius has a great power over language, and then he finds for the truths he has seen, fitting expression, which becomes almost as lasting as the truths themselves. Such men were Montaigne and Rousseau. If the historian of education is asked “What did Montaigne do?” he will answer “Nothing.” “What did Froebel say?” “He said a great deal, but very few people can read him and still fewer understand him.” Both, however, are and must remain forces in education. Montaigne has given to some truths imperishable form in his Essays, and Froebel’s ideas come home to all the world in the Kindergarten.

§ 3. The ideal set up by the Renascence attached the highest importance to learning. Montaigne maintained that the resulting training even at its best was not suited to a gentleman or man of action. Virtue, wisdom, and intellectual activity should be thought of before learning. Education should be first and foremost the development and exercise of faculties. And even if the acquirement of knowledge is thought of, Montaigne maintains that the pedants do not understand the first conditions of knowledge and give a semblance not the true thing.—“Il ne faut pas attacher le savoir à l’âme, il faut l’incorporer.—Knowledge cannot be fastened on to the mind; it must become part and parcel of the mind itself.”[40]

Here then we have two separate counts against the Renascence education:

1st.—Knowledge is not the main thing.

2nd.—True knowledge is something very different from knowing by heart.

§ 4. It is a pity Montaigne’s utterances about education are to be found in English only in the complete translation of his essays. Seeing that a good many millions of people read English, and are most of them concerned in education, one may hope that some day the sayings of the shrewd old Frenchman may be offered them in a convenient form.

§ 5. Here are some of them: “The evil comes of the foolish way in which our [instructors] set to work; and on the plan on which we are taught no wonder if neither scholars nor masters become more able, whatever they may do in becoming more learned. In truth the trouble and expense of our fathers are directed only to furnish our heads with knowledge: not a word of judgment or virtue. Cry out to our people about a passer-by, ‘There’s a learned man!’ and about another ‘There’s a good man!’ they will be all agog after the learned man, and will not look at the good man. One might fairly raise a third cry: ‘There’s a set of numskulls!’ We are ready enough to ask ‘Does he know Greek or know Latin? Does he write verse or write prose?’ But whether he has become wiser or better should be the first question, and that is always the last. We ought to find out, not who knows most but who knows best.” (I, chap. 24, Du Pédantisme, page or two beyond Odi homines.)

§ 6. The true educators, according to Montaigne, were the Spartans, who despised literature, and cared only for character and action. At Athens they thought about words, at Sparta about things. At Athens boys learnt to speak well, at Sparta to do well: at Athens to escape from sophistical arguments, and to face all attempts to deceive them; at Sparta to escape from the allurements of pleasure, and to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, even death itself. In the one system there was constant exercise of the tongue, in the other of the soul. “So it is not strange that when Antipater demanded of the Spartans fifty children as hostages they replied they would sooner give twice as many grown men, such store did they set by their country’s training.” (Du Pédantisme, ad f.)

§ 7. It is odd to find a man of the fifteen hundreds who quotes from the old authors at every turn, and yet maintains that “we lean so much on the arm of other people that we lose our own strength.” The thing a boy should learn is not what the old authors say, but “what he himself ought to do when he becomes a man.” Wisdom, not knowledge! “We may become learned from the learning of others; wise we can never be except by our own wisdom.” (Bk. j, chap. 24).

§ 8. So entirely was Montaigne detached from the thought of the Renascence that he scoffs at his own learning, and declares that true learning has for its subject, not the past or the future, but the present. “We are truly learned from knowing the present, not from knowing the past any more than the future.” And yet “we toil only to stuff the memory and leave the conscience and the understanding void. And like birds who fly abroad to forage for grain bring it home in their beak, without tasting it themselves, to feed their young, so our pedants go picking knowledge here and there out of several authors, and hold it at their tongue’s end, only to spit it out and distribute it amongst their pupils.” (Du Pédantisme.) “We are all richer than we think, but they drill us in borrowing and begging, and lead us to make more use of other people’s goods than of our own.”[41] (Bk. iij, chap. 12, De la Physionomie, beg. of 3rd paragraph).

§ 9. So far Montaigne. What do we schoolmasters say to all this? If we would be quite candid I think we must allow that, after reading Montaigne’s essay, we put it down with the conviction that in the main he was right, and that he had proved the error and absurdity of a vast deal that goes on in the schoolroom. But from this first view we have had on reflection to make several drawbacks.

§ 10. Montaigne, like Locke and Rousseau, who followed in his steps, arranges for every boy to have a tutor entirely devoted to him. We may question whether this method of bringing up children is desirable, and we may assert, without question, that in most cases it is impossible. It seems ordained that at every stage of life we should require the companionship of those of our own age. If we take two beings as little alike as a man and a child and force them to be each other’s companions, so great is the difference in their thoughts and interests that they will fall into inevitable boredom and restraint. So we see that this plan, even in the few cases in which it would be possible, would not be desirable; and for the great majority of boys it would be out of the question. We must then arrange for the young to be taught, not as individuals, but in classes, and this greatly changes the conditions of the problem. One of the first conditions is this, that we have to employ each class regularly and uniformly for some hours every day. Schoolmasters know what their non-scholastic mentors forget: we can make a class learn, but, broadly speaking, we cannot make a class think, still less can we make it judge. As a great deal of occupation has to be provided, we are therefore forced to make our pupils learn. Whatever may be the value of the learning in itself it is absolutely necessary as employment.

§ 11. No doubt it will make a vast difference whether we consider the learning mainly as employment, as a means of taking up time and preventing “sauntering,” as Locke boldly calls it, or whether we are chiefly anxious to secure some special results. The knowledge of the Latin and Greek languages and the Latin and Greek authors was a result so highly prized by the Renascence scholars that they insisted on a prodigious quantity of learning, not as employment, but simply as the means of acquiring this knowledge. As the knowledge got to be less esteemed the pressure was by degrees relaxed. In our public schools fifty or sixty years ago the learning was to some extent retained as employment, but there certainly was no pressure, and the majority of the boys never learnt the ancient languages. So the masters of that time had given up the Renascence enthusiasm for the classics, and on the negative side of his teaching had come to an agreement with Montaigne. Any one inclined to sarcasm might say that on the positive side they were still totally opposed to him, for he thought virtue and judgment were the main things to be cared for, and they did not care for these things at all. But this is not a fair statement. The one thing gained, or supposed to be gained, in the public schools was the art of living, and this art, though it does not demand heroic virtue, requires at least prudence and self-control. Montaigne’s system was a revolt against the bookishness of the Renascence. “In our studies,” says he, “whatever presents itself before us is book enough; a roguish trick of a page, a blunder of a servant, a jest at table, are so many new subjects.” So the education out of school was in his eyes of more value than the education in school. And this was acknowledged also in our public schools: “It is not the Latin and Greek they learn or don’t learn that we consider so important,” the masters used to say, “but it is the tone of the school and the discipline of the games.” But of late years this virtual agreement with Montaigne has been broken up. School work is no longer mere employment, but it is done under pressure, and with penalties if the tale of brick turned out does not pass the inspector.

§ 12. What has produced this great change? It is due mainly to two causes:

1. The pressure put on the young to attain classical knowledge was relaxed when it was thought that they could get through life very well without this knowledge. But in these days new knowledge has awakened a new enthusiasm. The knowledge of science promises such great advantages that the latest reformers, headed by Mr. Herbert Spencer, seem to make the well-being of the grown person depend mainly on the amount of scientific knowledge he stored up in his youth. This is the first cause of educational pressure.

§ 13. 2. The second and more urgent cause is the rapid development of our system of examinations. Everybody’s educational status is now settled by the examiner, a potentate whose influence has brought back in a very malignant form all the evils of which Montaigne complains. Do what we will, the faculty chiefly exercised in preparing for ordinary examinations is the “carrying memory.” So the acquisition of knowledge—mere memory or examination knowledge—has again come to be regarded as the one thing needful in education, and there is great danger of everything else being neglected for it. Of the fourfold results of education—virtue, wisdom, good manners, learning—the last alone can be fairly tested in examinations; and as the schoolmaster’s very bread depends nowadays first on his getting through examinations himself and then on getting his pupils through, he would be more than human, if with Locke he thought of learning “last and least.” A great change has come over our public schools. The amount of work required from the boys is far greater than it used to be and masters again measure their success by the amount of knowledge the average boy takes away with him. It seems to me high time that another Montaigne arose to protest that a man’s intellectual life does not consist in the number of things he remembers, and that his true life is not his intellectual life only, but embraces his power of will and action and his love of what is noble and right. “Wisdom cried of old, I am the mother of fair Love and Fear and Knowledge and holy Hope” (Ecclesiasticus). In these days of science and examinations does there not seem some danger lest knowledge should prove the sole survivor? May not Knowledge, like another Cain, raise its hand against its brethren “fair Love and Fear and holy Hope?” This is perhaps the great danger of our time, a danger especially felt in education. Every school parades its scholarships at the public schools or at the universities, or its passes in the Oxford and Cambridge Locals, or its percentage at the last Inspection, and asks to be judged by these. And yet these are not the one thing or indeed the chief thing needful: and it will be the ruin of true education if, as Mark Pattison said, the master’s attention is concentrated on the least important part of his duty.[42]

VII.
ASCHAM.
(1515-1568.)

§ 1. Masters and scholars who sigh over what seem to them the intricacies and obscurities of modern grammars may find some consolation in thinking that, after all, matters might have been worse, and that our fate is enviable indeed compared with that of the students of Latin 400 years ago. Did the reader ever open the Doctrinale of Alexander de Villa Dei, which was the grammar in general use from the middle of the thirteenth to the end of the fifteenth century? ([v. Appendix, p. 532]). If so, he is aware how great a step towards simplicity was made by our grammatical reformers, Lily, Colet, and Erasmus. Indeed, those whom we now regard as the forgers of our chains were, in their own opinion and that of their contemporaries, the champions of freedom (Appendix, p. 533).

§ 2. I have given elsewhere (Appendix, p. 533) a remarkable passage from Colet, in which he recommends the leaving of rules, and the study of examples in good Latin authors. Wolsey also, in his directions to the masters of Ipswich School (dated 1528), proposes that the boys should be exercised in the eight parts of speech in the first form, and should begin to speak Latin and translate from English into Latin in the second. If the masters think fit, they may also let the pupils read Lily’s Carmen Monitorium, or Cato’s Distichs. From the third upwards a regular course of classical authors was to be read, and Lily’s rules were to be introduced by degrees. “Although I confess such things are necessary,” writes Wolsey, “yet, as far as possible, we could wish them so appointed as not to occupy the more valuable part of the day.” Only in the sixth form, the highest but two, Lily’s syntax was to be begun. In these schools the boys’ time was wholly taken up with Latin, and the speaking of Latin was enforced even in play hours, so we see that anomalies in the accidence as taught in the As in præsenti were not given till the boys had been some time using the language; and the syntax was kept till they had a good practical knowledge of the usages to which the rules referred.[43]

§ 3. But although there was a great stir in education throughout this century, and several English books were published about it, we come to 1570 before we find anything that has lived till now. We then have Roger Ascham’s Scholemaster, a posthumous work brought out by Ascham’s widow, and republished in 1571 and 1589. The book was then lost sight of, but reappeared, with James Upton as editor, in 1711,[44] and has been regarded as an educational classic ever since. Dr. Johnson says “it contains perhaps the best advice that was ever given for the study of languages,” and Professor J. E. B. Mayor, who on this point is a higher authority than Dr. Johnson, declares that “this book sets forth the only sound method of acquiring a dead language.”

§ 4. With all their contempt for theory, English schoolmasters might have been expected to take an interest in one part of the history of education, viz., the history of methods. There is a true saying attributed by Marcel to Talleyrand, “Les Méthodes sont les maîtres des maîtres—Method is the master’s master.” The history of education shows us that every subject of instruction has been taught in various ways, and further, that the contest of methods has not uniformly ended in the survival of the fittest. Methods then might often teach the teachers, if the teachers cared to be taught; but till within the last half century or so an unintelligent traditional routine has sufficed for them. There has no doubt been a great change since men now old were at school, but in those days the main strength of the teaching was given to Latin, and the masters knew of no better method of starting boys in this language than making them learn by heart Lily’s, or as it was then called, the Eton Latin Grammar. If reason had had anything to do with teaching, this book would have been demolished by Richard Johnson’s Grammatical Commentaries published in 1706; but worthless as Johnson proved it to be, the Grammar was for another 150 years treated by English schoolmasters as the only introduction to the Latin tongue. The books that have recently been published show a tendency to revert to methods set forth in Elizabeth’s reign in Ascham’s Scholemaster (1570) and William Kempe’s Education of Children (1588), but the innovators have not as a rule been drawn to these methods by historical inquiry.

§ 5. There seem to be only three English writers on education who have caught the ear of other nations, and these are Ascham, Locke, and Herbert Spencer. Of a contemporary we do well to speak with the same reserve as of “present company,” but of the other two we may say that the choice has been somewhat capricious. Locke’s Thoughts perhaps deserves the reputation and influence it has always had, but in it he hardly does himself justice as a philosopher of the mind; and much of the advice which has been considered his exclusively, is to be found in his English predecessors whose very names are unknown except to the educational antiquarian. Ascham wrote a few pages on method which entitle him to mention in an account of methods of language-learning. He also wrote a great many pages about things in general which would have shared the fate of many more valuable but long forgotten books had he not had one peculiarity in which the other writers were wanting, that indescribable something which Matthew Arnold calls “charm.”

§ 6. Ascham has been very fortunate in his editors, Professor Arber and Professor Mayor, and the last editions[45] give everyone an opportunity of reading the Scholemaster. I shall therefore speak of nothing but the method.

§ 7. Latin is to be taught as follows:—First, let the child learn the eight parts of speech, and then the right joining together of substantives with adjectives, the noun with the verb, the relative with the antecedent. After the concords are learned, let the master take Sturm’s selection of Cicero’s Epistles, and read them after this manner: “first, let him teach the child, cheerfully and plainly, the cause and matter of the letter; then, let him construe it into English so oft as the child may easily carry away the understanding of it; lastly, parse it over perfectly. This done, then let the child by and by both construe and parse it over again; so that it may appear that the child doubteth in nothing that his master has taught him before. After this, the child must take a paper book, and, sitting in some place where no man shall prompt him, by himself let him translate into English his former lesson. Then showing it to his master, let the master take from him his Latin book, and pausing an hour at the least, then let the child translate his own English into Latin again in another paper book. When the child bringeth it turned into Latin, the master must compare it with Tully’s book, and lay them both together, and where the child doth well, praise him,” where amiss point out why Tully’s use is better. Thus the child will easily acquire a knowledge of grammar, “and also the ground of almost all the rules that are so busily taught by the master, and so hardly learned by the scholar in all common schools.... We do not contemn rules, but we gladly teach rules; and teach them more plainly, sensibly, and orderly, than they be commonly taught in common schools. For when the master shall compare Tully’s book with the scholar’s translation, let the master at the first lead and teach the scholar to join the rules of his grammar book with the examples of his present lesson, until the scholar by himself be able to fetch out of his grammar every rule for every example; and let the grammar book be ever in the scholars hand, and also used by him as a dictionary for every present use. This is a lively and perfect way of teaching of rules; where the common way used in common schools to read the grammar alone by itself is tedious for the master, hard for the scholar, cold and uncomfortable for them both.” And elsewhere Ascham says: “Yea, I do wish that all rules for young scholars were shorter than they be. For, without doubt, grammatica itself is sooner and surer learned by examples of good authors than by the naked rules of grammarians.”

§ 8. “As you perceive your scholar to go better on away, first, with understanding his lesson more quickly, with parsing more readily, with translating more speedily and perfectly than he was wont; after, give him longer lessons to translate, and, withal, begin to teach him, both in nouns and verbs, what is proprium and what is translatum, what synonymum, what diversum, which be contraria, and which be most notable phrases, in all his lectures, as—

Every lesson is to be thus carefully analysed, and entered under these headings in a third MS. book.

§ 9. Here Ascham leaves his method, and returns to it only at the beginning of Book II. He there supposes the first stage to be finished and “your scholar to have come indeed, first to a ready perfectness in translating, then to a ripe and skilful choice in marking out his six points.” He now recommends a course of Cicero, Terence, Cæsar, and Livy which is to be read “a good deal at every lecture.” And the master is to give passages “put into plain natural English.” These the scholar shall “not know where to find” till he shall have tried his hand at putting them into Latin; then the master shall “bring forth the place in Tully.”

§ 10. In the Second Book of the Scholemaster, Ascham discusses the various branches of the study then common, viz.: 1. Translatio linguarum; 2. Paraphrasis; 3. Metaphrasis; 4. Epitome; 5. Imitatio; 6. Declamatio. He does not lay much stress on any of these, except translatio and imitatio. Of the last he says: “All languages, both learned and mother-tongue, be gotten, and gotten only, by imitation. For, as ye use to hear, so ye use to speak; if ye hear no other, ye speak not yourself; and whom ye only hear, of them ye only learn.” But translation was his great instrument for all kinds of learning. “The translation,” he says, “is the most common and most commendable of all other exercises for youth; most common, for all your constructions in grammar schools be nothing else but translations, but because they be not double translations (as I do require) they bring forth but simple and single commodity: and because also they lack the daily use of writing, which is the only thing that breedeth deep root, both in the wit for good understanding and in the memory for sure keeping of all that is learned; most commendable also, and that by the judgment of all authors which entreat of these exercises.”

§ 11. After quoting Pliny,[46] he says: “You perceive how Pliny teacheth that by this exercise of double translating is learned easily, sensibly, by little and little, not only all the hard congruities of grammar, the choice of ablest words, the right pronouncing of words and sentences, comeliness of figures, and forms fit for every matter and proper for every tongue: but, that which is greater also, in marking daily and following diligently thus the footsteps of the best authors, like invention of arguments, like order in disposition, like utterance in elocution, is easily gathered up; and hereby your scholar shall be brought not only to like eloquence, but also to all true understanding and rightful judgment, both for writing and speaking.”

Again he says: “For speedy attaining, I durst venture a good wager if a scholar in whom is aptness, love, diligence, and constancy, would but translate after this sort some little book in Tully (as De Senectute, with two Epistles, the first ‘Ad Quintum Fratrem,’ the other ‘Ad Lentulum’), that scholar, I say, should come to a better knowledge in the Latin tongue than the most part do that spend from five to six years in tossing all the rules of grammar in common schools.” After quoting the instance of Dion Prussæus, who came to great learning and utterance by reading and following only two books, the Phædo, and Demosthenes de Falsa Legatione, he goes on: “And a better and nearer example herein may be our most noble Queen Elizabeth, who never took yet Greek nor Latin grammar in her hand after the first declining of a noun and a verb; but only by this double translating of Demosthenes and Isocrates daily, without missing, every forenoon, and likewise some part of Tully every afternoon, for the space of a year or two, hath attained to such a perfect understanding in both the tongues, and to such a ready utterance of the Latin, and that with such a judgment, as there be few now in both Universities or elsewhere in England that be in both tongues comparable with Her Majesty.” Ascham’s authority is indeed not conclusive on this point, as he, in praising the Queen’s attainments, was vaunting his own success as a teacher, and, moreover, if he flattered her he could plead prevailing custom. But we have, I believe, abundant evidence that Elizabeth was an accomplished scholar.

§ 12. Before I leave Ascham I must make one more quotation, to which I shall more than once have occasion to refer. Speaking of the plan of double translation, he says: “Ere the scholar have construed, parsed, twice translated over by good advisement, marked out his six points by skilful judgment, he shall have necessary occasion to read over every lecture a dozen times at the least; which because he shall do always in order, he shall do it always with pleasure. And pleasure allureth love: love hath lust to labour; labour always obtaineth his purpose.”

§ 13. A good deal has been said, and perhaps something learnt, about the teaching of Latin since the days of Ascham. As far as I know the method which Ascham denounced, and which most English schoolmasters stuck to for more than two centuries longer, has now been abandoned. No one thinks of making the beginner learn by heart all the Latin Grammar before he is introduced to the Latin language. To understand the machinery of which an account is given in the grammar, the learner must see it at work, and must even endeavour in a small way to work it himself. So it seems pretty well agreed that the information given in the grammar must be joined with some construing and some exercises from the very first. But here the agreement ends. Our teachers, consciously or in ignorance, follow one or more of a number of methodizers who have examined the problem of language-learning, such men as Ascham, Ratke, Comenius, Jacotot, Hamilton, Robertson, and Prendergast. These naturally divide themselves into two parties, which I have ventured to call “Rapid Impressionists,” and “Complete Retainers.” The first of these plunge the beginner into the language, and trust to the great mass of vague impressions clearing and defining themselves as he goes along. The second insist on his learning at the first a very small portion of the language, and mastering and retaining everything he learns. It will be seen that in the first stage of the course Ascham is a “Complete Retainer.” He does not talk, like Prendergast, of “mastery,” nor, like Jacotot, does he require the learner to begin every lesson at the beginning of the book: but he makes the pupil go over each lesson “a dozen times at the least,” before he may advance beyond it. As for his practice of double translation, for the advanced pupil it is excellent, but if it is required from the beginner, it leads to unintelligent memorizing. I think I shall be able to show later on that other methodizers have advanced beyond Ascham. ([Infra, 246 n.])

VIII.
MULCASTER.
(1531(?)-1611.)

§ 1. The history of English thought on education has yet to be written. In the literature of education the Germans have been the pioneers, and have consequently settled the routes; and when a track has once been established few travellers will face the risk and trouble of leaving it. So up to the present time, writers on the history of European education after the Renascence have occupied themselves chiefly with men who lived in Germany, or wrote in German. But the French are at length exploring the country for themselves; and in time, no doubt, the English-speaking races will show an interest in the thoughts and doings of their common ancestors.

We know what toils and dangers men will encounter in getting to the source of great rivers; and although, as Mr. Widgery truly says, “the study of origins is not everybody’s business,”[47] we yet may hope that students will be found ready to give time and trouble to an investigation of great interest and perhaps some utility—the origin of the school course which now affects the millions who have English for their mother-tongue.

§ 2. In the fifteen hundreds there were published several works on education, three of which, Elyot’s Governour, Ascham’s Scholemaster, and Mulcaster’s Positions, have been recently reprinted.[48] Others, such as Edward Coote’s English Schoolmaster, and Mulcaster’s Elementarie, are pretty sure to follow, without serious loss, let us hope, to their editors, though neither Coote nor Mulcaster are likely to become as well-known writers as Roger Ascham.

§ 3. Henry Barnard, whose knowledge of our educational literature no less than his labours in it, makes him the greatest living authority, says that Mulcaster’s Positions is “one of the earliest, and still one of the best treatises in the English language.” (English Pedagogy, 2nd series, p. 177.) Mulcaster was one of the most famous of English schoolmasters, and by his writings he proved that he was far in advance of the schoolmasters of his own time, and of the times which succeeded. But he paid the penalty of thinking of himself more highly than he should have thought; and whether or no the conjecture is right that Shakespeare had him in his mind when writing Love’s Labour’s Lost, there is an affectation in Mulcaster’s style which is very irritating, for it has caused even the master of Edmund Spenser to be forgotten. In a curious and interesting allegory on the progress of language (in the Elementarie, pp. 66, ff.), Mulcaster says that Art selects the best age of a language to draw rules from, such as the age of Demosthenes in Greece and of Tully in Rome; and he goes on: “Such a period in the English tongue I take to be in our days for both the pen and the speech.” And he suggests that the English language, having reached its zenith, is seen to advantage, not in the writings of Shakespeare or Spenser, but in those of Richard Mulcaster. After enumerating the excellencies of the language, he adds: “I need no example in any of these, whereof my own penning is a general pattern.” Here we feel tempted to exclaim with Armado in Love’s Labour’s Lost (Act 5, sc. 2): “I protest the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical: too too vain, too too vain.” He speaks elsewhere of his “so careful, I will not say so curious writing” (Elementarie, p. 253), and says very truly: “Even some of reasonable study can hardly understand the couching of my sentence, and the depth of my conceit” (ib., 235). And this was the death-warrant of his literary renown.

§ 4. But there is good reason why Mulcaster should not be forgotten. When we read his books we find that wisdom which we are importing in the nineteenth century was in a great measure offered us by an English schoolmaster in the sixteenth. The latest advances in pedagogy have established (1) that the end and aim of education is to develop the faculties of the mind and body; (2) that all teaching processes should be carefully adapted to the mental constitution of the learner; (3) that the first stage in learning is of immense importance and requires a very high degree of skill in the teacher; (4) that the brain of children, especially of clever children, should not be subjected to “pressure”; (5) that childhood should not be spent in learning foreign languages, but that its language should be the mother-tongue, and its exercises should include handwork, especially drawing; (6) that girls’ education should be cared for no less than boys’; (7) that the only hope of improving our schools lies in providing training for our teachers. These are all regarded as planks in the platform of “the new education,” and these were all advocated by Mulcaster.

§ 5. Before I point this out in detail I may remark how greatly education has suffered from being confounded with learning. There are interesting passages both in Ascham and Mulcaster which prove that the class-ideal of the “scholar and gentleman” was of later growth. In the fifteen hundreds learning was thought suitable, not for the rich, but for the clever. Still, learning, and therefore education, was not for the many, but the few. Mulcaster considers at some length how the number of the educated is to be kept down (Positions, chapp. 36, 37, 39), though even here he is in the van, and would have everyone taught to read and write (Positions, chapp. 5, 36). But the true problem of education was not faced till it was discovered that every human being was to be considered in it. This was, I think, first seen by Comenius.

With this abatement we find Mulcaster’s sixteenth-century notions not much behind our nineteenth.

§ 6. (1 & 2) “Why is it not good,” he asks, “to have every part of the body and every power of the soul to be fined to his best?” (PP., p. 34[49]). Elsewhere he says: “The end of education and train is to help Nature to her perfection, which is, when all her abilities be perfected in their habit, whereunto right elements be right great helps. Consideration and judgment must wisely mark whereunto Nature is either evidently given or secretly affectionate and must frame an education consonant thereto.” (El., p. 28).

Michelet has with justice claimed for Montaigne that he drew the teacher’s attention from the thing to be learnt to the learner: “Non l’objet, le savoir, mais le sujet, c’est l’homme.” (Nos Fils, p. 170.) Mulcaster has a claim to share this honour with his great contemporary. He really laid the foundation of a science of education. Discussing our natural abilities, he says: “We have a perceiving by outward sense to feel, to hear, to see, to smell, to taste all sensible things; which qualities of the outward, being received in by the common sense and examined by fantsie, are delivered to remembrance, and afterward prove our great and only grounds unto further knowledge.”[50] (El., p. 32.) Here we see Mulcaster endeavouring to base education, or as he so well calls it, “train,” on what we receive from Nature. Elsewhere he speaks of the three things which we “find peering out of the little young souls,” viz: “wit to take, memory to keep, and discretion to discern.” (PP., p. 27.)

§ 7. (3) I have pointed out that the false ideal of the Renascence led schoolmasters to neglect children. Mulcaster remarks that the ancients considered the training of children should date from the birth; but he himself begins with the school age. Here he has the boldness to propose that those who teach the beginners should have the smallest number of pupils, and should receive the highest pay. “The first groundwork would be laid by the best workman,” says Mulcaster (PP., 130), here expressing a truth which, like many truths that are not quite convenient, is seldom denied but almost systematically ignored.[51]

§ 8. (4) In the Nineteenth Century Magazine for November, 1888, appeared a vigorous protest with nearly 400 signatures, many of which carried great weight with them, against our sacrifice of education to examination. Our present system, whether good or bad, is the result of accident. Winchester and Eton had large endowments, and naturally endeavoured by means of these endowments to get hold of clever boys. At first no doubt they succeeded fairly well; but other schools felt bound to compete for juvenile brains, and as the number of prizes increased, many of our preparatory schools became mere racing stables for children destined at 12 or 14 to run for “scholarship stakes.” Thus, in the scramble for the money all thought of education has been lost sight of; injury has been done in many cases to those who have succeeded, still greater injury to those who have failed or who have from the first been considered “out of the running.” These very serious evils would have been avoided had we taken counsel with Mulcaster: “Pity it were for so petty a gain to forego a greater; to win an hour in the morning and lose the whole day after; as those people most commonly do which start out of their beds too early before they be well awaked or know what it is o’clock; and be drowsy when they are up for want of their sleep.” (PP., p. 19; see also El., xi., pp. 52 ff.)

§ 9. (5) It would have been a vast gain to all Europe if Mulcaster had been followed instead of Sturm. He was one of the earliest advocates of the use of English instead of Latin (see Appendix, p. 534), and good reading and writing in English were to be secured before Latin was begun. His elementary course included these five things: English reading, English writing, drawing, singing, playing a musical instrument. If the first course were made to occupy the school-time up to the age of 12, Mulcaster held that more would be done between 12 and 16 than between 7 and 17 in the ordinary way. There would be the further gain that the children would not be set against learning. “Because of the too timely onset too little is done in too long a time, and the school is made a torture, which as it brings forth delight in the end when learning is held fast, so should it pass on very pleasantly by the way, while it is in learning.”[52] (PP., 33.)

§ 10. (6) Among the many changes brought about in the nineteenth century we find little that can compare in importance with the advance in the education of women. In the last century, whenever a woman exercised her mental powers she had to do it by stealth,[53] and her position was degraded indeed when compared not only with her descendants of the nineteenth century, but also with her ancestors of the sixteenth. This I know has been disputed by some authorities, e.g., by the late Professor Brewer: but to others, e.g., to a man who, as regards honesty and wisdom, has had few equals and no superiors in investigating the course of education, I mean the late Joseph Payne, this educational superiority of the women of Elizabeth’s time has seemed to be entirely beyond question. On this point Mulcaster’s evidence is very valuable, and, to me at least, conclusive. He not only “admits young maidens to learn,” but says that “custom stands for him,” and that “the custom of my country ... hath made the maidens’ train her own approved travail.” (PP., p. 167.)

§ 11. (7) Of all the educational reforms of the nineteenth century by far the most fruitful and most expansive is, in my opinion, the training of teachers. In this, as in most educational matters, the English, though advancing, are in the rear. Far more is made of “training” on the Continent and in the United States than in England. And yet we made a good start. Our early writers on education saw that the teacher has immense influence, and that to turn this influence to good account he must have made a study of his profession and have learnt “the best that has been thought and done” in it. Every occupation in life has a traditional capital of knowledge and experience, and those who intend to follow the business, whatever it may be, are required to go through some kind of training or apprenticeship before they earn wages. To this rule there is but one exception. In English elementary schools children are paid to “teach” children, and in the higher schools the beginner is allowed to blunder at the expense of his first pupils into whatever skill he may in the end manage to pick up. But our English practice received no encouragement from the early English writers, Mulcaster, Brinsley,[54] and Hoole.

As far as I am aware the first suggestion of a training college for teachers came from Mulcaster. He schemed seven special colleges at the University; and of these one is for teachers. Some of his suggestions, e.g., about “University Readers” have lately been adopted, though without acknowledgment; and as the University of Cambridge has since 1879 acknowledged the existence of teachers, and appointed a “Teachers’ Training Syndicate,” we may perhaps in a few centuries more carry out his scheme, and have training colleges at Oxford and Cambridge.[55] Some of the reasons he gives us have not gone out of date with his English. They are as follows:—

“And why should not these men (the teachers) have both this sufficiency in learning, and such room to rest in, thence to be chosen and set forth for the common service? Be either children or schools so small a portion of our multitude? or is the framing of young minds, and the training of their bodies so mean a point of cunning? Be schoolmasters in this Realm such a paucity, as they are not even in good sadness to be soundly thought on? If the chancel have a minister, the belfry hath a master: and where youth is, as it is eachwhere, there must be trainers, or there will be worse. He that will not allow of this careful provision for such a seminary of masters, is most unworthy either to have had a good master himself, or hereafter to have a good one for his. Why should not teachers be well provided for, to continue their whole life in the school, as Divines, Lawyers, Physicians do in their several professions? Thereby judgment, cunning, and discretion will grow in them: and masters would prove old men, and such as Xenophon setteth over children in the schooling of Cyrus. Whereas now, the school being used but for a shift, afterward to pass thence to the other professions, though it send out very sufficient men to them, itself remaineth too too naked, considering the necessity of the thing. I conclude, therefore, that this trade requireth a particular college, for these four causes. 1. First, for the subject being the mean to make or mar the whole fry of our State. 2. Secondly, for the number, whether of them that are to learn, or of them that are to teach. 3. Thirdly, for the necessity of the profession, which may not be spared. 4. Fourthly, for the matter of their study, which is comparable to the greatest professions, for language, for judgment, for skill how to train, for variety in all points of learning, wherein the framing of the mind, and the exercising of the body craveth exquisite consideration, beside the staidness of the person.” (PP., 9 pp. 248, 9.)

§ 12. Though once a celebrated man, and moreover the master of Edmund Spenser, Mulcaster has been long forgotten; but when the history of education in England comes to be written, the historian will show that few schoolmasters in the fifteen hundreds or since were so enlightened as the first headmaster of Merchant Taylors’.[56]

IX.
RATICHIUS.
(1571-1635.)

§ 1. The history of Education in the fifteen hundreds tells chiefly of two very different classes of men. First we have the practical men, who set themselves to supply the general demand for instruction in the classical languages. This class includes most of the successful schoolmasters, such as Sturm, Trotzendorf, Neander, and the Jesuits. The other class were thinkers, who never attempted to teach, but merely gave form to truths which would in the end affect teaching. These were especially Rabelais and Montaigne.

§ 2. With the sixteen hundreds we come to men who have earned for themselves a name unpleasant in our ears, although it might fittingly be applied to all the greatest benefactors of the human race. I mean the name of Innovators. These men were not successful; at least they seemed unsuccessful to their contemporaries, who contrasted the promised results with the actual. But their efforts were by no means thrown away: and posterity at least, has acknowledged its obligations to them. One sees now that they could hardly have expected justice in their own time. It is safe to adopt the customary plan; it is safe to speculate how that plan may and should be altered; but it is dangerous to attempt to translate new thought into new action, and boldly to advance without a track, trusting to principles which may, like the compass, show you the right direction, but, like the compass, will give you no hint of the obstacles that lie before you.

The chief demands made by the Innovators have been: 1st, that the study of things should precede, or be united with, the study of words ([v. Appendix, p. 538]); 2nd, that knowledge should be communicated, where possible, by appeals to the senses; 3rd, that all linguistic study should begin with that of the mother-tongue; 4th, that Latin and Greek should be taught to such boys only as would be likely to complete a learned education; 5th, that physical education should be attended to in all classes of society for the sake of health, not simply with a view to gentlemanly accomplishments; 6th, that a new method of teaching should be adopted, framed “according to Nature.”

Their notions of method have, of course, been very various; but their systems mostly agree in these particulars:—

1. They proceed from the concrete to the abstract, giving some knowledge of the thing itself before the rules which refer to it. 2. They employ the student in analysing matter put before him, rather than in working synthetically according to precept. 3. They require the student to teach himself and investigate for himself under the superintendence and guidance of the master, rather than be taught by the master and receive anything on the master’s authority. 4. They rely on the interest excited in the pupil by the acquisition of knowledge, and renounce coercion. 5. Only that which is understood may be committed to memory ([v. supra, p. 74, n.])

§ 3. The first of the Innovators was Wolfgang Ratichius, who, oddly enough, is known to posterity by a name he and his contemporaries never heard of. His father’s name was Radtké or Ratké, and the son having received a University education, translated this into Ratichius. With our usual impatience of redundant syllables, we have attempted to reduce the word to its original dimensions, and in the process have hit upon Ratich, which is a new name altogether.

Ratke (to adopt the true form of the original) was connected, as Basedow was a hundred and fifty years later, with Holstein and Hamburg. He was born at Wilster in Holstein in 1571, and studied at Hamburg and at the University of Rostock. He afterwards travelled to Amsterdam and to England, and it was perhaps owing to his residence in this country that he was acquainted with the new philosophy of Bacon. We next hear of him at the Electoral Diet, held as usual in Frankfurt-on-Main, in 1612. He was then over forty years old, and he had elaborated a new scheme for teaching. Like all inventors, he was fully impressed with the importance of his discovery, and he sent to the assembled Princes an address, in which he undertook some startling performances. He was able, he said: (1) to teach young or old Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, or other languages, in a very short time and without any difficulty; (2) to establish schools in which all arts should be taught and extended; (3) to introduce and peaceably establish throughout the German Empire a uniform speech, a uniform government, and (still more wonderful) a uniform religion.

§ 4. Naturally enough the address arrested the attention of the Princes. The Landgraf Lewis of Darmstadt thought the matter worthy of examination, and he deputed two learned men, Jung and Helwig, to confer with Ratke. Their report was entirely favourable, and they did all they could to get for Ratke the means of carrying his scheme into execution. “We are,” writes Helwig, “in bondage to Latin. The Greeks and Saracens would never have done so much for posterity if they had spent their youth in acquiring a foreign tongue. We must study our own language, and then sciences. Ratichius has discovered the art of teaching according to Nature. By his method, languages will be quickly learned, so that we shall have time for science; and science will be learned even better still, as the natural system suits best with science, which is the study of Nature.” Moved by this report the Town Council of Augsburg agreed to give Ratke the necessary power over their schools, and accompanied by Helwig, he accordingly went to Augsburg and set to work. But the good folks of Augsburg were like children, who expect a plant as soon as they have sown the seed. They were speedily dissatisfied, and Ratke and Helwig left Augsburg, the latter much discouraged but still faithful to his friend. Ratke went to Frankfurt again, and a Commission was appointed to consider his proposals, but by its advice Ratke was “allowed to try elsewhere.”

§ 5. He would never have had a fair chance had he not had a firm friend in the Duchess Dorothy of Weimar. Then, as now, we find women taking the lead in everything which promises to improve education, and this good Duchess sent for Ratke and tested his method by herself taking lessons of him in Hebrew. With this adult pupil his plans seem to have answered well, and she always continued his admirer and advocate. By her advice her brother, Prince Lewis of Anhalt-Koethen, decided that the great discovery should not be lost for want of a fair trial; so he called Ratke to Koethen and complied with all his demands. A band of teachers sworn to secrecy were first of all instructed in the art by Ratke himself. Next, schools with very costly appliances were provided, and lastly some 500 little Koetheners—boys and girls—were collected and handed over to Ratke to work his wonders with.

§ 6. It never seems to have occurred either to Ratke or his friends or the Prince that all the principles and methods that ever were or ever will be established could not enable a man without experience to organize a school of 500 children. A man who had never been in the water might just as well plunge into the sea at once and trust to his knowledge of the laws of fluid pressure to save him from drowning. There are endless details to be settled which would bewilder any one without experience. Some years ago school-buildings were provided for one of our county schools, and the council consulted a master of great experience who strongly urged them not to start as they had intended with 300 boys. “I would not undertake such a thing,” said he. When pressed for his reason, he said quietly, “I would not be responsible for the boots.” I have no doubt Ratke had to come down from his principles and his new method to deal with numberless little questions of caps, bonnets, late children, broken windows, and the like; and he was without the tact and the experience which enable many ordinary men and women, who know nothing of principles, to settle such matters satisfactorily.

§ 7. Years afterwards there was another thinker much more profound and influential than Ratke, who was quite as incompetent to organize. I mean Pestalozzi. But Pestalozzi had one great advantage over Ratke. He attached all his assistants to him by inspiring them with love and reverence of himself. This made up for many deficiencies. But Ratke was not like the fatherly, self-sacrificing Pestalozzi. He leads us to suspect him of being an impostor by making a mystery of his invention, and he never could keep the peace with his assistants.

§ 8. So, as might have been expected, the grand experiment failed. The Prince, exasperated at being placed in a somewhat ridiculous position, and possibly at the serious loss of money into the bargain, revenged himself on Ratke by throwing him into prison, nor would he release him till he had made him sign a paper in which he admitted that he had undertaken more than he was able to fulfil.

§ 9. This was no doubt the case; and yet Ratke had done more for the Prince than the Prince for Ratke. In Koethen had been opened the first German school in which the children were taught to make a study of the German language.

Ratke never recovered from his failure at Koethen, and nothing memorable is recorded of him afterwards. He died in 1635.

§ 10. Much was written by Ratke; much has been written about him; and those who wish to know more than the few particulars I have given may find all they want in Raumer or Barnard. The Innovator failed in gaining the applause of his contemporaries, and he does not seem to stand high in the respect of posterity; but he was a pioneer in the art of didactics, and the rules which Raumer has gathered from the Methodus Institutionis nova ... Ratichii et Ratichianorum, published by Rhenius at Leipzig in 1626, raise some of the most interesting points to which a teachers attention can be directed. I will therefore state them, and say briefly what I think of them.

§ 11. I. In everything we should follow the order of Nature. There is a certain natural sequence along which the human intelligence moves in acquiring knowledge. This sequence must be studied, and instruction must be based on the knowledge of it.

Here, as in all teaching of the Reformers, we find “Nature” used as if the word stood for some definite idea. From the time of the Stoics we have been exhorted to “follow Nature.” In more modern times the demand was well formulated by Picus of Mirandola: “Take no heed what thing many men do, but what thing the very law of Nature, what thing very reason, what thing our Lord Himself showeth thee to be done.” (Trans. by Sir Thomas More, quoted in Seebohm, Oxford Reformers.)

Pope, always happy in expression but not always clear in thought, talks of—

“Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,

One clear, unchanged, and universal light.”

(Essay on C., i, 70.)

But as Dr. W. T. Harris has well pointed out (St. Louis, Mo., School Report, ’78, ’79, p. 217), with this word “Nature” writers on education do a great deal of juggling. Some times they use it for the external world, including in it man’s unconscious growth, sometimes they make it stand for the ideal. What sense does Ratke attach to it? One might have some difficulty in determining. Perhaps the best meaning we can nowadays find for his rule is: study Psychology.

§ 12. II. One thing at a time. Master one subject before you take up another. For each language master a single book. Go over it again and again till you have completely made it your own.

In its crude form this rule could not be carried out. If the attempt were made the results would be no better than from the six months’ course of Terence under Ratke. It is “against all Nature” to go on hammering away at one thing day after day without any change; and there is a point beyond which any attempt at thoroughness must end in simple stagnation. The rule then would have two fatal drawbacks: 1st, it would lead to monotony; 2nd, it would require a completeness of learning which to the young would be impossible. But in these days no one follows Ratke. On the other hand, concentration in study is often neglected, and our time-tables afford specimens of the most ingenious mosaic work, in which everything has a place, but in so small a quantity that the learners never find out what each thing really is. School subjects are like the clubs of the eastern tale, which did not give out their medicinal properties till the patient got warm in the use of them.

When a good hold on a subject has once been secured, short study, with considerable intervals between, may suffice to keep up and even increase the knowledge already obtained; but in matters of any difficulty, e.g., in a new language, no start is ever made without allotting to it much more than two or three hours a week. It is perhaps a mistake to suppose that if a good deal of the language may be learnt by giving it ten hours a week, twice that amount might be acquired in twenty hours. It is a much greater mistake if we think that one-fifth of the amount might be acquired in two hours.

§ 13. III. The same thing should be repeated over and over again.

This is like the Jesuits’ Repetitio Mater Studiorum; and the same notion was well developed 200 years later by Jacotot.

By Ratke’s application of this rule some odd results were produced. The little Koetheners were drilled for German in a book of the Bible (Genesis was selected), and then for Latin in a play of Terence.

Unlike many “theoretical notions” this precept of Ratke’s comes more and more into favour as the schoolmaster increases in age and experience. But we must be careful to take our pupils with us; and this repeating the same thing over and over may seem to them what marking time would seem to soldiers who wanted to march. Even more than the last rule this is open to the objections that monotony is deadening, and perfect attainment of anything but words impossible. In keeping to a subject then we must not rely on simple repetition. The rule now accepted is thus stated by Diesterweg:—“Every subject of instruction should be viewed from as many sides as possible, and as varied exercises as possible should be set on one and the same thing.” The art of the master is shown in disguising repetition and bringing known things into new connection, so that they may partially at least retain their freshness.

§ 14. IV. First let the mother-tongue be studied, and teach everything through the mother-tongue, so that the learners attention may not be diverted to the language.

We saw that Sturm, the leading schoolmaster of Renascence, tried to suppress the mother-tongue and substitute Latin for it. Against this a vigorous protest was made in this country by Mulcaster. And our language was never conquered by a foreign language, as German was conquered first by Latin and then by French. But “the tongues” have always had the lion’s share of attention in the schoolroom, and though many have seen and Milton has said that “our understanding cannot in this body found itself but on sensible things,” this truth is only now making its way into the schoolroom. Hitherto the foundation has hardly been laid before “the schoolmaster has stept in and staid the building by confounding the language.”[57] Ratke’s protest against this will always be put to his credit in the history of education.

§ 15. V. Everything without constraint. “The young should not be beaten to make them learn or for not having learnt. It is compulsion and stripes that set young people against studying. Boys are often beaten for not having learnt, but they would have learnt had they been well taught. The human understanding is so formed that it has pleasure in receiving what it should retain: and this pleasure you destroy by your harshness. Where the master is skilful and judicious, the boys will take to him and to their lessons. Folly lurks indeed in the heart of the child and must be driven out with the rod; but not by the teacher.”

Here at least there is nothing original in Ratke’s precept. A goodly array of authorities have condemned learning “upon compulsion.” This array extends at least as far as from Plato to Bishop Dupanloup. “In the case of the mind, no study pursued under compulsion remains rooted in the memory,” says Plato.[58] “Everything depends,” says Dupanloup, “on what the teacher induces his pupils to do freely: for authority is not constraint—it ought to be inseparable from respect and devotion. I will respect human liberty in the smallest child.” As far as I have observed there is only one class of persons whom the authorities from Plato to Dupanloup have failed to convince, and that is the schoolmasters. This is the class to which I have belonged, and I should not be prepared to take Plato’s counsel: “Bring up your boys in their studies without constraint and in a playful manner.” (Ib.) At the same time I see the importance of self-activity, and there is no such thing as self-activity upon compulsion. You can no more hurry thought with the cane than you can hurry a snail with a pin. So without interest there can be no proper learning. Interest must be aroused—even in Latin Grammar. But if they could choose their own occupation, the boys, however interested in their work, would probably find something else more interesting still. We cannot get on, and never shall, without the must.

§ 16. VI. Nothing may be learnt by heart.

It has always been a common mistake in the schoolroom to confound the power of running along a sequence of sounds with a mastery of the thought with which those sounds should be connected. But, as I have remarked elsewhere ([supra, p. 74, note]), the two things, though different, are not opposed. Too much is likely to be made of learning by heart, for of the two things the pupils find it the easier, and the teacher the more easily tested. We may, however, guard against the abuse without giving up the use.

§ 17. VII.[59] Uniformity in all things.

Both in the way of learning, and in the books, and the rules, a uniform method should be observed, says Ratke.

The right plan is for the learner to acquire familiar knowledge of one subject or part of a subject, and then use this for comparison when he learns beyond it. If the same method of learning is adopted throughout, this will render comparison more easy and more striking.[60]

§ 18. VIII. The thing itself should come first, then whatever explains it.

To those who do not with closed eyes cling to the method of their predecessors, this rule may seem founded on common-sense. Would any one but a “teacher,” or a writer of school books, ever think of making children who do not know a word of French, learn about the French accents? And yet what Ratke said 250 years ago has not been disproved since: “Accidens rei priusquam rem ipsam quaerere prorsus absonum et absurdum esse videtur,” which I take to mean: “Before the learner has a notion of the thing itself, it is folly to worry him about its accidents or even its properties, essential or unessential.” Ne modus rei ante rem.[61]

This rule of Ratke’s warns teachers against a very common mistake. The subject is to them in full view, and they make the most minute observations on it. But these things cannot be seen by their pupils; and even if the beginner could see these minutiæ, he would find in them neither interest nor advantage. But when we apply Ratke’s principle more widely, we find ourselves involved in the great question whether our method should be based on synthesis or analysis, a question which Ratke’s method did not settle for us.

§ 19. IX. Everything by experience and examination of the parts. Or as he states the rule in Latin: Per inductionem et experimentum omnia.

Nothing was to be received on authority, and this disciple of Bacon went beyond his master and took for his motto: Vetustas cessit, ratio vicit (“Age has yielded, reason prevailed”); as if reason must be brand-new, and truth might wax old and be ready to vanish away.

§ 20. From these rules of his we see that Ratke did much to formulate the main principles of Didactics. He also deserves to be remembered among the methodizers who have tackled the problem—how to teach a language.

At Köthen the instructor of the lowest class had to talk with the children, and to take pains with their pronunciation. When they knew their letters (Ickelsamer’s plan for reading Ratke seems to have neglected) the teacher read the Book of Genesis through to them, each chapter twice over, requiring the children to follow with eye and finger. Then the teacher began the chapter again, and read about four lines only, which the children read after him. When the book had been worked over in this way, the children were required to read it through without assistance. Reading once secured, the master proceeded to grammar. He explained, say, what a substantive was, and then showed instances in Genesis, and next required the children to point out others. In this way the grammar was verified throughout from Genesis, and the pupils were exercised in declining and conjugating words taken from the Book.

When they advanced to the study of Latin, they were given a translation of a play of Terence, and worked over it several times before they were shown the Latin.

The master then translated the play to them, each half-hour’s work twice over. At the next reading, the master translated the first half-hour, and the boys translated the same piece the second. Having thus got through the play, they began again, and only the boys translated. After this there was a course of grammar, which was applied to the Terence, as the grammar of the mother-tongue had been to Genesis. Finally, the pupils were put through a course of exercises, in which they had to turn into Latin sentences imitated from the Terence, and differing from the original only in the number or person used.

Raumer gives other particulars, and quotes largely from the almost unreadable account of Kromayer, one of Ratke’s followers, in order that we may have, as he says, a notion of the tediousness of the method. No doubt anyone who has followed me hitherto, will consider that this point has been brought out already with sufficient distinctness.

§ 21. When we compare Ratke’s method with Ascham’s, we find several points of agreement. Ratke would begin the study of a language by taking a model book, and working through it with the pupil a great many times. Ascham did the same. Each lecture according to his plan would be gone over “a dozen times at the least.” Both construed to the pupil instead of requiring him to make out the sense for himself. Both Ratke and Ascham taught grammar not by itself, but in connection with the model book.

But the points of difference are still more striking. In one respect Ratke’s plan was weak. It gave the pupils little to do, and made no use of the pen. Ascham’s was better in this and also as a training in accuracy. Ascham was, as I have pointed out, a “complete retainer.” Ratke was a “rapid impressionist.” His system was a good deal like that which had great vogue in the early part of this century as the “Hamiltonian System.” From the first the language was to be laid on “very thick,” in the belief that “some of it was sure to stick.” The impressions would be slight, and there would at first be much confusion between words which had a superficial resemblance, but accuracy it was thought would come in time.

§ 22. The contest between the two schools of thought of which Ascham and Ratke may be taken as representatives has continued till now, and within the last few years both parties have made great advances in method. But in nothing does progress seem slower than in education; and the plan of grammar-teaching in vogue fifty years ago was inferior to the methods advocated by the old writers.[62]

X.
COMENIUS.
(1592-1671).

§ 1. One of the most hopeful signs of the improvement of education is the rapid advance in the last thirty years of the fame of Comenius, and the growth of a large literature about the man and his ideas. Twenty-three years ago, when I first became interested in him, his name was hardly known beyond Germany. In English there was indeed an excellent life of him prefixed to a translation of his School of Infancy; but this work, by Daniel Benham (London, 1858), had not then, and has not now, anything like the circulation it deserves. A much more successful book has been Professor S. S. Laurie’s John Amos Comenius (Cambridge University Press), and this is known to most, and should be to all, English students of education. By the Germans and French Comenius is now recognised as the man who first treated education in a scientific spirit, and who bequeathed the rudiments of a science to later ages. On this account the great library of pedagogy at Leipzig has been named in his honour the “Comenius Stiftung.”

§ 2. John Amos Komensky or Comenius, the son of a miller, who belonged to the Moravian Brethren, was born, at the Moravian village of Niwnic, in 1592. Of his early life we know nothing but what he himself tells us in the following passage:—“Losing both my parents while I was yet a child, I began, through the neglect of my guardians, but at sixteen years of age to taste of the Latin tongue. Yet by the goodness of God, that taste bred such a thirst in me, that I ceased not from that time, by all means and endeavours, to labour for the repairing of my lost years; and now not only for myself, but for the good of others also. For I could not but pity others also in this respect, especially in my own nation, which is too slothful and careless in matter of learning. Thereupon I was continually full of thoughts for the finding out of some means whereby more might be inflamed with the love of learning, and whereby learning itself might be made more compendious, both in matter of the charge and cost, and of the labour belonging thereto, that so the youth might be brought by a more easy method, unto some notable proficiency in learning.”[63] With these thoughts in his head, he pursued his studies in several German towns, especially at Herborn in Nassau. Here he saw the Report on Ratke’s method published in 1612 for the Universities of Jena and Giessen; and we find him shortly afterwards writing his first book, Grammaticæ facilioris Præcepta, which was published at Prag in 1616. On his return to Moravia, he was appointed to the Brethren’s school at Prerau, but (to use his own words) “being shortly after at the age of twenty-four called to the service of the Church, because that divine function challenged all my endeavours (divinumque HOC AGE præ oculis erat) these scholastic cares were laid aside.”[64] His pastoral charge was at Fulneck, the headquarters of the Brethren. As such it soon felt the effects of the Battle of Prag, being in the following year (1621) taken and plundered by the Spaniards. On this occasion Comenius lost his MSS. and almost everything he possessed. The year after his wife died, and then his only child. In 1624 all Protestant ministers were banished, and in 1627 a new decree extended the banishment to Protestants of every description. Comenius bore up against wave after wave of calamity with Christian courage and resignation, and his writings at this period were of great value to his fellow-sufferers.

§ 3. For a time he found a hiding-place in the family of a Bohemian nobleman, Baron Sadowsky, at Slaupna, in the Bohemian mountains, and in this retirement, his attention was again directed to the science of teaching. The Baron had engaged Stadius, one of the proscribed, to educate his three sons, and, at Stadius’ request, Comenius wrote “some canons of a better method,” for his use. We find him, too, endeavouring to enrich the literature of his mother-tongue, making a metrical translation of the Psalms of David, and even writing imitations of Virgil, Ovid, and Cato’s Distichs.

In 1627, however, the persecution waxed so hot, that Comenius, with most of the Brethren, had to flee their country, never to return. On crossing the border, Comenius and the exiles who accompanied him knelt down, and prayed that God would not suffer His truth to fail out of their native land.

§ 4. Comenius had now, as Michelet says, lost his country and found his country, which was the world. Many of the banished, and Comenius among them, settled at the Polish town of Leszna, or, as the Germans call it, Lissa, near the Silesian frontier. Here there was an old-established school of the Brethren, in which Comenius found employment. Once more engaged in education, he earnestly set about improving the traditional methods. As he himself says,[65] “Being by God’s permission banished my country with divers others, and forced for my sustenance to apply myself to the instruction of youth, I gave my mind to the perusal of divers authors, and lighted upon many which in this age have made a beginning in reforming the method of studies, as Ratichius, Helvicus, Rhenius, Ritterus, Glaumius, Cæcilius, and who indeed should have had the first place, Joannes Valentinus Andreæ, a man of a nimble and clear brain; as also Campanella and the Lord Verulam, those famous restorers of philosophy;—by reading of whom I was raised in good hope, that at last those so many various sparks would conspire into a flame; yet observing here and there some defects and gaps as it were, I could not contain myself from attempting something that might rest upon an immovable foundation, and which, if it could be once found out, should not be subject to any ruin. Therefore, after many workings and tossings of my thoughts, by reducing everything to the immovable laws of Nature, I lighted upon my Didactica Magna, which shows the art of readily and solidly teaching all men all things.”

§ 5. This work did not immediately see the light, but in 1631 Comenius published a book which made him and the little Polish town where he lived known throughout Europe and beyond it. This was the Janua Linguarum Reserata, or “Gate of Tongues unlocked.” Writing about it many years afterwards he says that he never could have imagined that that little work, fitted only for children (puerile istud opusculum), would have been received with applause by all the learned world. Letters of congratulation came to him from every quarter; and the work was translated not only into Greek, Bohemian, Polish, Swedish, Belgian, English, French, Spanish, Italian, Hungarian, but also into Turkish, Arabic, Persian, and even “Mongolian, which is familiar to all the East Indies.” (Dedication of Schola Ludus in vol. i. of collected works.)

§ 6. Incited by the applause of the learned, Comenius now planned a scheme of universal knowledge, to impart which a series of works would have to be written, far exceeding what the resources and industry of one man, however great a scholar, could produce. He therefore looked about for a patron to supply money for the support of himself and his assistants, whilst these works were in progress. “The vastness of the labours I contemplate,” he writes to a Polish nobleman, “demands that I should have a wealthy patron, whether we look at their extent, or at the necessity of securing assistants, or at the expenses generally.”

§ 7. At Leszna there seemed no prospect of his obtaining the aid he required; but his fame now procured him invitations from distant countries. First he received a call to improve the schools of Sweden. After declining this he was induced by his English friends to undertake a journey to London, where Parliament had shown its interest in the matter of education, and had employed Hartlib,[66] an enthusiastic admirer of Comenius, to attempt a reform. Probably through his family connections, Hartlib was on intimate terms with Comenius, and he had much influence on his career. It would seem that Comenius, though never tired of forming magnificent schemes, hung back from putting anything into a definite shape. After the appearance of the Janua Linguarum Reserata, he planned a Janua Rerum, and even allowed that title to appear in “the list of new books to come forth at the next Mart at Frankford.”[67] But again he hesitated, and withdrew the announcement. Here Hartlib came in, and forced him into print without his intending or even knowing it (“præter meam spem et me inconsulto”; preface to Conatuum Pansophicorum Dilucidatio, 1638). Hartlib begged of Comenius a sketch of his great scheme, and with apologies to the author for not awaiting his consent, he published it at Oxford in 1637, under the title of Conatuum Comenianorum Præludia. Comenius accepted the fait accompli with the best grace he could—pleased at the stir the book made in the learned world, but galled by criticisms, especially by doubts of his orthodoxy. To refute the cavillers, he wrote a tract called Conatuum Pansophicorum Dilucidatio which was published in 1638. In 1639 Hartlib issued in London a new duodecimo edition of the Præludia (or as he then called it, Prodromus) and the Dilucidatio, adding a dissertation by Comenius on the study of Latin. Now, when everything seemed ripe for a change in education, and Comenius himself was on his way to England, Hartlib translated the Prodromus, and when Comenius had come he published it with the title, A Reformation of Schools, 1642.[68]

§ 8. It was no doubt by Hartlib’s influence that Parliament had been led to summon Comenius, and at any other time the visit might have been “the occasion of great good to this island,” but inter arma silent magistri, and Comenius went away again. This is the account he himself has left us:—

“When seriously proposing to abandon the thorny studies of Didactics, and pass on to the pleasing studies of philosophical truth, I find myself again among the same thorns.... After the Pansophiæ Prodromus had been published and dispersed through various kingdoms of Europe, many of the learned approved of the object and plan of the work, but despaired of its ever being accomplished by one man alone, and therefore advised that a college of learned men should be instituted to carry it into effect. Mr. S. Hartlib, who had forwarded the publication of the Pansophiæ Prodromus in England, laboured earnestly in this matter, and endeavoured, by every possible means, to bring together for this purpose a number of men of intellectual activity. And at length, having found one or two, he invited me also, with many very strong entreaties. My people having consented to the journey, I came to London on the very day of the autumnal equinox (September 22, 1641), and there at last learnt that I had been invited by the order of the Parliament. But as the Parliament, the King having then gone to Scotland [August 10], was dismissed for a three months’ recess [not quite three months, but from September 9 to October 20], I was detained there through the winter, my friends mustering what pansophic apparatus they could, though it was but slender.... The Parliament meanwhile, having re assembled, and our presence being known, I had orders to wait until they should have sufficient leisure from other business to appoint a Commission of learned and wise men from their body for hearing us and considering the grounds of our design. They communicated also beforehand their thoughts of assigning to us some college with its revenues, whereby a certain number of learned and industrious men called from all nations might be honourably maintained, either for a term of years or in perpetuity. There was even named for the purpose The Savoy in London; Winchester College out of London was named; and again nearer the city, Chelsea College, inventories of which and of its revenues were communicated to us, so that nothing seemed more certain than that the design of the great Verulam, concerning the opening somewhere of a Universal College, devoted to the advancement of the Sciences could be carried out. But the rumour of the Insurrection in Ireland, and of the massacre in one night of more than 200,000 English [October, November], and the sudden departure of the King from London [January 10, 1641-2], and the plentiful signs of the bloody war about to break out disturbed these plans, and obliged me to hasten my return to my own people.”[69]

§ 9. While Comenius was in England, where he stayed till August, 1642, he received an invitation to France. This invitation, which he did not accept, came perhaps through his correspondent Mersenne, a man of great learning, who is said to have been highly esteemed and often consulted by Descartes. It is characteristic of the state of opinion in such matters in those days, that Mersenne tells Comenius of a certain Le Maire, by whose method a boy of six years old, might, with nine months’ instruction, acquire a perfect knowledge of three languages. Mersenne also had dreams of a universal alphabet, and even of a universal language.

§ 10. Comenius’ hopes of assistance in England being at an end, he thought of returning to Leszna; but a letter now reached him from a rich Dutch merchant, Lewis de Geer, who offered him a home and means for carrying out his plans. This Lewis de Geer, “the Grand Almoner of Europe,” as Comenius calls him, displayed a princely munificence in the assistance he gave the exiled Protestants. At this time he was living at Nordcoping in Sweden. Comenius having now found such a patron as he was seeking, set out from England and joined him there.

§ 11. Soon after the arrival of Comenius in Sweden, the great Oxenstiern sent for him to Stockholm, and with John Skyte, the Chancellor of Upsal University, examined him and his system. “These two,” as Comenius says, “exercised me in colloquy for four days, and chiefly the most illustrious Oxenstiern, that eagle of the North (Aquila Aquilonius). He inquired into the foundations of both my schemes, the Didactic and the Pansophic, so searchingly, that it was unlike anything that had been done before by any of my learned critics. In the first two days he examined the Didactics, and finally said: ‘From an early age I perceived that our Method of Studies generally in use is a harsh and crude one (violentum quiddam), but where the thing stuck I could not find out. At length, having been sent by my King of glorious memory [i.e., by Gustavus Adolphus], as ambassador into Germany, I conversed on the subject with various learned men. And when I had heard that Wolfgang Ratichius was toiling at an amended Method I had no rest of mind till I had him before me, but instead of talking on the subject, he put into my hands a big quarto volume. I swallowed this trouble, and having turned over the whole book, I saw that he had detected well enough the maladies of our schools but the remedies he proposed did not seem to me sufficient. Yours, Mr. Comenius, rest on firmer foundations. Go on with the work.’ I answered that I had done all I could in those matters, and must now go on to others. ‘I know,’ said he, ‘that you are toiling at greater affairs, for I have read your Prodromus Pansophiæ. That we will discuss to-morrow, I must now to public business.’ Next day he began on my Pansophic attempts, and examined them with still greater severity. ‘Are you a man,’ he asked, ‘who can bear contradiction?’ ‘I can,’ said I, ‘and for that reason my Prodromus or preliminary sketch was sent out first (not indeed that I sent it out myself, this was done by friends), that it might meet with criticism. And if we seek the criticism of all and sundry, how much more from men of mature wisdom and heroic reason?’ He began accordingly to discourse against the hope of a better state of things arising from a rightly instituted study of Pansophia; first, objecting political reasons, then what was said in Scripture about ‘the last times.’ All which objections I so answered that he ended with these words: ‘Into no one’s mind do I think such things have come before. Stand upon these grounds of yours; so shall we some time come to agreement, or there will be no way left. My advice, however,’ added he, ‘is that you first do something for the schools, and bring the study of the Latin tongue to a greater facility; thus you will prepare the way for those greater matters.’” As Skyte and afterwards De Geer gave the same advice, Comenius felt himself constrained to follow it; so he agreed to settle at Elbing, in Prussia, and there write a work on teaching, in which the principles of the Didactica Magna should be worked out with especial reference to teaching languages. Notwithstanding the remonstrances of his English friends, to which Comenius would gladly have listened, he was kept by Oxenstiern and De Geer strictly to his agreement, and thus, much against his will, he was held fast for eight years in what he calls the “miry entanglements of logomachy.”

§ 12. Elbing, where, after a journey to Leszna to fetch his family (for he had married again), Comenius now settled, is in West Prussia, thirty-six miles south-east of Dantzic. From 1577 to 1660 an English trading company was settled here, with which the family of Hartlib was connected. This perhaps was one reason why Comenius chose this town for his residence. But although he had a grant of £300 a year from Parliament, Hartlib, instead of assisting with money, seems at this time to have himself needed assistance, for in October, 1642, Comenius writes to De Geer that he fears Fundanius and Hartlib are suffering from want, and that he intends for them £200 promised by the London booksellers; he suggests that De Geer shall give them £30 each meanwhile. (Benham, p. 63.)

§ 13. The relation between Comenius and his patron naturally proved a difficult one. The Dutchman thought that as he supported Comenius, and contributed something more for the assistants, he might expect of Comenius that he would devote all his time to the scholastic treatise he had undertaken. Comenius, however, was a man of immense energy and of widely extended sympathies and connections. He was a “Bishop” of the religious body to which he belonged, and in this capacity he engaged in controversy, and attended some religious conferences. Then again, pupils were pressed upon him, and as money to pay five writers whom he kept at work was always running short, he did not decline them. De Geer complained of this, and supplies were not furnished with wonted regularity. In 1647 Comenius writes to Hartlib that he is almost overwhelmed with cares, and sick to death of writing begging-letters. Yet in this year he found means to publish a book On the Causes of this (i.e., the Thirty Years) War, in which the Roman Catholics are attacked with great bitterness—a bitterness for which the position of the writer affords too good an excuse.

§ 14. The year 1648 brought with it the downfall of all Comenius’ hopes of returning to his native land. The Peace of Westphalia was concluded without any provision being made for the restoration of the exiles. But though thus doomed to pass the remaining years of his life in banishment, Comenius, in this year, seemed to have found an escape from all his pecuniary difficulties. The Senior Bishop, the head of the Moravian Brethren, died, and Comenius was chosen to succeed him. In consequence of this, Comenius returned to Leszna, where due provision was made for him by the Brethren. Before he left Elbing, however, the fruit of his residence there, the Methodus Linguarum Novissima, had been submitted to a commission of learned Swedes, and approved of by them. The MS. went with him to Leszna, where it was published.

§ 15. As head of the Moravian Church, there now devolved upon Comenius the care of all the exiles, and his widespread reputation enabled him to get situations for many of them in all Protestant countries. But he was now so much connected with the science of education, that even his post at Leszna did not prevent his receiving and accepting a call to reform the schools in Transylvania. A model school was formed at Saros-Patak, where there was a settlement of the banished Brethren, and in this school Comenius laboured from 1650 till 1654. At this time he wrote his most celebrated book, which is indeed only an abridgment of his Janua with the important addition of pictures, and sent it to Nürnberg, where it appeared three years later (1657). This was the famous Orbis Pictus.

§ 16. Full of trouble as Comenius’ life had hitherto been, its greatest calamity was still before him. After he was again settled at Leszna, Poland was invaded by the Swedes, on which occasion the sympathies of the Brethren were with their fellow-Protestants, and Comenius was imprudent enough to write a congratulatory address to the Swedish King. A peace followed, by the terms of which, several towns, and Leszna among them, were made over to Sweden; but when the King withdrew, the Poles took up arms again, and Leszna, the headquarters of the Protestants, the town in which the chief of the Moravian Brethren had written his address welcoming the enemy, was taken and plundered.

Comenius and his family escaped, but his house was marked for special violence, and nothing was preserved. His sole remaining possessions were the clothes in which he and his family travelled. All his books and manuscripts were burnt, among them his valued work on Pansophia, and a Latin-Bohemian and Bohemian-Latin Dictionary, giving words, phrases, idioms, adages, and aphorisms—a book on which he had been labouring for forty years. “This loss,” he writes, “I shall cease to lament only when I cease to breathe.”

§ 17. After wandering for some time about Germany, and being prostrated by fever at Hamburg, he at length came to Amsterdam, where Lawrence De Geer, the son of his deceased patron, gave him an asylum. Here were spent the remaining years of his life in ease and dignity. Compassion for his misfortunes was united with veneration for his learning and piety. He earned a sufficient income by giving instruction in the families of the wealthy; and by the liberality of De Geer he was enabled to publish a fine folio edition of all his writings on Education (1657). His political works, however, were to the last a source of trouble to him. His hostility to the Pope and the House of Hapsburg made him the dupe of certain “prophets” whose soothsayings he published as Lux in Tenebris. One of these prophets, who had announced that the Turk was to take Vienna, was executed at Pressburg, and the Lux in Tenebris at the same time burnt by the hangman. Before the news of this disgrace reached Amsterdam, Comenius was no more. He died in the year 1671, at the advanced age of eighty, and with him terminated the office of Chief Bishop among the Moravian Brethren.

§ 18. His long life had been full of trouble, and he saw little of the improvements he so earnestly desired and laboured after, but he continued the struggle hopefully to the end. In his seventy-seventh year he wrote these memorable words: “I thank God that I have all my life been a man of aspirations.... For the longing after good, however it spring up in the heart, is always a rill flowing from the Fountain of all good—from God.”[70] Labouring in this spirit he did not toil in vain, and the historians of education have agreed in ranking him among the most influential as well as the most noble-minded of the Reformers.

§ 19. Before Comenius, no one had brought the mind of a philosopher to bear practically on the subject of education. Montaigne and Bacon had advanced principles, leaving others to see to their application. A few able schoolmasters, Ascham, e.g., had investigated new methods, but had made success in teaching the test to which they appealed, rather than any abstract principle. Comenius was at once a philosopher who had learnt of Bacon, and a schoolmaster who had earned his livelihood by teaching the rudiments. Dissatisfied with the state of education as he found it, he sought for a better system by an examination of the laws of Nature. Whatever is thus established is indeed on an immovable foundation, and, as Comenius himself says, “not liable to any ruin.” It will hardly be disputed, when broadly stated, that there are laws of Nature which must be obeyed in dealing with the mind, as with the body. No doubt these laws are not so easily established in the first case as in the second, nor can we find them without much “groping” and some mistakes; but whoever in any way assists or even tries to assist in the discovery, deserves our gratitude; and greatly are we indebted to him who first boldly set about the task, and devoted to it years of patient labour.

§ 20. Comenius has left voluminous Latin writings. Professor Laurie gives us the titles of the books connected with education, and they are in number forty-two: so there must be much repetition and indeed retractation; for Comenius was always learning, and one of his last books was Ventilabrum Sapientiæ, sive sapienter sua retractandi Ars—i.e., “Wisdom’s Winnowing-machine, or the Art of wisely withdrawing one’s own assertions.” We owe much to Professor Laurie, who has served as a ventilabrum and left us a succinct and clear account of the Reformer’s teaching. I have read little of the writings of Comenius except the German translation of the “Great Didactic,” from which the following is taken.

§ 21. We live, says Comenius, a threefold life—a vegetative, an animal, and an intellectual or spiritual. Of these, the first is perfect in the womb, the last in heaven. He is happy who comes with healthy body into the world, much more he who goes with healthy spirit out of it. According to the heavenly idea, man should (1) know all things; (2) should be master of all things, and of himself; (3) should refer everything to God. So that within us Nature has implanted the seeds of (1) learning, (2) virtue, and (3) piety. To bring these seeds to maturity is the object of education. All men require education, and God has made children unfit for other employments that they may have leisure to learn.

§ 22. But schools have failed, and instead of keeping to the true object of education, and teaching the foundations, relations, and intentions of all the most important things, they have neglected even the mother tongue, and confined the teaching to Latin; and yet that has been so badly taught, and so much time has been wasted over grammar rules and dictionaries, that from ten to twenty years are spent in acquiring as much knowledge of Latin as is speedily acquired of any modern tongue.

§ 23. The cause of this want of success is that the system does not follow Nature. Everything natural goes smoothly and easily. There must therefore be no pressure. Learning should come to children as swimming to fish, flying to birds, running to animals. As Aristotle says, the desire of knowledge is implanted in man: and the mind grows as the body does—by taking proper nourishment, not by being stretched on the rack.

§ 24. If we would ascertain how teaching and learning are to have good results, we must look to the known processes of Nature and Art. A man sows seed, and it comes up he knows not how, but in sowing it he must attend to the requirements of Nature. Let us then look to Nature to find out how knowledge takes root in young minds. We find that Nature waits for the fit time. Then, too, she has prepared the material before she gives it form. In our teaching we constantly run counter to these principles of hers. We give instruction before the young minds are ready to receive it. We give the form before the material. Words are taught before the things to which they refer. When a foreign tongue is to be taught, we commonly give the form, i.e., the grammatical rules, before we give the material, i.e., the language, to which the rules apply. We should begin with an author, or properly prepared translation-book, and abstract rules should never come before the examples.

§ 25. Again, Nature begins each of her works with its inmost part. Moreover, the crude form comes first, then the elaboration of the parts. The architect, acting on this principle, first makes a rough plan or model, and then by degrees designs the details; last of all he attends to the ornamentation. In teaching, then, let the inmost part, i.e., the understanding of the subject, come first; then let the thing understood be used to exercise the memory, the speech, and the hands; and let every language, science, and art be taught first in its rudimentary outline; then more completely with examples and rules; finally, with exceptions and anomalies. Instead of this, some teachers are foolish enough to require beginners to get up all the anomalies in Latin Grammar, and the dialects in Greek.

§ 26. Again, as Nature does nothing per saltum, nor halts when she has begun, the whole course of studies should be arranged in strict order, so that the earlier studies prepare the way for the later. Every year, every month, every day and hour even, should have its task marked out beforehand, and the plan should be rigidly carried out. Much loss is occasioned by absence of boys from school, and by changes in the instruction. Iron that might be wrought with one heating should not be allowed to get cold, and be heated over and over again.

§ 27. Nature protects her work from injurious influences, so boys should be kept from injurious companionships and books.

§ 28. In a chapter devoted to the principles of easy teaching, Comenius lays down, among rules similar to the foregoing, that children will learn if they are taught only what they have a desire to learn, with due regard to their age and the method of instruction, and especially when everything is first taught by means of the senses. On this point Comenius laid great stress, and he was the first who did so. Education should proceed, he said, in the following order: first, educate the senses, then the memory, then the intellect; last of all the critical faculty. This is the order of Nature. The child first perceives through the senses. “Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius fuerit in sensu. Everything in the intellect must have come through the senses.” These perceptions are stored in the memory, and called up by the imagination.[71] By comparing one with another, the understanding forms general ideas, and at length the judgment decides between the false and the true. By keeping to this order, Comenius believed it would be possible to make learning entirely pleasant to the pupils, however young. Here Comenius went even further than the Jesuits. They wished to make learning pleasant, but despaired of doing this except by external influences, emulation and the like. Comenius did not neglect external means to make the road to learning agreeable. Like the Jesuits, he would have short school-hours, and would make great use of praise and blame, but he did not depend, as they did almost exclusively, on emulation. He would have the desire of learning fostered in every possible way—by parents, by teachers, by school buildings and apparatus, by the subjects themselves, by the method of teaching them, and lastly, by the public authorities. (1) The parents must praise learning and learned men, must show children beautiful books, &c., must treat the teachers with great respect. (2) The teacher must be kind and fatherly, he must distribute praise and reward, and must always, where it is possible, give the children something to look at. (3) The school buildings must be light, airy, and cheerful, and well furnished with apparatus, as pictures, maps, models, collections of specimens. (4) The subjects taught must not be too hard for the learner’s comprehension, and the more entertaining parts of them must be especially dwelt upon. (5) The method must be natural, and everything that is not essential to the subject or is beyond the pupil must be omitted. Fables and allegories should be introduced, and enigmas given for the pupils to guess. (6) The authorities must appoint public examinations and reward merit.

§ 29. Nature helps herself in various ways, so the pupils should have every assistance given them. It should especially be made clear what the pupils are to learn, and how they should learn it.

§ 30. The pupils should be punished for offences against morals only. If they do not learn, the fault is with the teacher.

§ 31. One of Comenius’s most distinctive principles was that there should no longer be “infelix divortium rerum et verborum, the wretched divorce of words from things” (the phrase, I think, is Campanella’s), but that knowledge of things and words should go together. This, together with his desire of submitting everything to the pupil’s senses, would have introduced a great change into the course of instruction, which was then, as it has for the most part continued, purely literary. We should learn, says Comenius, as much as possible, not from books, but from the great book of Nature, from heaven and earth, from oaks and beeches.

§ 32. When languages are to be learnt, he would have them taught separately. Till the pupil is from eight to ten years old, he should be instructed only in the mother-tongue, and about things. Then other languages can be acquired in about a year each; Latin (which is to be studied more thoroughly) in about two years. Every language must be learnt by use rather than by rules, i.e., it must be learnt by hearing, reading and re-reading, transcribing, attempting imitations in writing and orally, and by using the language in conversation. Rules assist and confirm practice, but they must come after, not before it. The first exercises in a language should take for their subject something of which the sense is already known, so that the mind may be fixed on the words and their connections.[72] The Catechism and Bible History may be used for this purpose.

§ 33. Considering the classical authors not suited to boys’ understanding, and not fit for the education of Christians, Comenius proposed writing a set of Latin manuals for the different stages between childhood and manhood: these were to be called “Vestibulum,” “Janua,” “Palatium” or “Atrium,” “Thesaurus.” The “Vestibulum,” “Janua,” and “Atrium” were really carried out.

§ 34. In Comenius’s scheme there were to be four kinds of schools for a perfect educational course:—1st, the mother’s breast for infancy; 2nd, the public vernacular school for children, to which all should be sent from six years old till twelve; 3rd, the Latin school or Gymnasium; 4th, residence at a University and travelling, to complete the course. The public schools were to be for all classes alike, and for girls[73] as well as boys.

§ 35. Most boys and girls in every community would stop at the vernacular school; and as this school is a very distinctive feature in Comenius’s plan, it may be worth while to give his programme of studies. In this school the children should learn—1st, to read and write the mother-tongue well, both with writing and printing letters; 2nd, to compose grammatically; 3rd, to cipher; 4th, to measure and weigh; 5th, to sing, at first popular airs, then from music; 6th, to say by heart, sacred psalms and hymns; 7th, Catechism, Bible History, and texts; 8th, moral rules, with examples; 9th, economics and politics, as far as they could be understood; 10th, general history of the world; 11th, figure of the earth and motion of stars, &c., physics and geography, especially of native land; 12th, general knowledge of arts and handicrafts.

§ 36. Each school was to be divided into six classes, corresponding to the six years the pupil should spend in it. The hours of work were to be, in school, two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon, with nearly the same amount of private study. In the morning the mind and memory were to be exercised, in the afternoon the hands and voice. Each class was to have its proper lesson-book written expressly for it, so as to contain everything that class had to learn. When a lesson was to be got by heart from the book, the teacher was first to read it to the class, explain it, and re-read it; the boys then to read it aloud by turns till one of them offered to repeat it without book; the others were to do the same as soon as they were able, till all had repeated it. This lesson was then to be worked over again as a writing lesson, &c. In the higher forms of the vernacular school a modern language was to be taught and duly practised.

§ 37. Here we see a regular school course projected which differed essentially from the only complete school course still earlier, that of the Jesuits. In education Comenius was immeasurably in advance of Loyola and Aquaviva. Like the great thinkers, Pestalozzi and Froebel, who most resemble him, he thought of the development of the child from its birth; and in a singularly wise little book, called Schola materni gremii, or “School of the Mother’s Breast,” he has given advice for bringing up children to the age of six.[74]

§ 38. Very interesting are the hints here given, in which we get the first approaches to Kindergarten training. Comenius saw that, much as their elders might do to develop children’s powers of thought and expression, “yet children of the same age and the same manners and habits are of greater service still. When they talk or play together, they sharpen each other more effectually; for the one does not surpass the other in depth of invention, and there is among them no assumption of superiority of the one over the other, only love, candour, free questionings and answers” (School of Infancy, vi, 12, p. 38).[75] The constant activity of children must be provided for. “It is better to play than to be idle, for during play the mind is intent on some object which often sharpens the abilities. In this way children may be early exercised to an active life without any difficulty, since Nature herself stirs them up to be doing something” (Ib. ix, 15, p. 55). “In the second, third, fourth years, &c., let their spirits be stirred up by means of agreeable play with them or their playing among themselves.... Nay, if some little occupation can be conveniently provided for the child’s eyes, ears, or other senses, these will contribute to its vigour of mind and body” (Ib. vi, 21, p. 31).

§ 39. We have the usual cautions against forcing. “Early fruit is useful for the day, but will not keep; whereas late fruit may be kept all the year. As some natural capacities would fly, as it were, before the sixth, the fifth, or even the fourth year, yet it will be beneficial rather to restrain than permit this; but very much worse to enforce it.” “It is safer that the brain be rightly consolidated before it begin to sustain labours: in a little child the whole bregma is scarcely closed and the brain consolidated within the fifth or sixth year. It is sufficient, therefore, for this age to comprehend spontaneously, imperceptibly and as it were in play, so much as is employed in the domestic circle” (Ib. chap. xi).

§ 40. One disastrous tendency has always shown itself in the schoolroom—the tendency to sever all connection between studies in the schoolroom and life outside. The young pack away their knowledge as it were in water-tight compartments, where it may lie conveniently till the scholastic voyage is over and it can be again unshipped.[76] Against this tendency many great teachers have striven, and none more vigorously than Comenius. Like Pestalozzi he sought to resolve everything into its simplest elements, and he finds the commencements before the school age. In the School of Infancy he says (speaking of rhetoric), “My aim is to shew, although this is not generally attended to, that the roots of all sciences and arts in every instance arise as early as in the tender age, and that on these foundations it is neither impossible nor difficult for the whole superstructure to be laid; provided always that we act reasonably with a reasonable creature” (viij, 6, p. 46). This principle he applies in his chapter, “How children ought to be accustomed to an active life and perpetual employment” (chap. vij). In the fourth and fifth year their powers are to be drawn out in mechanical or architectural efforts, in drawing and writing, in music, in arithmetic, geometry, and dialectics. For arithmetic in the fourth, fifth, or sixth year, it will be sufficient if they count up to twenty; and they may be taught to play at “odd and even.” In geometry they may learn in the fourth year what are lines, what are squares, what are circles; also the usual measures—foot, pint, quart, &c., and soon they should try to measure and weigh for themselves. Similar beginnings are found for other sciences such as physics, astronomy, geography, history, economics, and politics. “The elements of geography will be during the course of the first year and thenceforward, when children begin to distinguish between their cradles and their mother’s bosom” (vj, 6, p. 34). As this geographical knowledge extends, they discover “what a field is, what a mountain, forest, meadow, river” (iv, 9, p. 17). “The beginning of history will be, to be able to remember what was done yesterday, what recently, what a year ago.”[77] (Ib.)

§ 41. In this book Comenius is careful to provide children with occupation for “mind and hand” (iv, 10, p. 18). Drawing is to be practised by all. “It matters not,” says Comenius, “whether the objects be correctly drawn or otherwise provided that they afford delight to the mind.”[78]

§ 42. We see then that this restless thinker considered the entire course of a child’s bringing-up from the cradle to maturity; and we cannot doubt that Raumer is right in saying, “The influence of Comenius on subsequent thinkers and workers in education, especially on the Methodizers, is incalculable.” (Gesch. d. P., ij, “Comenius,” § 10.)

Before we think of his methods and school books, let us inquire what he did for education that has proved to be on a solid foundation and “not liable to any ruin.”

§ 43. He was the first to reach a standpoint which was and perhaps always will be above the heads of “the practical men,” and demand education for all. “We design for all who have been born human beings, general instruction to fit them for everything human. They must, therefore, as far as possible be taught together, so that they may mutually draw each other out, enliven and stimulate. Of the ‘mother-tongue school’ the end and aim will be, that all the youth of both sexes between the sixth and the twelfth or thirteenth years be taught those things which will be useful to them all their life long.”[79]

In these days we often hear controversies between the men of science and the ministers of religion. It is as far beyond my intention as it is beyond my abilities to discuss how far the antithesis between religion and science is a true one; but our subject sometimes forces us to observe that religion and science often bring thinkers by different paths to the same result; e.g., they both refuse to recognise class distinctions and make us see an essential unity underlying superficial variations. In Comenius we have an earnest Christian minister who was also an enthusiast for science. Moreover he was without social and virtually without national restrictions, and he was thus in a good position for expressing freely and without bias what both his science and his religion taught him. “Not only are the children of the rich and noble to be drawn to the school, but all alike, gentle and simple, rich and poor, boys and girls, in great towns and small, down to the country villages. And for this reason. Every one who is born a human being is born with this intent—that he should be a human being, that is, a reasonable creature ruling over the other creatures and bearing the likeness of his Maker.” (Didactica M. ix, § 1.) This sounds to me nobler than the utterances of Rousseau and the French Revolutionists, not to mention Locke who fell back on considering merely “the gentleman’s calling.” Even Bishop Butler a century after Comenius hardly takes so firm a ground, though he lays it down that “children have as much right to some proper education as to have their lives preserved.”[80]

§ 44. The first man who demanded training for every human being because he or she was a human being must always be thought of with respect and gratitude by all who care either for science or religion. It has taken us 250 years to reach the standpoint of Comenius; but we have reached it, or almost reached it at last, and when we have once got hold of the idea we are not likely to lose it again. The only question is whether we shall not go on and in the end agree with Comenius that the primary school shall be for rich and poor alike. At present the practical men, in England especially, have things all their own way; but their horizon is and must be very limited. They have already had to adjust themselves to many things which their predecessors declared to be “quite impracticable—indeed impossible.” May not their successors in like manner get accustomed to other “impossible” things, this scheme of Comenius among them?

§ 45. The champions of realism have always recognised Comenius as one of their earliest leaders. Bacon had just given voice to the scientific spirit which had at length rebelled against the literary spirit dominant at the Renascence, and had begun to turn from all that had been thought and said about Nature, straight to Nature herself. Comenius was the professed disciple of “the noble Verulam, who,” said he, “has given us the true key of Nature.” Furnished with this key, Comenius would unlock the door of the treasure-house for himself. “It grieved me,” he says, “that I saw most noble Verulam present us indeed with a true key of Nature, but not to open the secrets of Nature, only shewing us by a few examples how they were to be opened, and leave [i.e., leaving] the rest to depend on observations and inductions continued for several ages.” Comenius thought that by the light of the senses, of reason, and of the Bible, he might advance faster. “For what? Are not we as well as the old philosophers placed in Nature’s garden? Why then do we not cast about our eyes, nostrils, and ears as well as they? Why should we learn the works of Nature of any other master rather than of these our senses? Why do we not, I say, turn over the living book of the world instead of dead papers? In it we may contemplate more things and with greater delight and profit than any one can tell us. If we have anywhere need of an interpreter, the Maker of Nature is the best interpreter Himself.” (Preface to Naturall Philosophie reformed. English trans., 1651.)

§ 46. Several things are involved in this so-called “realism.” First, Comenius would fix the mind of learners on material objects. Secondly, he would have them acquire their notions of these for themselves through the senses. From these two principles he drew the corollary that the vast accumulation of traditional learning and literature must be thrown overboard.

§ 47. The demand for the study of things has been best formulated by one of the greatest masters of words, by Milton. “Because our understanding cannot in the body found itself but on sensible things, nor arrive so clearly to the knowledge of God and things invisible, as by orderly conning over the visible and inferior creature, the same method is necessarily to be followed in all discreet teaching.” (To Hartlib.) Its material surroundings then are to be the subjects on which the mind of the child must be fixed. This being settled, Comenius demands that the child’s knowledge shall not be verbal but real realism, knowledge derived at first hand through the senses.[81]

§ 48. On this subject Comenius may speak for himself: “The ground of this business is, that sensual objects [we now say sensible: why not sensuous?] be rightly presented to the senses, for fear they may not be received. I say, and say it again aloud, that this last is the foundation of all the rest: because we can neither act nor speak wisely, unless we first rightly understand all the things which are to be done and whereof we have to speak. Now there is nothing in the understanding which was not before in the sense. And therefore to exercise the senses well about the right perceiving the differences of things will be to lay the grounds for all wisdom and all wise discourse and all discreet actions in one’s course of life. Which, because it is commonly neglected in Schools, and the things that are to be learned are offered to scholars without their being understood or being rightly presented to the senses, it cometh to pass that the work of teaching and learning goeth heavily onward and affordeth little benefit.” (Preface to Orbis Pictus, Hoole’s trans. A.D. 1658.)

§ 49. Without going into any metaphysical discussion, we must all agree that a vast amount of impressions come to children through the senses, and that it is by the exercise of the senses that they learn most readily. As Comenius says: “The senses (being the main guides of childhood, because therein the mind doth not as yet raise up it self to an abstracted contemplation of things) evermore seek their own objects; and if these be away, they grow dull, and wry themselves hither and thither out of a weariness of themselves: but when their objects are present, they grow merry, wax lively, and willingly suffer themselves to be fastened upon them till the thing be sufficiently discerned.” (P. to Orbis.) This truth lay at the root of most of the methods of Pestalozzi; and though it has had little effect on teaching in England (where for the word anschaulich there is no equivalent), everything that goes on in a German Folkschool has reference to it.

§ 50. For children then Comenius gave good counsel when he would have their senses exercised on the world about them. But after all, whatever may be thought of the proposition that all knowledge comes through the senses, we must not ignore what is bequeathed to us, both in science and in literature. Comenius says: “And now I beseech you let this be our business that the schools may cease to persuade and begin to demonstrate; cease to dispute and begin to look; cease lastly to believe and begin to know. For that Aristotellical maxim ‘Discentem oportet credere, A learner must believe,’ is as tyrannical as it is dangerous; so also is that same Pythagorean ‘Ipse dixit, The Master has said it.’ Let no man be compelled to swear to his Masters words, but let the things themselves constrain the intellect.” (P. to Nat. Phil. R.) But the things themselves will not take us far. Even in Natural Science we need teachers, for Science is not reached through the senses but through the intellectual grasp of knowledge which has been accumulating for centuries. If the education of times past has neglected the senses, we must not demand that the education of the future should care for the senses only. There is as yet little danger of our thinking too much of physical education; but we sometimes hear reformers talking as if the true ideal were sketched in “Locksley Hall:”

“Iron-jointed, supple-sinew’d, they shall dive, and they shall run,

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun,

Whistle back the parrot’s call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks;

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books.”

There seems, however, still some reason for counting “the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.” And the reason is that we are “the heirs of all the ages.” Our education must enable every child to enter in some measure on his inheritance; and not a few of our most precious heirlooms will be found not only in scientific discoveries but also in those great works of literature which the votaries of science are apt to despise as “miserable books.” This truth was not duly appreciated by Comenius. As Professor Laurie well says, “he accepted only in a half-hearted way the products of the genius of past ages.” (Laurie’s C., p. 22.) In his day there was a violent reaction from the Renascence passion for literature, and Comenius would entirely banish from education the only literatures which were then important, the “heathen” literatures of Greece and Rome. “Our most learned men,” says he, “even among the theologians take from Christ only the mask: the blood and life they draw from Aristotle and a crowd of other heathens.” (See Paulsen’s Gesch., pp. 312, ff.) So for Cicero and Virgil he would substitute, and his contemporaries at first seemed willing to accept, the Janua Linguarum. But though there may be much more “real” knowledge in the Janua, the classics have survived it.[82] In these days there is a passion for the study of things which in its intensity resembles the Renascence passion for literature. There is a craving for knowledge, and we know only the truths we can verify; so this craving must be satisfied, not by words, but things. And yet that domain which the physicists contemptuously describe as the study of words must not be lost sight of, indeed cannot be, either by young or old. As Matthew Arnold has said, “those who are for giving to natural knowledge the chief place in the education of the majority of mankind leave one important thing out of their account—the constitution of human nature.”

“We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love,

And e’en as these are well and wisely fixed,

In dignity of being we ascend.”

So says Wordsworth, and if this assertion cannot be verified, no more can it be disproved; that the words have become almost proverbial shows that it commends itself to the general consciousness. Whatever knowledge we may acquire, it will have little effect on our lives unless we can “relate it” (again to use Matthew Arnold’s words), “to our sense of conduct and our sense of beauty.” (Discourses in America. “Literature and Science.”) So long as we retain our sense for these, “the humanities” are safe. Like Milton we may have no inclination to study “modern Januas,” but we shall not cease to value many of the works which the Janua of Comenius was supposed to have supplanted.[83]

§ 51. “Analogies are good for illustration, not for proof.” If Comenius had accepted this caution, he would have escaped much useless labour, and might have had a better foundation for his rules than fanciful applications of what he observed in the external world. “Comenius” as August Vogel has said, “is unquestionably right in wishing to draw his principles of education from Nature; but instead of examining the proper constitution and nature of man, and taking that as the basis of his theory, he watches the life of birds, the growth of trees, or the quiet influence of the sun, and thus substitutes for the nature of man nature without man (die objective Natur). And yet by Nature he understands that first and primordial state to which as to our original [idea] we should be restored, and by the voice of Nature he understands the universal Providence of God or the ceaseless influence of the Divine Goodness working all in all, that is, leading every creature to the state ordained for it. The vegetative and animal life in Nature is according to Comenius himself not life at all in its highest sense, but the only true life is the intellectual or spiritual life of Man. No doubt in the two lower kinds of life certain analogies may be found for the higher; but nothing can be less worthy of reliance and less scientific than a method which draws its principles for the higher life from what has been observed in the lower.” (A. Vogel’s Gesch. d. Pädagogik als Wissenschaft, p. 94.)

§ 52. This seems to me judicious criticism; but whatever mistakes he may have made, Comenius, like Froebel long after him, strove after a higher unity which should embrace knowledge of every kind. The connexion of knowledges (so constantly overlooked in the schoolroom) was always in his thoughts. “We see that the branches of a tree cannot live unless they all alike suck their juices from a common trunk with common roots. And can we hope that the branches of Wisdom can be torn asunder with safety to their life, that is to truth? Can one be a Natural Philosopher who is not also a Metaphysician? or an Ethical Thinker who does not know something of Physical Science? or a Logician who has no knowledge of real matters? or a Theologian, a jurisconsult, or a Physician, who is not first a Philosopher? or an Orator or Poet, who is not all these at once? He deprives himself of light, of hand, and of regulation, who pushes away from him any shred of the knowable.” (Quoted in Masson’s L. of Milton vol. iij., p. 213 from the Delineatio, [i.e., Pansophiæ Prodromus]. Conf. J. H. Newman, Idea of a University, Disc. iij.)

§ 53. We see then that on the side of theory, Comenius was truly great. But the practical man who has always been the tyrant of the schoolroom cared nothing for theory and held, with a modern English minister responsible for education, who proved his ignorance of theory by his “New Code,” that there was, and could be no such thing. So the reputation of Comenius became pretty much what our great authority Hallam has recorded, that he was a person of some ingenuity and little judgment who invented a new way of learning Latin. This estimate of him enables us to follow some windings in the stream of thought about education. Comenius faced the whole problem in its double bearing, theory and practice: he asked, What is the educator’s task? How can he best accomplish it? But his contemporaries had not yet recovered from the idolatry of Latin which had been bequeathed to them by their fathers from the Renascence, and they too saw in Comenius chiefly an inventor of a new way of learning Latin. He sought to train up children for this world and the next; they supposed, as Oxenstiern himself said, that the main thing to be remedied was the clumsy way of teaching Latin. So Comenius was little understood. His books were seized upon as affording at once an introduction to the knowledge of things and a short way of learning Latin. But in the long run they were found more tiresome than the old classics: so they went out of fashion, and their author was forgotten with them. Now that schoolmasters are forming a more worthy conception of their office, they are beginning to do justice to Comenius.

§ 54. As the Jesuits kept to Latin as the common language of the Church, so Comenius thought to use it as a means of inter-communication for the instructed of every nationality. But he was singularly free from over-estimating the value of Latin, and he demanded that all nations should be taught in their own language wherein they were born. On this subject he expresses himself with great emphasis. “We desire and protest that studies of wisdom be no longer committed to Latin alone, and kept shut up in the schools, as has hitherto been done, to the greatest contempt and injury of the people at large, and the popular tongues. Let all things be delivered to each nation in its own speech.” (Delineatio [Prodromus] in Masson ut supra.)

§ 55. Comenius was then neither a verbalist nor a classicist, and yet his contemporaries were not entirely wrong in thinking of him as “a man who had invented a new way of learning Latin.” His great principle was that instruction in words and things should go together.[84] The young were to learn about things, and at the same time were to acquire both in the vernacular and also in Latin, the international tongue, the words which were connected with the things. Having settled on this plan of concurrent instruction in words and things, Comenius determined to write a book for carrying it out. Just then there fell into his hands a book which a less open-minded man might have thrown aside on account of its origin, for it was written by the bitter foes and persecutors of the Bohemian Protestants, by the Jesuits. But Comenius says truly, “I care not whether I teach or whether I learn,” and he gave a marvellous proof of this by adopting the linguistic method of the Jesuits’ Janua Linguarum.[85] This “Noah’s Ark for words,” treated in a series of proverbs of all kinds of subjects, in such a way as to introduce in a natural connection every common word in the Latin language. “The idea,” says Comenius, “was better than the execution. Nevertheless, inasmuch as they (the Jesuits) were the prime inventors, we thankfully acknowledge it, nor will we upbraid them with those errors they have committed.” (Preface to Anchoran’s trans. of Janua.)

§ 56. The plan commended itself to Comenius on various grounds. First, he had a notion of giving an outline of all knowledge before anything was taught in detail. Next, he could by such a book connect the teaching about simple things with instruction in the Latin words which applied to them. And thirdly, he hoped by this means to give such a complete Latin vocabulary as to render the use of Latin easy for all requirements of modern society. He accordingly wrote a short account of things in general, which he put in the form of a dialogue, and this he published in Latin and German at Leszna in 1531. The success of this work, as we have already seen, was prodigious. No doubt the spirit which animated Bacon was largely diffused among educated men in all countries, and they hailed the appearance of a book which called the youth from the study of old philosophical ideas to observe the facts around them.

§ 57. The countrymen of Bacon were not backward in adopting the new work, as the following, from the title-page of a volume in the British Museum, will show: “The Gate of Tongues Unlocked and Opened; or else, a Seminary or Seed-plot of all Tongues and Sciences. That is, a short way of teaching and thoroughly learning, within a yeare and a half at the furthest, the Latine, English, French and any other tongue, with the ground and foundation of arts and sciences, comprised under a hundred titles and 1058 periods. In Latin first, and now, as a token of thankfulness, brought to light in Latine, English and French, in the behalfe of the most illustrious Prince Charles, and of British, French, and Irish youth. The 4th edition, much enlarged, by the labour and industry of John Anchoran, Licentiate in Divinity, London. Printed by Edward Griffin for Michael Sparke, dwelling at the Blew Bible in Green Arbor, 1639.” The first edition must have been some years earlier, and the work contains a letter to Anchoran from Comenius dated “Lessivæ polonorum (Leszna) 11th Oct, 1632.” So we see that, however the connexion arose, it was Anchoran not Hartlib who first made Comenius known in England.

§ 58. In the preface to the volume (signed by Anchoran and Comenius) we read of the complaints of “Ascam, Vives, Erasmus, Sturmius, Frisclinus, Dornavius and others.” The Scaligers and Lipsius did climb but left no track. “Hence it is that the greater number of schools (howsoever some boast the happinesse of the age and the splendour of learning) have not as yet shaked off their ataxies. The youth was held off, nay distracted, and is yet in many places delayed with grammar precepts infinitely tedious, perplexed, obscure, and (for the most part) unprofitable, and that for many years.” The names of things were taught to those who were in total ignorance of the things themselves.

§ 59. From this barren region the pupil was to escape to become acquainted with things. “Come on,” says the teacher in the opening dialogue, “let us go forth into the open air. There you shall view whatsoever God produced from the beginning, and doth yet effect by nature. Afterwards we will go into towns, shops, schools, where you shall see how men do both apply those Divine works to their uses, and also instruct themselves in arts, manners, tongues. Then we will enter into houses, courts, and palaces of princes, to see in what manner communities of men are governed. At last we will visit temples, where you shall observe how diversely mortals seek to worship their Creator and to be spiritually united unto Him, and how He by His Almightiness disposeth all things.” (This is from the 1656 edition, by “W.D.”)

The book is still amusing, but only from the quaint manner in which the mode of life two hundred years ago is described in it.[86]

§ 60. But though parts of the book may on first reading have gratified the youth of the seventeenth century, a great deal of it gave scanty information about difficult subjects, such as physiology, geometry, logic, rhetoric, and that too in the driest and dullest way. Moreover, in his first version (much modified at Saros-Patak) Comenius following the Jesuit boasts that no important word occurs twice; so that the book, to attain the end of giving a perfect stock of Latin words, would have to be read and re-read till it was almost known by heart; and however amusing boys might find an account of their toys written in Latin the first time of reading, the interest would somewhat wear away by the fifth or sixth time. We cannot then feel much surprised on reading this “general verdict,” written some years later, touching those earlier works of Comenius: “They are of singular use, and very advantageous to those of more discretion (especially to such as have already got a smattering in Latin), to help their memories to retain what they have scatteringly gotten here and there, and to furnish them with many words which perhaps they had not formerly read or so well observed; but to young children (whom we have chiefly to instruct, as those that are ignorant altogether of most things and words), they prove rather a mere toil and burden than a delight and furtherance.” (Chas. Hoole’s preface to his trans. of Orbis Pictus, dated “From my school in Lothbury, London, Jan. 25, 1658.”)

§ 61. The “Janua” would, therefore, have had but a short-lived popularity with teachers, and a still shorter with learners, if Comenius had not carried out his principle of appealing to the senses, and adopted a plan which had been suggested, nearly 50 years earlier, by a Protestant divine, Lubinus,[87] of Rostock. The artist was called in, and with Endter at Nürnberg in 1657 was published the first edition of a book which long outlived the Janua. This was the famous Orbis Sensualium Pictus, which was used for a century at least in many a schoolroom, and lives in imitations to the present day. Comenius wrote this book on the same lines as the Janua, but he goes into less detail, and every subject is illustrated by a small engraving. The text is mostly on the opposite page to the picture, and is connected with it by a series of corresponding numbers. Everything named in the text is numbered as in the picture. The artist employed must have been a bold man, as he sticks at nothing; but in skill he was not the equal of many of his contemporaries; witness the pictures in the Schaffhausen Janua (Editio secunda, SchaffhusI, 1658), in Daniel’s edition of the Janua, 1562, and the very small but beautiful illustrations in the Vestibulum of “Jacob Redinger and J. S.” (Amsterdam, 1673). However, the Orbis Pictus gives such a quaint delineation of life 200 years ago that copies with the original engravings keep rising in value, and an American publisher (Bardeen of Syracuse, New York), has lately reproduced the old book with the help of photography.

§ 62. And yet as instruments of teaching, these books, i.e. the Vestibulum and the Janua and even the Orbis Pictus which in a great measure superseded both, proved a failure. How shall we account for this?

Comenius immensely over-estimated the importance of knowledge and the power of the human mind to acquire knowledge. He took it for the heavenly idea that man should know all things. This notion started him on the wrong road for forming a scheme of instruction, and it needed many years and much experience to show him his error. When he wrote the Orbis Pictus he said of it: “It is a little book, as you see, of no great bulk, yet a brief of the whole world and a whole language;” (Hoole’s trans. Preface); and he afterwards speaks of “this our little encyclopædia of things subject to the senses.” But in his old age he saw that his text-books were too condensed and attempted too much (Laurie, p. 59); and he admitted that after all Seneca was right: “Melius est scire pauca et iis recté uti quam scire multa, quorum ignores usum. It is better to know a few things and have the right use of them than to know many things which you cannot use at all.”

§ 63. The attempt to give “information” has been the ruin of a vast number of professing educators since Comenius. Masters “of the old school” whom some of us can still remember made boys learn Latin and Greek Grammar and nothing else. Their successors seem to think that boys should not learn Latin and Greek Grammar but everything else: and the last error I take to be much worse than the first. As Ruskin has neatly said, education is not teaching people to know what they do not know, but to behave as they do not behave. It is to be judged not by the knowledge acquired, but the habits, powers, interests: knowledge must be thought of “last and least.”

§ 64. So the attempt to teach about everything was unwise. The means adopted were unwise also. It is a great mistake to suppose that a “general view” should come first; this is not the right way to give knowledge in any subject. “A child begins by seeing bits of everything—here a little and there a little; it makes up its wholes out of its own littles, and is long in reaching the fulness of a whole; and in this we are children all our lives in much.” (Dr. John Brown in Horæ Subsecivæ, p. 5.) So nothing could have been much more unfortunate than an attempt to give the young “a brief of the whole world.” Compendia, dispendia.

§ 65. Corresponding to “a brief of the whole world,” Comenius offers “a brief of a whole language.” The two mistakes were well matched. In “the whole world” there are a vast number of things of which we must, and a good number of which we very advantageously may be ignorant. In a language there are many words which we cannot know and many more which we do not want to know. The language lives for us in a small vocabulary of essential words, and our hold upon the language depends upon the power we have in receiving and expressing thought by means of those words. But the Jesuit Bath, and after him Comenius, made the tremendous mistake of treating all Latin words as of equal value, and took credit for using each word once and once only! Moreover, Comenius wrote not simply to teach the Latin language, but also to stretch the Latin language till it covered the whole area of modern life. He aimed at two things and missed them both.

§ 66. We see then that Comenius was not what Hallam calls him, “a man who invented a new way of learning Latin.” He did not do this, but he did much more than this. He saw that every human creature should be trained up to become a reasonable being, and that the training should be such as to draw out God-given faculties. Thus he struck the key-note of the science of education.

The quantity and the diffuseness of the writings of Comenius are truly bewildering. In these days eminent men, Carlyle, e.g., sometimes find it difficult to get into print; but printing-presses all over Europe seemed to be at the service of Comenius. An account of the various editions of the Janua would be an interesting piece of bibliography, but the task of making it would not be a light one. The earliest copy of which I can find a trace is entered in the catalogue of the Bodleian: “Comenius J. A. Janua Linguarum, 8vo, Lips (Leipzig) 1632.” I also find there another copy entered “per Anchoranum, cum clave per W. Saltonstall, London, 1633.”

The fame of Comenius is increasing and many interesting works have now been written about him. I have already mentioned the English books of Benham and Laurie. In German I have the following books, but not the time to read them all:—

Daniel, H. A. Zerstreute Blätter. Halle, 1866.

Free, H. Pädagogik d. Comenius. Bernburg, 1884.

Hiller, R. Latein Methode d. J. A. Comenius. Zschopau, 1883. (v. g. and terse; only 46 pp.)

Müller, Walter. Comenius ein Systematiker in d. Päd. Dresden, 1887.

Pappenheim, E. Amos Comenius. Berlin, 1871.

Seyffarth, L. W. J. A. Comenius. Leipzig, 2nd edition, 1871. (A careful and, as far as I can judge in haste, an excellent piece of work.)

Zoubek, Fr. J. J. A. Comenius. Eine quellenmässige Lebensskizze, (Prefixed to trans. of Didac. M. in Richter’s Päd. Bibliothek.)

For a Port-Royalist’s criticism of the Janua, [see infra. (p. 185 note.)]

XI.
THE GENTLEMEN OF PORT-ROYAL.[88]

§ 1. In the sixteen-hundreds by far the most successful schoolmasters were the Jesuits. In spite of their exclusion from the University, they had in the Province of Paris some 14,000 pupils, and in Paris itself at the Collège de Clermont, 1,800. Might they not have neglected “the Little Schools,” which were organized by the friends and disciples of the Abbé de Saint-Cyran, schools in which the numbers were always small, about twenty or twenty-five, and only once increasing to fifty? And yet the Jesuits left no stone unturned, no weapon unemployed, in their attack on “the Little Schools.” The conflict seems to us like an engagement between a man-of-war and a fishing-boat. That the poor fishing-boat would soon be beneath the waves, was clear enough from the beginning, and she did indeed speedily disappear; but the victors have never recovered from their victory and never will. Whenever we think of Jesuitism we are not more forcibly reminded of Loyola than of Pascal. All educated Frenchmen, most educated people everywhere, get their best remembered impressions of the Society of Loyola from the Provincial Letters.[89]

§ 2. The Society had a long standing rivalry with the University of Paris, and the University not only refused to admit the Jesuits, but several times petitioned the Parliament to chase them out of France. On one of these occasions the advocate who was retained by the University was Antoine Arnauld, a man of renowned eloquence; and he threw himself into the attack with all his heart. From that time the Jesuits had a standing feud with the house of Arnauld.

§ 3. But it was no mere personal dislike that separated the Port-Royalists and the Jesuits. Port-Royal with which the Arnauld family was so closely united, became the stronghold of a theology which was unlike that of the Jesuits, and was denounced by them as heresy. The daughter of Antoine Arnauld was made, at the age of eleven years, Abbess of Port-Royal, a Cistercian convent not far from Versailles. This position was obtained for her by a fraud of Marion, Henry IV’s advocate-general, who thought only of providing comfortably for one of the twenty children to whom his daughter, Made. Arnauld, had made him grandfather. Never was a nomination more scandalously obtained or used to better purpose. The Mère Angélique is one of the saints of the universal church, and she soon became the restorer of the religious life first in her own and then by her influence and example in other convents of her Order.

§ 4. In these reforms she had nothing to fear from her hereditary foes the Jesuits; but she soon came under the influence of a man whose theory of life was as much opposed to the Jesuits’ theory as to that of the world which found in the Jesuits the most accommodating father confessors.

Duvergier de Hauranne (1581-1643) better known by the name of his “abbaye,” Saint-Cyran, was one of those commanding spirits who seem born to direct others and form a distinct society. In vain Richelieu offered him the posts most likely to tempt him. The prize that Saint-Cyran had set his heart upon was not of this world, and Richelieu could assist him in one way only—by persecution. This assistance the Cardinal readily granted, and by his orders Saint-Cyran was imprisoned at Vincennes, and not set at liberty till Richelieu was himself summoned before a higher tribunal.

§ 5. Driven by prevailing sickness from Port-Royal des Champs, the Mère Angélique transported her community (in 1626) to a house purchased for them in Paris by her mother who in her widowhood became one of the Sisters. In Paris Angélique sought for herself and her convent the spiritual direction of Saint-Cyran (not yet a prisoner), and from that time Saint-Cyran added the Abbess and Sisters of Port-Royal to the number of those who looked up to him as their pattern and guide in all things.

Port-Royal des Champs was in course of time occupied by a band of solitaries who at the bidding of Saint-Cyran renounced the world and devoted themselves to prayer and study. To them we owe the works of “the Gentlemen of Port-Royal.”

§ 6. It is then to Saint-Cyran we must look for the ideas which became the distinctive mark of the Port-Royalists.

Saint-Cyran was before all things a theologian. In his early days at Bayonne his studies had been shared by a friend who afterwards was professor of theology at Louvain, and then Bishop of Ypres. This friend was Jansenius. Their searches after truth had brought them to opinions which in the England of the nineteenth century are known as “Evangelical.” According to “Catholic” teaching all those who receive the creed and the sacraments of the Church and do not commit “mortal” sin are in a “state of salvation,” that is to say the great majority of Christians are saved. This teaching is rejected by those of another school of thought who hold that only a few “elect” are saved and that the great body even of Christians are doomed to perdition.

§ 7. Such a belief as this would seem to be associated of necessity with harshness and gloom; but from whatever cause, there has been found in many, even in most, cases no such connexion. Those who have held that the great mass of their fellow-creatures had no hope in a future world, have thrown themselves lovingly into all attempts to improve their condition in this world. Still, their main effort has always been to increase the number of the converted and to preserve them from the wiles of the enemy. This Saint-Cyran sought to do by selecting a few children and bringing them up in their tender years like hot-house plants, in the hope that they would be prepared when older and stronger, to resist the evil influences of the world.

§ 8. His first plan was to choose out of all Paris six children and to confide them to the care of a priest appointed to direct their consciences, and a tutor of not more than twenty-five years old, to teach them Latin. “I should think,” says he, “it was doing a good deal if I did not advance them far in Latin before the age of twelve, and made them pass their first years confined to one house or a monastery in the country where they might be allowed all the pastimes suited to their age and where they might see only the example of a good life set by those about them.” (Letter quoted by Carré, p. 20.)

§ 9. His imprisonment put a stop to this plan, “but,” says Saint-Cyran, “I do not lightly break off what I undertake for God;” so when intrusted with the disposal of 2,000 francs by M. Bignon, he started the first “Little School,” in which two small sons of M. Bignon’s were taken as pupils. The name of “Little Schools,” was given partly perhaps because according to their design the numbers in any school could never be large, partly no doubt to deprecate any suspicion of rivalry with the schools of the University. The children were to be taken at an early age, nine or ten, before they could have any guilty knowledge of evil, and Saint-Cyran made in all cases a stipulation that at any time a child might be returned to his friends; but in cases where the master’s care seemed successful, the pupils were to be kept under it till they were grown up.

§ 10. The Little Schools had a short and troubled career of hardly more than fifteen years. They were not fully organized till 1646; they were proscribed a few years later and in 1661 were finally broken up by Louis XIV, who was under the influence of their enemies the Jesuits. But in that time the Gentlemen of Port-Royal had introduced new ideas which have been a force in French education and indeed in all literary education ever since.

To Saint-Cyran then we trace the attempt at a particular kind of school, and to his followers some new departures in the training of the intellect.

§ 11. Basing his system on the Fall of Man, Saint-Cyran came to a conclusion which was also reached by Locke though by a different road. To both of them it seemed that children require much more individual care and watching than they can possibly get in a public school. Saint-Cyran would have said what Locke said: “The difference is great between two or three pupils in the same house and three or four score boys lodged up and down: for let the master’s industry and skill be never so great, it is impossible he should have fifty or one hundred scholars under his eye any longer than they are in school together: Nor can it be expected that he should instruct them successfully in anything but their books; the forming of their minds and manners [preserving them from the danger of the enemy, Saint-Cyran would have said] requiring a constant attention and particular application to every single boy, which is impossible in a numerous flock, and would be wholly in vain (could he have time to study and correct everyone’s peculiar defects and wrong inclinations) when the lad was to be left to himself or the prevailing infection of his fellows the greater part of the four-and-twenty hours.” (Thoughts c. Ed. § 70.)

§ 12. An English public schoolmaster told the Commission on Public Schools, that he stood in loco parentis to fifty boys. “Rather a large family,” observed one of the Commissioners drily. The truth is that in the bringing up of the young there is the place of the schoolmaster and of the school-fellows, as well as that of the parents; and of these several forces one cannot fulfil the functions of the others.

§ 13. According to the theory or at least the practice of English public schools, boys are left in their leisure hours to organize their life for themselves, and they form a community from which the masters are, partly by their own over-work, partly by the traditions of the school, utterly excluded. From this the intellectual education of the boys no doubt suffers. “Engage them in conversation with men of parts and breeding,” says Locke; and this was the old notion of training when boys of good family grew up as pages in the household of some nobleman. But, except in the holidays, the young aristocrats of the present day talk only with other boys, and servants, and tradesmen. Hence the amount of thought and conversation given to school topics, especially the games, is out of all proportion to the importance of such things; and this does much to increase what Matthew Arnold calls “the barbarians’” inaptitude for ideas.

§ 14. What are we to say about the effects of the system on the morals of the boys? If we were to start like Saint-Cyran from the doctrine of human depravity, we should entirely condemn the system and predict from it the most disastrous results;[90] but from experience we come to a very different conclusion. Bishop Dupanloup, indeed, spoke of the public schools of France as “ces gouffres.” This is not what is said or thought of the English schools, and they are filled with boys whose fathers and grandfathers were brought up in them, and desire above all things to maintain the old traditions.

§ 15. The Little Schools of Port-Royal aimed at training a few boys very differently; each master had the charge of five or six only, and these were never to be out of his presence day or night.[91]

§ 16. It may reasonably be objected that such schools would be possible only for a few children of well-to-do parents, and that men who would thus devote themselves could be found only at seasons of great enthusiasm. Under ordinary circumstances small schools have most of the drawbacks and few of the advantages which are to be found in large schools. As I have already said, parents, schoolmasters, and school-fellows have separate functions in education; and even in the smallest school the master can never take the place of the parent, or the school become the home. Children at home enter into the world of their father and mother; the family friends are their friends, the family events affect them as a matter of course. But in the school, however small, the children’s interests are unconnected with the master and the master’s family. The boys may be on the most intimate, even affectionate terms with the grown people who have charge of them; but the mental horizon of the two parties is very different, and their common area of vision but small. In such cases the young do not rise into the world of the adults, and it is almost impossible for the adults to descend into theirs. They are “no company” the one for the other, and to be constantly in each other’s presence would subject both to very irksome restraint. When left to themselves, boys in small numbers are far more likely to get into harm than boys in large numbers. In large communities even of boys, “the common sense of most” is a check on the badly disposed. So as it seems to me if from any cause the young cannot live at home and attend a day-school, they will be far better off in a large boarding school than in one that would better fulfil the requirements of Erasmus,[92] Saint-Cyran, and Locke.

§ 17. As Saint-Cyran attributed immense importance to the part of the master in education, he was not easily satisfied with his qualifications. “There is no occupation in the Church that is more worthy of a Christian; next to giving up one’s life there is no greater charity.... The charge of the soul of one of these little ones is a higher employment than the government of all the world.” (Cadet, 2.) So thought Saint-Cyran, and he was ready to go to the ends of the earth to find the sort of teacher he wanted.

§ 18. He was so anxious that the children should see only that which was good that the servants were chosen with peculiar care.

§ 19. For the masters his favourite rule was: “Speak little; put up with much; pray still more.” Piety was not to be instilled so much by precepts as by the atmosphere in which the children grew up. “Do not spend so much time in speaking to them about God as to God about them:” so formal instruction was never to be made wearisome. But there was to be an incessant watch against evil influences and for good. “In guarding the citadel,” says Lancelot, “we fail if we leave open a single gateway by which the enemy might enter.”

§ 20. Though anxious, like the Jesuits, to make their boys’ studies “not only endurable, but even delightful,” the Gentlemen of Port-Royal banished every form of rivalry. Each pupil was to think of one whom he should try to catch up, but this was not a school-fellow, but his own higher self, his ideal. Here Pascal admits that the exclusion of competition had its drawbacks and that the boys sometimes became indifferent—“tombent dans la nonchalance,” as he says.

§ 21. As for the instruction it was founded on this principle: the object of schools being piety rather than knowledge there was to be no pressure in studying, but the children were to be taught what was sound and enduring.

§ 22. In all occupations there is of necessity a tradition. In the higher callings the tradition may be of several kinds. First there may be a tradition of noble thoughts and high ideals, which will be conveyed in the words of the greatest men who have been engaged in that calling, or have thought out the theory of it. Next there will be the tradition of the very best workers in it. And lastly there is the tradition of the common man who learns and passes on just the ordinary views of his class and the ordinary expedients for getting through ordinary work. Of these different kinds of tradition, the school-room has always shown a tendency to keep to this last, and the common man is supreme. Young teachers are mostly required to fulfil their daily tasks without the smallest preparation for them; so they have to get through as best they can, and have no time to think of any high ideal, or of any way of doing their work except that which gives them least trouble. “Practice makes perfect,” says the proverb, but it would be truer to say that practice in doing work badly soon makes perfect in contentment with bad workmanship. Thus it is that the tradition of the school-room settles down for the most part into a deadly routine, and teachers who have long been engaged in carrying it on seem to lose their powers of vision like horses who turn mills in the dark.

The Gentlemen of Port-Royal worked free from school-room tradition. “If the want of emulation was a drawback,” says Sainte-Beuve, “it was a clear gain to escape from all routine, from all pedantry. La crasse et la morgue des régents n’en approchaient pas.” (P.R. vol. iij, p. 414) Piety as we have seen was their main object. Next to it they wished to “carry the intellects of their pupils to the highest point they could attain to.”

§ 23. In doing this they profited by their freedom from routine to try experiments. They used their own judgments and sought to train the judgment of their pupils. Themselves knowing the delights of literature, they resolved that their pupils should know them also. They would banish all useless difficulties and do what they could to “help the young and make study even more pleasant to them than play and pastime.” (Preface to Cic.’s Billets, quoted by Sainte-Beuve, vol. iij, p. 423.)

§ 24. One of their innovations, though startling to their contemporaries, does not seem to us very surprising. It was the custom to begin reading with a three or four years’ course of reading Latin, because in that language all the letters were pronounced. The connexion between sound and sense is in our days not always thought of, but even among teachers no advocates would now be found for the old method which kept young people for the first three or four years uttering sounds they could by no possibility understand. The French language might have some disadvantage from its silent letters, but this was small compared with the disadvantage felt in Latin from its silent sense. So the Port-Royalists began reading with French.

§ 25. Further than this, they objected to reading through spelling, and pointed out that as consonants cannot be pronounced by themselves they should be taken only in connexion with the adjacent vowel. Pascal applied himself to the subject and invented the method described in the 6th chap. of the General Grammar (Carré, p. xxiij) and introduced by his sister Jacqueline at Port-Royal des Champs.

§ 26. When the child could read French, the Gentlemen of Port-Royal sought for him books within the range of his intelligence. There was nothing suitable in French, so they set to work to produce translations in good French of the most readable Latin books, “altering them just a little—en y changeant fort peu de chose,” as said the chief translator De Saci, for the sake of purity. In this way they gallicised the Fables of Phædrus, three Comedies of Terence, and the Familiar Letters (Billets) of Cicero.

§ 27. In this we see an important innovation. As I have tried to explain ([supra pp. 14 ff.]) the effect of the Renascence was to banish both the mother-tongue and literature proper from the school-room; for no language was tolerated but Latin, and no literature was thought possible except in Latin or Greek. Before any literature could be known, or indeed, instruction in any subject could be given, the pupils had to learn Latin. This neglect of the mother-tongue was one of the traditional mistakes pointed out and abandoned by the Port-Royalists. “People of quality complain,” says De Saci, “and complain with reason, that in giving their children Latin we take away French, and to turn them into citizens of ancient Rome we make them strangers in their native land. After learning Latin and Greek for 10 or 12 years, we are often obliged at the age of 30 to learn French.” (Cadet, 10.) So Port-Royal proposed breaking through this bondage to Latin, and laid down the principle, new in France, though not in the country of Mulcaster or of Ratke, that everything should be taught through the mother-tongue.

Next, the Port-Royalists sought to give their pupils an early and a pleasing introduction to literature. The best literature in those days was the classical; and suitable works from that literature might be made intelligible by means of translations. In this way the Port-Royalists led their pupils to look upon some of the classical authors not as inventors of examples in syntax, but as writers of books that meant something. And thus both the mother-tongue and literature were brought into the school-room.

§ 28. When the boys had by this means got some feeling for literature and some acquaintance with the world of the ancients, they began the study of Latin. Here again all needless difficulties were taken out of their way. No attempt indeed was made to teach language without grammar, the rationale of language, but the science of grammar was reduced to first principles (set forth in the Grammaire Générale et Raisonnée of Arnauld and Lancelot), and the special grammar of the Latin language was no longer taught by means of the work established in the University, the Latin Latin Grammar of Despautère, but by a “New Method” written in French which gave essentials only and had for its motto: “Mihi inter virtutes grammatici habebitur aliqua nescire—To me it will be among the grammarian’s good points not to know everything.” (Quintil.)[93]

§ 29. With this minimum of the essentials of the grammar and with a previous acquaintance with the sense of the book the pupils were introduced to the Latin language and were taught to translate a Latin author into French. This was a departure from the ordinary route, which after a course of learning grammar-rules in Latin went to the “theme,” i.e., to composition in Latin.

The art of translating into the mother-tongue was made much of. School “construes,” which consist in substituting a word for a word, were entirely forbidden, and the pupils had to produce the old writer’s thoughts in French.[94]

§30. From this we see that the training was literary. But in the study of form the Port-Royalists did not neglect the inward for the outward. Their great work, which still stands the attacks of time, is the Port-Royal Logic, or the Art of Thinking (see Trans, by T. Spencer Baynes, 1850). This was substantially the work of Arnauld; and it was Arnauld who led the Port-Royalists in their rupture with the philosophy of the Middle Age, and who openly followed Descartes. In the Logic we find the claims of reason asserted as if in defiance of the Jesuits. “It is a heavy bondage to think oneself forced to agree in everything with Aristotle and to take him as the standard of truth in philosophy.... The world cannot long continue in this restraint, and is recovering by degrees its natural and reasonable liberty, which consists in accepting that which we judge to be true and rejecting that which we judge to be false.” (Quoted by Cadet, p. 31.)[95]

§ 31. To mark the change, the Port-Royalists called their book not “the Art of Reasoning,” but “the Art of Thinking,” and it was in this art of thinking that they endeavoured to train their scholars. They paid great attention to geometry, and Arnauld wrote a book (“New Elements of Geometry”) which so well satisfied Pascal that after reading the MS. he burnt a similar work of his own.

§ 32. The Port-Royalists then sought to introduce into the school-room a “sweet reasonableness.” They were not touched, as Comenius was, by the spirit of Bacon, and knew nothing of a key for opening the secrets of Nature. They loved literature and resolved that their pupils should love it also; and with this end they would give the first notions of it in the mother-tongue; but the love of literature still bound them to the past, and they aimed simply at making the best of the Old Education without any thought of a New.

§ 33. In one respect they seem less wise than Rabelais and Mulcaster, less wise perhaps than their foes the Jesuits. They gave little heed to training the body, and thought of the soul and the mind only; or if they thought of the body they were concerned merely that it should do no harm. “Not only must we form the minds of our pupils to virtue,” says Nicole, “we must also bend their bodies to it, that is, we must endeavour that the body do not prove a hindrance to their leading a well-regulated life or draw them by its weight to any disorder. For we should know that as men are made up of mind and body, a wrong turn given to the body in youth is often in after life a great hindrance to piety.” (Vues p. bien élever un prince, quoted by Cadet, p. 206.)

§ 34. But let us not underrate the good effect produced by this united effort of Christian toil and Christian thought. “Nothing should be more highly esteemed than good sense,” (Preface to the Logique), and Port-Royal did a great work in bringing good sense and reason to bear on the practice of the school-room. When the Little Schools were dispersed the Gentlemen still continued to teach, but the lessons they gave were now in the “art of thinking” and in the art of teaching; and all the world might learn of them, for they taught in the only way left open to them; they published books.

§ 35. Of these writers on pedagogy the most distinguished was “the great Arnauld,” i.e., Antoine Arnauld, (1612-1694) brother of the Mère Angélique. His “Règlement des Études” shows us how literary instruction was given at Port-Royal. In these directions we have not so much the rules observed in the Little Schools as the experience of the Little Schools rendered available for the schools of the University. On this account Sainte-Beuve speaks of the Règlement of Arnauld as forming a preface to the Treatise on Studies (Traité des Études) of Rollin. In the Règlement we see Arnauld yielding to what seems a practical necessity and admitting competition and prizes. Some excellent advice is given, especially on practice in the use of the mother-tongue. The young people are to question and answer each other about the substance of what they have read, about the more remarkable thoughts in their author or the more beautiful expressions. Each day two of the boys are to narrate a story which they themselves have selected from a classical author.[96]

§ 36. With the notable exception of Pascal, Arnauld was the most distinguished writer among the Gentlemen of Port-Royal. A writer less devoted to controversy than Arnauld, less attached to the thought of Saint-Cyran and of Descartes, but of wider popularity, was Nicole, who had Made. de Sévigné for an admirer, and Locke for one of his translators.

Nicole has given us a valuable contribution to pedagogy in his essay on the right bringing-up of a prince. (Vues générales pour bien élever un prince.) In this essay he shows us with what thought and care he had applied himself to the art of instruction, and he gives us hints that all teachers may profit by. Take the following:—

§ 37. “Properly speaking it is not the masters, it is no instruction from without, that makes things understood; at the best the masters do nothing but expose the things to the interior light of the mind, by which alone they can be understood. It follows that where this light is wanting instruction is as useless as trying to shew pictures in the dark. The very greatest minds are nothing but lights in confinement, and they have always sombre and shady spots; but in children the mind is nearly full of shade and emits but little rays of light. So everything depends on making the most of these rays, on increasing them and exposing to them what one wishes to have understood. For this reason it is hard to give general rules for instructing anyone, because the instruction must be adapted to the mixture of light and darkness, which differs widely in different minds, especially with children. We must look where the day is breaking and bring to it what we wish them to understand; and to do this we must try a variety of ways for getting at their minds and must persevere with such as we find have most success.

“But generally speaking we may say that, as in children the light depends greatly on their senses, we should as far as possible attach to the senses the instruction we give them, and make it enter not only by the ear but also by the sight, as there is no sense which makes so lively an impression on the mind and forms such sharp and clear ideas.”

This is excellent. There is a wise proverb that warns us that “however soon we get up in the morning the sunrise comes never the earlier.” A vast amount of instruction is thrown away because the instructors will not wait for the day-break.

§ 38. For the moral training of the young there is one qualification in the teacher which is absolutely indispensable—goodness. Similarly for the intellectual training, there is an indispensable qualification—intelligence. This is the qualification required by the system of Port-Royal, but not required in working the ordinary machinery of the school-room either in those days or in ours. When Nicole has described how instruction should be given so as to train the judgment and cultivate the taste, he continues:

“As this kind of instruction comes without observation, so is the profit derived from it likely to escape observation also; that is, it will not announce itself by anything on the surface and palpable to the common man. And on this account persons of small intelligence are mistaken about it and think that a boy thus instructed is no better than another, because he cannot make a better translation from Latin into French, or beat him in saying his Virgil. Thus judging of the instruction by these trifles only, they often make less account of a really able teacher than of one of little science and of a mind without light.” (Nicole in Cadet, p. 204; Carré, p. 187.)

In these days of marks and percentages we seem agreed that it must be all right if the children can stand the tests of the examiner or the inspector. Something may no doubt be got at by these tests; but we cannot hope for any genuine care for education while everything is estimated “par des signes grossiers et extérieurs.”

§ 39. Whatever was required to adapt the thought of Port-Royal to the needs of classical schools, especially the schools of the University of Paris was supplied by Rollin (1661-1741) whose Traité des Études or “Way of teaching and studying Literature,” united the lessons of Port-Royal with much material drawn from his own experience and from his acquaintance with the writings of other authors, especially Quintilian and Seneca. Having been twice Rector of the University (in 1694 and 1695) Rollin had managed to bring into the schools much that was due to Port-Royal; and in his Traité he has the tact to give the improved methods as the ordinary practice of his colleagues.

§ 40. Much that Rollin has said applies only to classical or at most to literary instruction; but some of his advice will be good for all teachers as long as the human mind needs instruction. I have met with nothing that seems to me to go more truly to the very foundation of the art of teaching than the following:

“We should never lose sight of this grand principle that study depends on the will, and the will does not endure constraint: ‘Studium discendi voluntate quæ cogi non potest constat.’ (Quint. j, 1, cap. 3.)[97] We can, to be sure, put constraint on the body and make a pupil, however unwilling, stick to his desk, can double his toil by punishment, compel him to finish a task imposed upon him, and with this object we can deprive him of play and recreation. But is this work of the galley-slave studying? And what remains to the pupil from this kind of study but a hatred of books, of learning, and of masters, often till the end of his days? It is then the will that we must draw on our side, and this we must do by gentleness, by friendliness, by persuasion, and above all by the allurement of pleasure.” (Traité, 8th Bk. Du Gouvernement des Classes, 1re Partie, Art. x.)

§ 41. The passage I have quoted is from the Article “on giving a taste for study (rendre l’étude aimable);” and if some masters do not agree that this is “one of the most important points concerning education,” they will not deny that “it is at the same time one of the most difficult.” As Rollin truly says, “among a very great number of masters who in other respects are highly meritorious there will be found very few who manage to get their pupils to like their work.”

§ 42. One of the great causes of the disinclination for school work is to be found according to Rollin and Quintilian, in the repulsive form in which children first become acquainted with the elements of learning. “In this matter success depends very much on first impressions; and the main effort of the masters who teach the first rudiments should be so to do this, that the child who cannot as yet love study should at least not get an aversion for it from that time forward, for fear lest the bitter taste once acquired should still be in his mouth when he grows older.”[98] (Begin. of Art. x, as above.)

§ 43. In this matter Rollin was more truly the disciple of the Port-Royalists than of Quintilian. They it was who protested against the dismal “grind” of learning to read first in an unknown tongue, and of studying the rules of Latin in Latin with no knowledge of Latin, a course which professed to lead, as Sainte-Beuve puts it, “to the unknown through the unintelligible.” They directed their highly-trained intellects to the teaching of the elements, and succeeded in proving that the ordinary difficulties were due not to the dulness of the learners, but to the stupidity of the masters. They showed how much might be done to remove these difficulties by following not routine but the dictates of thought, and study and love of the little ones.

There is an excellent though condensed account of the Port-Royalists under “Jansenists” in Sonnenschein’s Cyclopædia of Education. In vol. ij, of Charles Beard’s Port-Royal, (2 vols., 1861) there is a chapter on the Little Schools. The most pleasing account I have seen in English of the Port-Royalists (without reference to education) is in Sir Jas. Stephen’s Essays on Ecclesiastical Biography. In French the great work on the subject is Sainte-Beuve’s Port-Royal, 5 vols. (71 ed., 6 vols.) The account of the Schools is in 4th bk., in vol. iij, of 1st ed. Very useful for studying the pedagogy of Port-Royal are L’Education à Port-Royal by Félix Cadet (Hachette, 1887) and Les Pédagogues de Port-Royal, by I. Carré (Delagrave, 1887). These last give extracts from the main writings on education by Arnauld, Nicole, Lancelot, Coustel, &c. The article, Port-Royal, in Buisson’s D., is the “Introduction” to Carré’s book. A 3-vol. ed. of Rollin’s Traité was published (Paris, Didot) in 1872. The more interesting parts of this book are contained in F. Cadet’s Rollin: Traité des Études (Delagrave, 1882). Rollin’s work was at one time well-known in the English trans., and copies of it are often to be found “second-hand.” The best part comes last; which may account for the neglect into which the book has fallen. The accounts of Port-Royal and of Rollin in G. Compayré’s Histoire Critique are very good parts of a very good book. Vérin’s Étude sur Lancelot I have not seen, and it is only too probable that I have not given to Lancelot the attention due to him.

XII.
SOME ENGLISH WRITERS BEFORE LOCKE.

§ 1. The beginning of the 17th century brought with it a change in the main direction of thought and interest. As we have seen, the 16th century adored literature and was thrown back on the remote past. Some of the great scholars like Sturm had indeed visions of literary works to be written, that would rival the old models on which they were fashioned; but whether they hoped or not to bring back the Golden Age all the scholars of the Renascence thought of it as having been. With the change of century, however, a new conception came into men’s minds. Might not this worship of the old writers after all be somewhat of a superstition? The languages in which they wrote were beautiful languages, no doubt, but they were ill adapted to express the ideas and wants of the modern world. As for the substance of these old writings, this did not satisfy the cravings of men’s minds. It left unsolved all the main problems of existence, and offered for knowledge mere speculations or poetic fancies or polished rhetoric. Man needed to understand his position with regard to God and to Nature; but on both of these topics the classics were either silent or misleading. Revelation had supplied what the classics could not give concerning man’s relation to God; but nothing had as yet thrown light on his relation to Nature. And yet with his material body and animal life he could not but see how close that relation was, and could not but wish that something about it might be known, not simply guessed or feigned. Hence the demand for real knowledge, that is, a knowledge of the facts of the universe as distinct from the knowledge of what men have thought and said. We have heard of the mathematician who put down Paradise Lost with the remark that it seemed to him a poor book, for it did not prove anything; and it was just in this spirit that the new school of thinkers, the Realists, looked upon the classics. They wanted to know Nature’s laws: and words which did not convey such knowledge seemed to them of little value.

§ 2. Here was a tremendous revolution from the mode of thought prevalent in the Renascence. No longer was the Golden Age in the past. In science the Golden Age must always be in the future. Scientific men start with what has been discovered and add to it. Every discovery passes into the common stock of knowledge, and becomes the property of everyone who knows it just as much as of the discoverer. Harvey had no more property in the circulation of the blood, Newton and Leibnitz no more property in the Differential Calculus than Columbus in the Continent of America; indeed not so much, for Columbus gained some exclusive rights in America, but Harvey gained none over the blood.

So we see that whereas the literary spirit made the dominant minds reverence the past, the scientific spirit led them to despise the past; and whereas the literary spirit raised the value of words and led to the study of celebrated writings, the scientific spirit was totally careless about words and prized only physical truths which were entirely independent of words. Again, the literary spirit naturally favoured the principle of authority, for its oracles had already spoken: the scientific spirit set aside all authority and accepted nothing that did not of itself satisfy the reason. (Compare Comenius, [supra p. 152].)

§ 3. The first great leader in this revolution was an Englishman, Francis Bacon. But the school-room felt his influence only through those who learnt from him; and among educational reformers, the chief advocates of realism have been found on the Continent, e.g., Ratke and Comenius.[99] But the desire to learn by “things, not words” affected the minds of many English writers on education, and we find this spirit showing itself even in Milton and Locke, and far more clearly in some writers less known to fame.

§ 4. There is a wide distinction in educational writers between those who were schoolmasters and those who were not. Schoolmasters have to come to terms with what exists and to make a livelihood by it. So they are conservatives by position, and rarely get beyond an attempt at showing how that which is now done badly might be done well. Suggestions of radical change usually come from those who never belonged to the class of teachers, or who, not without disgust, have left it.

Among English schoolmasters of the olden times the chief writers I have met with besides Mulcaster are John Brinsley the elder, and Charles Hoole.

§ 5. John Brinsley the elder, a Puritan schoolmaster at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, a brother-in-law of Bishop Hall’s, and father of John Brinsley the younger who became a leading Puritan minister and author, was a veritable reformer, but only with reference to methods. His most interesting books are Ludus Literarius or the Grammar Schoole, 1612 (written after 20 years’ experience in teaching, as we learn from the Consolation, p. 45), and A Consolation for our Grammar Schooles: or a faithfull and most comfortable incouragement for laying of a sure foundation of all good learning in our schooles and for prosperous building thereupon, 1622. The first of these, when reprinted, as it is sure to be, will always secure for its author the notice and the gratitude of students of the history of our education; for in this book he tells us not only what should be done in the school-room, but also what was done. In a dialogue with the ordinary schoolmaster the reformer draws to light the usual practice, criticizes it, and suggests improvements.

§ 6. In Brinsley we get no hint of realism; but by the middle of the sixteen hundreds we find the realistic spirit is felt even by a schoolmaster, Charles Hoole,[100] who was a kinsman of Bishop Sanderson, the Casuist, and was master first of the Grammar School at Rotherham, then of a private Grammar School in London, published besides a number of school books, a translation of the Orbis Pictus (date of preface, January, 1658), and also “A New Discovery of the old art of teaching schoole ... published for the general profit, especially of young Schoolemasters” (date of preface, December, 1659). In these books we find that Hoole succeeded even in the school-room in keeping his mind open. He complains of the neglect of English, and evidently in theory at least went a long way with the realistic reformers. “Comenius,” he says, “hath proceeded (as Nature itself doth) in an orderly way, first to exercise the senses well by presenting their objects to them, and then to fasten upon the intellect by impressing the first notions of things upon it and linking them one to another by a rational discourse; whereas indeed we generally, missing this way, do teach children as we do parrots to speak they know not what, nay, which is worse, we taking the way of teaching little ones by grammar only, at the first do puzzle their imaginations with abstractive terms and secondary intentions, which, till they be somewhat acquainted with things, and the words belonging to them in the language which they learn, they cannot apprehend what they mean. And this I guess to be the reason why many greater persons do resolve sometimes not to put a child to school till he be at least eleven or twelve years of age.... You then, that have the care of little children, do not too much trouble their thoughts and clog their memories with bare grammar rudiments, which to them are harsh in getting, and fluid in retaining; because indeed to them they signifie nothing but a meer swimming notion of a general term, which they know not what it meaneth till they comprehend all particulars: but by this [i.e., the Orbis P.] or the like subsidiarie inform them first with some knowledge of things and words wherewith to express them; and then their rules of speaking will be better understood and more firmly kept in mind. Else how should a child conceive what a rule meaneth when he neither knoweth what the Latine word importeth, nor what manner of thing it is which is signified to him in his own native language which is given him thereby to understand the rule? for rules consisting of generalities are delivered (as I may say) at a third hand, presuming first the things and then the words to be already apprehended touching which they are made.” This subject Hoole wisely commends to the consideration of teachers, “it being the very basis of our profession to search into the way of children’s taking hold by little and little of what we teach them, that so we may apply ourselves to their reach.” (Preface to trans. of Orbis Pictus.)

§ 7. “Good Lord! how many good and clear wits of children be now-a-days perished by ignorant schoolmasters!” So said Sir Thomas Elyot in his Governor in 1531, and the complaint would not have been out of date in the 17th century, possibly not in the 19th. In the sixteen hundreds we certainly find little advance in practice, though in theory many bold projects were advanced, some of which pointed to the study of things, to the training of the hand, and even to observation of the “educands.”

§ 8. The poet Cowley’s “proposition for the advancement of experimental philosophy” is a scheme of a college near London to which is to be attached a school of 200 boys. “And because it is deplorable to consider the loss which children make of their time at most schools, employing or rather casting away six or seven years in the learning of words only, and that too very imperfectly; that a method be here established for the infusing knowledge and language at the same time, [Is this an echo of Comenius?] and that this may be their apprenticeship in Natural Philosophy.”[101]

§ 9. Rarely indeed have those who either theoretically or practically have made a study of education ever acquired sufficient literary skill to catch the ear of the public or (what is at least as difficult) the ear of the teaching body. And among the eminent writers who have spoken on education, as Rabelais, Montaigne, Milton, Locke, Rousseau, Herbert Spencer, we cannot find one who has given to it more than passing, if not accidental, attention. Schoolmasters are, as I said, conservative, at least in the school-room; and moreover, they seldom find the necessary time, money, or inclination for publishing on the work of their calling. The current thought at any period must then be gathered from books only to be found in our great libraries, books in which writers now long forgotten give hints of what was wanted out of the school-room and grumble at what went on in it.

§ 10. One of the most original of these writers that have come in my way is John Dury, a Puritan, who was at one time Chaplain to the English Company of Merchants at Elbing, and laboured with Comenius and Hartlib to promote unity among the various Christian bodies of the reformed faith (see Masson’s Life of Milton, vol. iii). About 1649 Dury published The Reformed Schoole which gives the scheme of an association for the purpose of educating a number of boys and girls “in a Christian way.”

§ 11. That Dury was not himself a schoolmaster is plain from the first of his “rules of education.” “The chief rule of the whole work is that nothing be made tedious and grievous to the children, but all the toilsomeness of their business the Governor and Ushers are to take upon themselves; that by diligence and industry all things may be so prepared, methodized and ordered for their apprehension, that this work may unto them be as a delightful recreation by the variety and easiness thereof.”

§ 12. “The things to be looked unto in the care of their education,” he enumerates in the order of importance: “1. Their advancement in piety; 2. The preservation of their health; 3. The forming of their manners; 4. Their proficiency in learning” (p. 24). “Godliness and bodily health are absolutely necessary,” says Dury; “the one for spiritual and the other for their temporal felicitie” (p. 31): so great care is to be taken in “exercising their bodies in husbandry or manufactures or military employments.”[102]

§ 13. About instruction we find the usual complaints which like “mother’s truth keep constant youth.” “Children,” says Dury, “are taught to read authors and learn words and sentences before they can have any notion of the things signified by those words and sentences or of the author’s strain and wit in setting them together; and they are made to learn by heart the generall rules, sentences and precepts of Arts before they are furnished with any matter whereunto to apply those rules and precepts” (p. 38). Dury would entirely sweep away the old routine, and in all instruction he would keep in view the following end: “the true end of all human learning is to supply in ourselves and others the defects which proceed from our ignorance of the nature and use of the creatures, and the disorderliness of our natural faculties in using them and reflecting upon them” (p. 41).

§ 14. “Our natural faculties”—here Dury struck a new note, which has now become the keynote in the science of education. He enforces his point with the following ingenious illustration:—“As in a watch one wheel rightly set doth with its teeth take hold of another and sets that a-work towards a third; and so all move one by another when they are in their right places for the end for which the watch is made; so is it with the faculties of the human nature being rightly ordered to the ends for which God hath created them. But contrariwise, if the wheels be not rightly set, or the watch not duly wound up, it is useless to him that hath it. And so it is with the faculties of Man; if his wheels be not rightly ordered and wound up by the ends of sciences in their subordination leading him to employ the same according to his capacity to make use of the creatures for that whereunto God hath made them, he becomes not only useless, but even a burthen and hurtful unto himself and others by the misusing of them” (p. 43).

§ 15. “As in Nature sense is the servant of imagination; imagination of memory; memory of reason; so in teaching arts and sciences we must set these faculties a-work in this order towards their proper objects in everything which is to be taught. Whence this will follow, that as the faculties of Man’s soul naturally perfect each other by their mutual subordination; so the Arts which perfect those faculties should be gradually suggested: and the objects wherewith the faculties are to be conversant according to the rules of Art should be offered in that order which is answerable to their proper ends and uses and not otherwise.”

§ 16. In this and much else that Dury says we see a firm grasp of the principle that the instruction given should be regulated by the gradual development of the learner’s faculties. The three sources of our knowledge, says he, are—1. Sense; 2. Tradition; 3. Reason; and Sense comes first. “Art or sciences which may be learnt by mere sense should not be learnt any other way.” “As children’s faculties break forth in them by degrees to be vigorous with their years and the growth of their bodies, so they are to be filled with objects whereof they are capable, and plied with arts; whence followeth that while children are not capable of the acts of reasoning, the method of filling their senses and imaginations with outward objects should be plied. Nor is their memory at this time to be charged further with any objects than their imagination rightly ordered and fixed doth of itself impress the same upon them.” After speaking of the common abuse of general rules, he says: “So far as those faculties (viz., sense, imagination, and memory) are started with matters of observation, so far rules may be given to direct the mind in the use of the same, and no further.” “The arts and sciences which lead us to reflect upon the use of our own faculties are not to be taught till we are fully acquainted with their proper objects, and the direct acts of the faculties about them.” So “it is a very absurd and preposterous course to teach Logick and Metaphysicks before or with other Humane Sciences which depend more upon Sense and Imagination than reasoning” (p. 46).

§ 17. In all this it seems to me that the worthy Puritan, of whom nobody but Dr. Barnard and Professor Masson has ever heard, has truly done more to lay a foundation for the art of teaching than his famous contemporaries Milton and Locke.

§ 18. Another writer of that day better known than Dury and with far more power of expression was Sir William Petty. He is the “W.P.,” who in an Epistle “to his honoured friend Master Samuel Hartlib,” set down his “thoughts concerning the advancement of real learning” (1647). This letter is to be shown only “to those few that are Reall Friends to the Designe of Realities.”[103]

§ 19. Petty sees the need of intercommunication of those who wish to advance any art or science. He complains that “the wits and endeavours of the world are as so many scattered coals or fire-brands, which for want of union are soon quenched, whereas being but laid together they would yield a comfortable light and heat.” This is a thought which may well be applied to the bringing up of the young; and the following passage might have been written to secure a training for teachers: “Methinks the present condition of men is like a field where a battle hath been lately fought, where we may see many legs and arms and eyes lying here and there, which for want of a union and a soul to quicken and enliven them are good for nothing but to feed ravens and infect the air. So we see many wits and ingenuities lying scattered up and down the world, whereof some are now labouring to do what is already done, and puzzling themselves to re-invent what is already invented. Others we see quite stuck fast in difficulties for want of a few directions which some other man (might he be met withal) both could and would most easily give him.” I wonder how many young teachers are now wasting their own and their pupils’ time in this awkward predicament.

§ 20. “As for ... education,” says Petty, “we cannot but hope that those who make it their trade will supply it and render the idea thereof much more perfect.” His own contributions to the more perfect idea consist mainly in making the study of “realities” precede literature, and thus announcing the principle which in later times has led to the introduction of “object lessons.” The Baconians thought that the good time was at hand, and that they had found the right road at last. By experiments they would learn to interpret Nature. After scheming a “Gymnasium, Mechanicum, or College of Tradesmen,” Petty says, “What experiments and stuff would all those shops and operations afford to active and philosophical heads, out of which to extract that interpretation of nature whereof there is so little, and that so bad, as yet extant in the world!”[104] And this study of things was to affect the work of the school-room, and redeem it from the dismal state into which it was fallen. “As for the studies to which children are now-a-days put,” says Petty, “they are altogether unfit for want of judgment which is but weak in them, and also for want of will, which is sufficiently seen ... by the difficulty of keeping them at schools and the punishment they will endure rather than be altogether debarred from the pleasure which they take in things.”

§ 21. The grand reform required is thus set forth; “Since few children have need of reading before they know or can be acquainted with the things they read of; or of writing before their thoughts are worth the recording or they are able to put them into any form (which we call inditing); much less of learning languages when there be books enough for their present use in their own mother-tongue; our opinion is that those things being withal somewhat above their capacity (as being to be attained by judgment which is weakest in children) be deferred awhile, and others more needful for them, such as are in the order of Nature before those afore-mentioned, and are attainable by the help of memory which is either most strong or unpreoccupied in children, be studied before them. We wish, therefore, that the educands be taught to observe and remember all sensible objects and actions, whether they be natural or artificial, which the educators must upon all occasions expound unto them.”

§ 22. In proposing this great change Petty was influenced not merely by his own delight in the study of things but by something far more important for education, by observation of the children themselves. This study of things instead of “a rabble of words” would be “more easy and pleasant to the young as the more suitable to the natural propensions we observe in them. For we see children do delight in drums, pipes, fiddles, guns made of elder sticks, and bellows’ noses, piped keys, &c., painting flags and ensigns with elderberries and cornpoppy, making ships with paper, and setting even nut-shells a-swimming, handling the tools of workmen as soon as they turn their backs and trying to work themselves; fishing, fowling, hunting, setting springes and traps for birds and other animals, making pictures in their writing-books, making tops, gigs and whirligigs, gilting balls, practising divers juggling tricks upon the cards, &c., with a million more besides. And for the females they will be making pies with clay, making their babies’ clothes and dressing them therewith; they will spit leaves on sticks as if they were roasting meat; they will imitate all the talk and actions which they observe in their mother and her gossips, and punctually act the comedy or the tragedy (I know not whether to call it) of a woman’s lying-in. By all which it is most evident that children do most naturally delight in things and are most capable of learning them, having quick senses to receive them and unpreoccupied memories to retain them” (ad f.).

§ 23. In these writers, Dury and Petty, we find a wonderful advance in the theory of instruction. Children are to be taught about things and this because their inward constitution determines them towards things. Moreover the subjects of instruction are to be graduated to accord with the development of the learner’s faculties. The giving of rules and incomprehensible statements that will come in useful at a future stage is entirely forbidden. All this is excellent, and greatly have children suffered, greatly do they suffer still, from their teachers’ neglect of it. There seems to me to have been no important advance on the thought of these men till Pestalozzi and Froebel fixed their attention on the mind of the child, and valued things not in themselves but simply as the means best fitted for drawing out the child’s self-activity.

§ 24. In several other matters we find Sir William Petty’s recommendations in advance of the practice of his own time and ours. He advises “that the business of education be not (as now) committed to the worst and unworthiest of men [here at least we have improved] but that it be seriously studied and practised by the best and abler persons.” To this standard we have not yet attained.

§ 25. Handwork is to be practised, but its educational value is not clearly perceived. “All children, though of the highest rank, are to be taught some gentle manufacture in their minority.” Ergastula Literaria, literary workhouses, are to be instituted where children may be taught as well to do something towards their living as to read and write.[105]

§ 26. Education was to be universal, but chiefly with the object of bringing to the front the clever sons of poor parents. The rule he would lay down is “that all children of above seven years old may be presented to this kind of education, none being to be excluded by reason of the poverty and unability of their parents, for hereby it hath come to pass that many are now holding the plough which might have been made fit to steer the state.”[106]

§ 27. From these enthusiasts for realities we find a change when we turn to their contemporary, a schoolmaster and author of a Latin Accidence, who was perhaps the most notable Englishman who ever kept a school or published a school-book.

§ 28. Milton was not only a great poet: he was also a great scholar. Everything he said or wrote bore traces of his learning. The world of books then rather than the world of the senses is his world. He has benefited as he says “among old renowned authors” and “his inclination leads him not” to read modern Januas and Didactics, or apparently the writings of any of his contemporaries including those of his great countryman, Bacon. But, as Professor Laurie reminds us, no man, not even a Milton, however he may ignore the originators of ideas can keep himself outside the influence of the ideas themselves when they are in the air; and so we find Milton using his incomparable power of expression in the service of the Realists.

§ 29. But brief he endeavours to be, and paying the Horatian penalty he becomes obscure. In the “few observations which flowered off and were the burnishing of many studious and contemplative years,” Milton touches only on the bringing up of gentlemen’s sons between the ages of 12 and 21, and his suggestions do not, like those of Comenius, deal with the education of the people, or of both sexes.[107] This limit of age, sex, and station deprives Milton’s plan of much of its interest, as the absence of detail deprives it of much of its value.

§ 30. Still, we find in the Tractate a very great advance on the ideas current at the Renascence. Learning is no longer the aim of education but is regarded simply as a means. No finer expression has been given in our literature to the main thesis of the Christian and of the Realist and to the Realist’s contempt of verbalism, than this: “The end of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love Him, to imitate Him, to be like Him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection. But because our understanding cannot in this body found itself but on sensible things, nor arrive so clearly to the knowledge of God and things invisible, as by orderly conning over the visible and inferior creature, the same method is necessarily to be followed in all discreet teaching. And seeing every Nation affords not experience and tradition enough for all kind of learning, therefore we are chiefly taught the languages of those people who have at any time been most industrious after wisdom; so that language is but the instrument conveying to us things useful to be known. And though a linguist should pride himself to have all the tongues that Babel cleft the world into, yet, if he have not studied the solid things in them as well as the words and lexicons, he were nothing so much to be esteemed a learned man as any yeoman or tradesman competently wise in his mother-dialect only.”

§ 31. The several propositions here implied have thus been “disentangled” by Professor Laurie (John Milton in Addresses, &c., p. 167).

1. The aim of education is the knowledge of God and likeness to God.

2. Likeness to God we attain by possessing our souls of true virtue and by the Heavenly Grace of Faith.

3. Knowledge of God we attain by the study of the visible things of God.

4. Teaching then has for its aim this knowledge.

5. Language is merely an instrument or vehicle for the knowledge of things.

6. The linguist may be less learned (i.e., educated) in the true sense than a man who can make good use of his mother-tongue though he knows no other.

§ 32. Elsewhere, Milton gives his idea of “a complete and generous education;” it “fits a man to perform justly, skilfully, and magnanimously all the offices both private and public of Peace and War.” (Browning’s edition, p. 8.) Here and indeed in all that Milton says we feel that “the noble moral glow that pervades the Tractate on Education, the mood of magnanimity in which it is conceived and written, and the faith it inculcates in the powers of the young human spirit, if rightly nurtured and directed, are merits everlasting.” (Masson iij, p. 252.)

§ 33. But in this moral glow and in an intense hatred of verbalism lie as it seems to me the chief merits of the Tractate. The practical suggestions are either incomprehensible or of doubtful wisdom. The reforming of education was, as Milton says, one of the greatest and noblest designs that could be thought on, but he does not take the right road when he proposes for every city in England a joint school and university for about 120 boarders. The advice to keep boys between 12 and 21 in this barrack life I consider, with Professor Laurie, to be “fundamentally unsound;” and the project of uniting the military training of Sparta with the humanistic training of Athens seems to me a pure chimæra.

§ 34. When we come to instruction we find that Milton after announcing the distinctive principle of the Realists proves to be himself the last survivor of the Verbal Realists. ([See supra, p. 25.]) No doubt

“His daily teachers had been woods and rills,”

but his thoughts had been even more in his books; and for the young he sketches out a purely bookish curriculum. The young are to learn about things, but they are to learn through books; and the only books to which Milton attaches importance are written in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew. He held, probably with good reason, that far too much time “is now bestowed in pure trifling at grammar and sophistry.” “We do amiss,” he says, “to spend 7 or 8 years merely in scraping together so much miserable Latin and Greek as might be learned otherwise easily and delightfully in one year.” Without an explanation of the “otherwise” this statement is a truism, and what Milton says further hardly amounts to an explanation. His plan, if plan it can be called, is as follows: “If after some preparatory grounds of speech by their certain forms got into memory, the boys were led to the praxis thereof in some chosen short book lessoned thoroughly to them, they might then proceed to learn the substance of good things and arts in due order, which would bring the whole language quickly into their power. This,” adds Milton, “I take to be the most rational and most profitable way of learning languages.” It is, however, not the most intelligible.

§ 35. “I doubt not but ye shall have more ado to drive our dullest and laziest youth, our stocks and stubbs, from the infinite desire of such a happy nurture than we have now to hale and drag our choicest and hopefullest wits to that asinine feast of sow thistles and brambles which is commonly set before them as all the food and entertainment of their tenderest and most docible age.” We cannot but wonder whether this belief survived the experience of “the pretty garden-house in Aldersgate.” From the little we are told by his nephew and old pupil Edward Phillips we should infer that Milton was not unsuccessful as a schoolmaster. In this we have a striking proof how much more important is the teacher than the teaching. A character such as Milton’s in which we find the noblest aims united with untiring energy in pursuit of them could not but dominate the impressionable minds of young people brought under its influence. But whatever success he met with could not have been due to the things he taught nor to his method in teaching them. In spite of the “moral glow” about his recommendations they are “not a bow for every [or any] man to shoot in that counts himself a teacher.”

§ 36. Nor did he do much for the science of education. His scheme is vitiated, as Mark Pattison says, by “the information fallacy.” In the literary instruction there is no thought of training the faculties of all or the special faculties of the individual. “It requires much observation of young minds to discover that the rapid inculcation of unassimilable information stupefies the faculties instead of training them,” says Pattison; and Milton absorbed by his own thoughts and the thoughts of the ancients did not observe the minds of the young, and knew little of the powers of any mind but his own.

For information the youths are not required to observe for themselves but are to be taught “a general compact of physicks.” “Also in course might be read to them out of some not tedious writer the Institution of Physick; that they may know the tempers, the humours, the seasons, and how to manage a crudity.”

§ 37. Even the study of the classics is advocated by Milton on false grounds. If, like the Port-Royalists, he had recommended the study of the classical authors for the sake of pure Latin and Greek or as models of literary style, the means would have been suited to the end; but it was very different when he directed boys to study Virgil and Columella in order to learn about bees and farming. In after-life they would find these authorities a little out of date; and if they ever attempted to improve tillage, “to recover the bad soil and to remedy the waste that is made of good, which was one of Hercules’s praises,” they would have found a knowledge of the methods of Hercules about as useful as of the methods of the Romans.

§ 38. Milton was then a reformer “for his own hand;” and notwithstanding his moral and intellectual elevation and his superb power of rhetoric, he seems to me a less useful writer on education than the humble Puritans whom he probably would not deign to read. In his haughty self-reliance, he, like Carlyle with whom Seeley has well compared him (Lectures and Addresses: Milton), addressed his contemporaries de haut en bas, and though ready to teach could learn only among the old renowned authors with whom he associated himself and we associate him.

§ 39. Judged from our present standpoint the Tractate is found with many weaknesses to be strong in this, that it co-ordinates physical, moral, mental and æsthetic training.

§ 40. But nothing of Milton’s can be judged by our ordinary canons. He soars far above them and raises us with him “to mysterious altitudes above the earth” ([supra, p. 153, note]). Whatever we little people may say about the suggestions of the Tractate, Milton will remain one of the great educators of mankind.[108]

XIII.
LOCKE.
(1632-1704).

§ 1. When an English University established an examination for future teachers,[109] the “special subjects” first set were “Locke and Dr. Arnold.” The selection seems to me a very happy one. Arnold greatly affected the spirit and even the organization of our public schools at a time when the old schools were about to have new life infused into them, and when new schools were to be started on the model of the old. He is perhaps the greatest educator of the English type, i.e., the greatest educator who had accepted the system handed down to him and tried to make the best of it. Locke on the other hand, whose reputation is more European than English, belongs rather to the continental type. Like his disciple Rousseau and like Rousseau’s disciples the French Revolutionists, Locke refused the traditional system and appealed from tradition and authority to reason. We English revere Arnold, but so long as the history of education continues to be written, as it has been written hitherto, on the Continent, the only Englishman celebrated in it will be as now not the great schoolmaster but the great philosopher.

§ 2. In order to understand Locke we must always bear in mind what I may call his two main characteristics; 1st, his craving to know and to speak the truth and the whole truth in everything, truth not for a purpose but for itself[110]; 2nd, his perfect trust in the reason as the guide, the only guide, to truth.[111]

§ 3. 1st. Those who have not reflected much on the subject will naturally suppose that the desire to know the truth is common to all men, and the desire to speak the truth common to most. But this is very far from being the case. If we had any earnest desire for truth we should examine things carefully before we admitted them as truths; in other words our opinions would be the growth of long and energetic thought. But instead of this they are formed for the most part quite carelessly and at haphazard, and we value them not on account of their supposed agreement with fact but because though “poor things” they are “our own” or those of our sect or party. Locke on the other hand was always endeavouring to get at the truth for its own sake. This separated him from men in general. And he brought great powers of mind to bear on the investigation. This raised him above them.

§ 4. 2nd. Locke’s second characteristic was his entire reliance on the guidance of reason. “The faculty of reasoning,” says he, “seldom or never deceives those who trust to it.” Elsewhere, borrowing a metaphor from Solomon (Prov. xx, 27), he speaks of this faculty as “the candle of the Lord set up by Himself in men’s minds.” (F. B. ij., 129). In a fine passage in the Conduct of the Understanding he calls it “the touchstone of truth” (§ iij, Fowler’s edition, p. 10). He even goes so far in his correspondence with Molyneux as to maintain that intelligent honest men cannot possibly differ.[112]

But if we consider it from one point of view the treatise on the Conduct of the Understanding is itself a witness that human reason is a compass liable to incalculable variations and likely enough to shipwreck those who steer by it alone. In this book Locke shows us that to come to a true result the understanding (1) must be perfectly trained, (2) must not be affected by any feeling in favour of or against any particular result, and (3) must have before it all the data necessary for forming a judgment. In practice these conditions are seldom (if ever) fulfilled; and Locke himself, when he wants an instance of a mind that can acquiesce in the certainty of its conclusions, takes it from “angels and separate spirits who may be endowed with more comprehensive faculties” than we are (C. of U. § iij, 3).

§ 5. It seems to me then that Locke much exaggerates the power of the individual reason for getting at the truth. And to exaggerate the importance of one function of the mind is to unduly diminish the importance of the rest. Thus we find that in Locke’s scheme of education little thought is taken for the play of the affections and feelings; and as for the imagination it is treated merely as a source of mischief.

§ 6. Locke, as it has often been pointed out, differs from the schoolmaster in making small account of the knowledge to be acquired by those under education. But it has not been so often remarked that the fundamental difference is much deeper than this and lies in the conception of knowledge itself. With the ordinary schoolmaster the test of knowledge is the power of reproduction. Whatever pupils can reproduce with difficulty they know imperfectly; whatever they can reproduce with ease they know thoroughly. But Locke’s definition of knowledge confines it to a much smaller area. According to him knowledge is “the internal perception of the mind” (Locke to Stillingfleet v. F. B. ij, 432). “Knowing is seeing; and if it be so, it is madness to persuade ourselves we do so by another man’s eyes, let him use never so many words to tell us that what he asserts is very visible. Till we ourselves see it with our own eyes, and perceive it by our own understandings, we are as much in the dark and as void of knowledge as before, let us believe any learned authors as much as we will” (C. of U. § 24).[113]

§ 7. Here Locke makes no distinction between different classes of truths. But surely very important differences exist.

About some physical facts our knowledge is at once most certain and most definite when we derive it through the evidence of our own senses. “Seeing is believing,” says the proverb. It may be believing, but it is not knowing. That certainty which we call knowledge we often arrive at better by the testimony of others than by that of our own senses.

Miss Martineau in her Autobiography tells us that as a child of ten she entirely and unaccountably failed to see a comet which was visible to all other people; but, although her own senses were at fault, the evidence for the comet was so conclusive that she may be said to have known there was a comet in the sky.

On sufficient evidence we can know anything, just as we know there is a great water-fall at Niagara though we may never have crossed the Atlantic. But we cannot be so certain simply on the evidence of our senses. If we trusted entirely to them we might take the earth for a plane and “know” that the sun moved round it.

§ 8. But Locke probably considers as the subject of knowledge not so much physical facts as the great body of truths which are ascertained by the intellect. It is the eye of the mind by which alone knowledge is to be gained. Of these truths the purest specimens are the truths of geometry. It may be said that only those who have followed the proofs know that the area of the square on the side opposite the right angle in a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares on the other sides. But even in pure reasoning like this, the tiro often seems to see what he does not really see; and where his own reason brings him to a conclusion different from the one established he knows only that he is mistaken.

§ 9. It must be admitted then that first-hand knowledge, knowledge derived from the vision of the eye or of the mind, is not the only knowledge the young require. Every learner must take things on trust, as even Lord Bacon admits. Discentem credere oportet. To use Locke’s own words:—“I do not say, to be a good geographer that a man should visit every mountain, river, promontory, and creek upon the face of the earth, view the buildings and survey the land everywhere as if he were going to make a purchase” (C. of U., iij, ad f.). So that even according to Locke’s own shewing we must use the eyes of others as well as our own, and this is true not in geography only, but in all other branches of knowledge.

§ 10. But are we driven to the alternative of agreeing either with Locke or with the schoolmaster? I do not see that we are. The thought which underlies Locke’s system of education is this: true knowledge can be acquired only by the exercise of the reason: in childhood the reasoning power is not strong enough for the pursuit of knowledge: knowledge, therefore, is out of the question at that age, and the only thing to be thought of is the formation of habits. Opposed to this we have the schoolmaster’s ideal which is governed by examinations. According to this ideal the object of the school course is to give certain “knowledge,” linguistic and other, and to fix it in the memory in such a manner that it can be displayed on the day of examination. “Knowledge” of this kind often makes no demand whatever on the reasoning faculty, or indeed on any faculty but that of remembering and reproducing what the learner has been told; in extreme cases the memory of mere sounds or symbols suffices.

But after all we are not compelled to choose between these two theories. Take, e.g., the subject which Locke has mentioned, geography. The schoolmasters of the olden time began with the use of the globes, a plan which, by the way, Locke himself seems to have winked at. His disciple Molyneux tells him of the performances of the small Molyneux. When he was but just turned five he could read perfectly well, and on the globe could have traced out and pointed at all the noted ports, countries, and cities of the world, both land and sea; by five and a half could perform many of the plainest problems on the globe, as the longitude and latitude, the Antipodes, the time with them and other countries, &c. (Molyneux to L., 24th August, 1695.) Here we find a child brought up, without any protest from Locke, on mere examination knowledge, which according to Locke himself is not knowledge at all. It is strange that Locke did not at once point out to Molyneux that the child was not really learning what the father supposed him to be learning. When the child turned over the plaster ball and found the word “Paris,” the father no doubt attributed to the child much that was in his own mind only. To the child “the Globe” (as Rousseau afterwards said), was nothing but a plaster ball; “Paris” was nothing but some letters marked on that ball. Comenius had already got a notion how children may be given some knowledge of geography. “Children begin geography,” said he, “when they get to understand what a hill, a valley, a field, a river, a village, a town is.” ([Supra, p. 145.]) When this beginning has been made, geographical knowledge is at once possible to the child, and not before.

Perfect knowledge in geography, as in most other things, is out of every one’s reach. Nobody knows, e.g., all that could be known about Paris. The knowledge its inhabitants have of it is very various, but in all cases this knowledge is far greater than that of a visitor. The visitor’s knowledge again is far greater than that of strangers who have never seen Paris. Nobody, then, can know everything even about Paris; but a child who knows what a large town is, and can fancy to himself a big town called Paris, which is the biggest and most important town in France has some knowledge about it. This must be maintained against Locke. Against the schoolmaster it may be pointed out that making an Eskimo say the words:—“Paris is the capital of France,” would not be giving him any knowledge at all; and the same may be said of many “lessons” in the school-room. If a common sailor were to teach an Eskimo English, he would very likely suppose that when he had taught the sounds “Paris is the capital of France,” he had conveyed to his pupil all the ideas which those sounds suggested to his own mind. A common schoolmaster may fall into a similar error.

§ 11. In the most celebrated work which has been affected by the Thoughts of Locke, Rousseau’s Emile, we find childhood treated in a manner altogether different from youth: the child’s education is mainly physical, and instruction is not given till the age of twelve. Locke’s system on first sight seems very different to this, but there is a deeper connection between the two than is usually observed. We have seen that Locke allowed nothing to be knowledge that was not acquired by the perception of the intellect. But in children the intellectual power is not yet developed; so according to Locke knowledge properly so-called is not within their reach. What then can the educator do for them? He can prepare them for the age of reason in two ways, by caring first for their physical health, second for the formation of good habits.

§ 12. 1st. On the Continent Locke has always been considered one of the first advocates of physical education, and he does, it is true, give physical education the first place, a feature in his system, which we naturally connect with his study of medicine, and also with the trouble he had all his life with his own health. But care of the body, and especially bodily exercises, were always much thought of in this country, and the main writers on education before Locke, e.g., Sir Thos. Elyot, Mulcaster, Milton, were very emphatic about physical training.

In the autobiography of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, we may see what attention was paid in Locke’s own century to this part of education.[114]

§ 13. 2nd. “That, and that only, is educative which moulds forms or modifies the soul or mind.” (Mark Pattison in New Quarterly Magazine, January, 1880.)

Here we have a proposition which is perhaps seldom denied, but very commonly ignored by those who bring up the young. But Locke seems to have been entirely possessed with this notion, and the greater part of the Thoughts is nothing but a long application of it. The principle which lies at the root of most of his advice, he has himself expressed as follows: “That which I cannot too often inculcate is, that whatever the matter be about which it is conversant whether great or small, the main, I had almost said only thing, to be considered in every action of a child is what influence it will have upon his mind; what habit it tends to, and is likely to settle in him: how it will become him when he is bigger, and if it be encouraged, whither it will lead him when he is grown up.” (Thoughts, § 107, p. 86.)

Here we see that Locke differed widely from the schoolmasters of his time, perhaps of all time. A man must be a philosopher indeed if he can spend his life in teaching boys, and yet always think more about what they will be and what they will do when their schooling is over than what they will know. And in these days if we stopped to think at all we should be trodden on by the examiner.[115]

In this respect Locke has not been surpassed. Like his predecessor Montaigne he took for his centre not the object, knowledge, but the subject, man.[116]

§ 14. In some other respects he does not seem so happy. He makes little attempt to reach a scientific standpoint and to establish general truths about our common human nature. He thinks not so much of the man as the gentleman, not so much of the common laws of the mind as of the peculiarities of the individual child. He even hints that differences of disposition in children render treatises on education defective if not useless. “There are a thousand other things that may need consideration” he writes “especially if one should take in the various tempers, different inclinations, and particular defaults that are to be found in children and prescribe proper remedies. The variety is so great that it would require a volume, nor would that reach it. Each man’s mind has some peculiarity as well as his face, that distinguishes him from all others; and there are possibly scarce two children who can be conducted by exactly the same method: besides that I think a prince, a nobleman, or an ordinary gentleman’s son should have different ways of breeding. But having had here only some general views in reference to the main end and aims in education, and those designed for a gentleman’s son, whom being then very little I considered only as white paper or wax to be moulded and fashioned as one pleases, I have touched little more than those heads which I judged necessary for the breeding of a young gentleman of his condition in general.” (Thoughts, § 217, p. 187.)

No language could bring out more clearly the inferiority of Locke’s standpoint to that of later thinkers. He makes little account of our common nature and wishes education to be based upon an estimate of the peculiarities of the individual pupil and of his social needs. And no one with an adequate notion of education could ever compare the young child to “white paper or wax.” Perhaps the development of an organism was a conception that could not have been formed without a great advance in physical science. Froebel who makes most of it learnt it from the scientific study of trees and from mineralogy. We need not then be surprised that Locke does not say, as Pestalozzi said a hundred years later, “Education instead of merely considering what is to be imparted to children ought to consider first what they already possess.” But if he had read Comenius he would have been saved from comparing the child to wax or white paper in the hands of the educator. Comenius had said: “Nature has implanted within us the seeds of learning, of virtue, and of piety. The object of education is to bring these seeds to perfection.” ([Supra, p. 135.]) This seems to me a higher conception than any that I meet with in Locke.

§ 15. But if our philosopher did not learn from Comenius he certainly learnt from Montaigne.[117] Indeed Dr. Arnstädt ([v. supra, p. 69]) has put him into a series of thinkers who have much in common. This succession is as follows: Rabelais, Montaigne, Locke, Rousseau; and, according to Mr. Browning’s division, they form a school by themselves. “Thinkers on education,” says Mr. Browning,[118] “are 1st those who wish to educate through the study of the classics, or 2nd those who wish to educate through the study of the works of Nature, or 3rd those who aim at an education independent of study and knowledge, and think rather of the training of character and the attaining to the Greek ideal, the man beautiful and good.” To the three schools Mr. Browning gives the names Humanist, Realist, and Naturalist, (“nos autres naturalistes,” Montaigne says). Locke he considers one of the principal writers of the “naturalistic” school, and says, Locke “has given a powerful bias to naturalistic education both in England and on the Continent for the last 200 years.” (Ed. Theories, p. 85.)

This use of the word “naturalistic” seems to me somewhat misleading, or at best vague, and it is a word overworked already: so I should prefer to speak of the “developing” or “training” school. The classification itself certainly has its uses but it must be employed with caution. If caught up by those who have only an elementary acquaintance with the subject a class of persons apt to delight in such arrangements as an aid to memory, these divisions may easily prove a hindrance to light.

§ 16. This subject of classification is so important to students that it may be worth while to make a few remarks upon it. The only thoroughly consistent people are the people of fiction. We can know all about them. Directly we understand their central thought or peculiarity we may be sure that everything they say and do will be strictly in accordance with it, will indeed be explainable by it. To take a bald and simple instance, directly we know that Mrs. Jellaby in Bleak House is absorbed by her interest in an African Mission, we know all that is to be known about her; and everything she does or omits to do has some reference to Borrioboola Ghar. But in real life not only are people much less easily understood, but when we actually have seized their main idea or peculiarity or interest we must not expect to find them always consistent: and they will say and do much which if not inconsistent with the main idea or peculiarity or interest has at least no connection with it. Suppose, e.g., you can make out with some certainty that Locke belonged to the developing school, you must not expect him to pay little heed to instruction as such. Again, suppose you find that his philosophy was utilitarian; you must not suppose that in everything he says he will be thinking of utility.

Now the historian is tempted to treat real men and women as the writer of fiction treats his puppets. Having fastened, quite correctly let us suppose, on their main peculiarity he considers it necessary to square everything with his theory of them, and whatever will not fall in with it he, if he is unscrupulous, misrepresents, or if he is scrupulous, suppresses.

Again, we are too apt to read into words meanings derived from controversies unknown at the time when the words were uttered. This is a well-known fact in the history of religious thought. We must always consider not merely the words used but the time when they were used. What a man might say quite naturally and orthodoxly at one period would be sufficient to convict him of sympathizing with some terrible heresy if uttered half a century later. We find something like this in the history of education. If anyone nowadays speaks of the pleasure with which as a young man he read Tacitus, he is understood to mean that he is opposed to the introduction of “modern studies” into the school-room. If on the other hand he extols botany, or regrets that he never learned chemistry, this is taken for an assault on classical instruction. But, of course, no such inference could be drawn if we went back to a time when the antithesis between classics and natural science had not been accentuated. In many other instances we have to be on our guard against forcing into language meaning which belongs rather to a later date.

§ 17. With these cautions in mind let us see how far Locke may be said (1) to be a trainer, and (2) how far a utilitarian.

§ 18. I. Mr. Browning attributes to Rabelais, Montaigne, and Locke the desire to bring up a well-developed man rather than a good scholar. But Rabelais certainly craved for the knowledge of things; and if he is to be classed at all I should put him rather with the Realists, albeit he lived before the realistic spirit became powerful. Montaigne went more on the lines of developing rather than teaching, and, shrewd man of the world as he was, he thought a great deal about the art of living. But his ideal was not so much the man as the gentleman. This was true also of Locke; and here we see some explanation why both Montaigne and Locke do not value classical learning.[119] On the Continent classical learning has never been associated with the character of an accomplished gentleman; and, as far as I know, the conception that the highest type of excellence is found in the union of “the scholar and the gentleman” is peculiar to this country. In the society of Locke’s day this union does not seem to have been recognized, and Locke observes: “A great part of the learning now in fashion in the schools of Europe, and that goes ordinarily into the round of education, a gentleman may in a good measure be unfurnished with, without any great disparagement to himself or prejudice to his affairs.” (Thoughts, § 94, p. 74.) So Locke sought as the true essential for the young gentleman “prudence and good breeding.” He puts his requisites in the following order of importance:—1, virtue; 2, wisdom; 3, manners; 4, learning; and so “places learning last and least.” Here he shews himself far ahead of those who still held to the learned ideal; but his notions of development were cramped by his thinking only of the gentleman and what was requisite for him.

§ 19. II. Was Locke a utilitarian in education? It is the fashion (and in history as in other things fashion is a powerful force), it is the fashion to treat of Locke as a great champion of utilitarianism. We might expect this in the ordinary historians, for “when they do agree their unanimity is” not perhaps very wonderful. But there is one great English authority quite uninfluenced by them who has said the same thing, viz.—Cardinal Newman. The Cardinal, as the champion of authority, is perhaps prejudiced against Locke, who holds that “the faculty of reasoning seldom or never deceived those who trusted to it.” Be this as it may, Newman asserts that “the tone of Locke’s remarks is condemnatory of any teaching which tends to the general cultivation of the mind.” (Idea of a University. Discourse vij., § 4; see also § 6.) A very interesting point for us to consider is then, Is this reputation of Locke’s for utilitarianism well deserved?

§ 20. First let us be quite certain of our definition.

In learning anything there are two points to be considered; 1st, the advantage we shall find from knowing that subject or having that skill, and 2nd, the effect which the study of that subject or practising for that skill will have on the mind or the body.

These two points are in themselves distinct, though it is open to anyone to maintain that they need not be considered separately. Nature has provided that the bodies of most animals should get the exercise best for them in procuring food. So Mr. Herbert Spencer has come to the conclusion that it would be contrary to “the economy of nature” if one set of occupations were needed as gymnastics and another for utility. In other words he considers that it is in learning the most useful things we get the best training.

The utilitarian view of instruction is that we should teach things useful in themselves and either neglect the result on the mind and body of the learner or assume Mr. Spencer’s law of “the economy of nature.”

Again, when the subjects are settled the utilitarian thinks how the knowledge or skill may be most speedily acquired, and not how this method or that method of acquisition will affect the faculties.

§ 21. This being utilitarianism in education the question is how far was Locke the utilitarian he is generally considered?

If we take by itself what he says under the head of “Learning” in the Thoughts concerning Education no doubt we should pronounce him a utilitarian. He considers each subject of instruction and pronounces for or against it according as it seems likely or unlikely to be useful to a gentleman. And in the methods he suggests he simply points out the quickest route, as if the knowledge were the only thing to be thought of. Hence his utilitarian reputation.

But two very important considerations have been lost sight of.

1st. Learning is with him “the last and least part” in education.

2nd. Intellectual education was not for childhood but for the age when we can teach ourselves. “When a man has got an entrance into any of the sciences,” says he, “it will be time then to depend on himself and rely upon his own understanding and exercise his own faculties, which is the only way to improvement and mastery.” (L. to Peterborough, quoted in Camb. edition of Thoughts, p. 229.) “So,” he says, “the business of education is not, as I think, to make the young perfect in any one of the sciences but so to open and dispose their minds as may best make them capable of any when they shall apply themselves to it.” The studies he proposes in the Conduct of the Understanding (which is his treatise on intellectual education) have for their object “an increase of the powers and activity of the mind, not an enlargement of its possessions” (C. of U. § 19, ad f.).

Thus strange to say the supposed leader of the Utilitarians has actually propounded in so many words the doctrine of their opponents.

§ 22. When Locke is more studied it will be found that the Thoughts are misleading if we neglect his other works, more particularly the Conduct of the Understanding.

§ 23. Towards the end of his days, Locke was conscious of gleams of the “untravelled world” which lay before the generations to come. With great pathos he writes to a friend: “When I consider how much of my life has been trifled away in beaten tracks where I vamped on with others only to follow those who went before me, I cannot but think I have just as much reason to be proud as if I had travelled all England and, if you will, all France too, only to acquaint myself with the roads, and be able to tell how the highways lie wherein those of equipage, and even the common herd too, travel. Now, methinks—and these are often old men’s dreams—I see openings to truth and direct paths leading to it, wherein a little application and industry would settle one’s mind with satisfaction and leave no darkness or doubt. But this is the end of my day when my sun is setting: and though the prospect it has given me be what I would not for anything be without—there is so much truth, beauty, and consistency in it—yet it is for one of your age, I think I ought to say for yourself, to set about” (L. to Bolde, quoted by Fowler, Locke, p. 120). But another 200 years have not sufficed to put us in possession of the Promised Land of which Locke had these Pisgah visions. We still “vamp on,” following those who went before us and getting small help from expounders of “Education as a Science.” But as it would seem the days of vamping on blindly in the beaten track are drawing to a close. We cannot doubt that if Locke had known the wonderful advance which various sciences have made since his day he would have seen in them “openings to truth and direct paths leading to it” for many purposes, certainly for education. It is for our age and ages to come to set about applying our scientific knowledge to the bringing up of children; and thinkers such as Froebel will shew us how.

Locke’s Thoughts concerning Education and his Conduct of the Understanding should be in the hands of all students of education who know the English language. I have therefore not attempted to epitomise what he has said, but have endeavoured to get at the main thoughts which are, so to speak, the taproot of his system. Of the Thoughts there is an edition published by the National Society and another by the Pitt Press, Cambridge. The Cambridge edition gives from Fox-Bourne’s Life Locke’s scheme of “Working Schools” and from Lord King’s the essay “Of Study.” Of the Conduct there is an edition published by the Clarendon Press. “F.B.” in the references above stands for Fox-Bourne’s Life of Locke.

In the above essay I have not treated of Locke as a methodizer; but he advocated teaching foreign languages without grammar, and he published “Æsop’s Fables in English and Latin, interlineary. For the benefit of those, who not having a master would learn either of these Tongues.” When I edited the Thoughts for Pitt Press I did not know of this book or I should have mentioned it.

XIV.
JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
(1712-1778).

§ 1. The great men whom we meet with in the history of education may be divided into two classes, thinkers and doers. There would seem no good reason why the thinker should not be great as a doer or the doer as a thinker; and yet we hardly find any records of men who have been successful both in investigating theory and directing practice. History tells us of first-rate practical schoolmasters like Sturm and the Jesuits; but they did not think out their own theory of their task: they accepted the current theory of their time. On the other hand, men who like Montaigne and Locke rejected the current theory and sought to establish a better by an appeal to reason were not practical schoolmasters. Whenever the thinker tries to turn his thought into action he has cause to be disappointed with the result. We saw this in the disastrous failure of Ratke; and even the books in which Comenius tried to work out his principles, the Vestibulum, Janua and the rest, with the exception of the Orbis Pictus, were speedily forgotten. In the world of education as elsewhere it takes time to find for great thoughts the practice which gives effect to them. The course of great thoughts is in some ways like the course of great rivers. Most romantic and beautiful near their source, they are not most useful. They must leave the mountains in which they first appeared, and must flow not in cataracts but smoothly along the plain among the dwellings of common men before they can be turned to account in the every-day business of life.

§ 2. The eighteenth century was soon distinguished by boundless activity of thought; and this thought was directed mainly to a great work of destruction. Europe had outgrown the ideas of the Middle Age, and the framework of Society, which the Middle Age had bequeathed, had waxed old and was ready to vanish as soon as any strong force could be found to push it out of the way. As Matthew Arnold has described it—

“It’s frame yet stood without a breach

“When blood and warmth were fled;

“And still it spake it’s wonted speech—

“But every word was dead.”

Here then there was need of some destructive power that should remove and burn up much that had become mere obstacle and incumbrance. This power was found in the writings which appeared in France about the middle of the century; and among the authors of them none spoke with more effect than one who differed from all the rest, a vagabond without family ties or social position of any kind, with no literary training, with little knowledge and in conduct at least, with no morals. The writings of Rousseau and the results produced by them are among the strangest things in history; and especially in matters of education it is more than doubtful if the wise man of the world Montaigne, the Christian philanthropist Comenius, or that “slave of truth and reason” the philosopher Locke, had half as much influence as this depraved serving man.

§ 3. The work by which Rousseau became famous was a prize essay in which he maintained that civilization, the arts and all human institutions were from first to last pernicious in their effects, and that no happiness was possible for the human race without giving them all up and returning to what he called the state of Nature. He glorified the “noble savage.” If man had brought himself to a state of misery bordering on despair by following his own many inventions, take away all these inventions and you will have man in his proper condition. The argument seems something of this kind: Man was once happy: Man is now miserable: undo everything that has been done and Man will be happy again.

§ 4. This principle of a so-called “natural” state existing before man’s many inventions, Rousseau applied boldly to education, and he deduced this general rule: “Do precisely the opposite to what is usually done, and you will have hit on the right plan.” Not reform but revolution was his advice. He took the ordinary school teaching and held it up to ridicule, and certainly he did prove its absurdity. And a most valuable service he thus rendered to teachers. Every employment while it makes us see some things clearly, also provides us with blinkers, so to speak, which prevent our seeing other things at all. The school teacher’s blinkers often prevent his seeing much that is plain enough to other people; and when a writer like Rousseau takes off our blinkers for us and makes us look about us, he does us a great deal of good. But we need more than this: if we have children entrusted to us we must do something with them, and Rousseau’s rule of doing the opposite to what is usual will not be found universally applicable. So we consult Rousseau again, and what is his advice?

§ 5. Rousseau would bring everything back to the “natural” state, and unfortunately he never pauses to settle whether he means by this a state of ideal perfection, or of simply savagery. The savage, he says, gets his education without any one’s troubling about it, and so he infers that all the trouble taken by the civilized is worse than thrown away. (Girardin’s Rousseau, ij., 85.) But he does not fall back on laisser faire. He urges on parents the duty of themselves attending to the bringing up of their children. “Point de mère, point d’enfant—no mother, no child,” says he; and he would have the father see to the training of the child whom the mother has suckled.

§ 6. Rousseau’s picture of family life is given us where few Englishmen are likely to find it, enveloped in the Nouvelle Héloïse. Here we read how Julie always has her children with her, and while seeming to let them do as they like, conceals with the air of apparent carelessness the most vigilant observation. Possessed by the notion that there can be no intellectual education before the age of reason, she proclaims: “La fonction dont je suis chargée n’est pas d’élever mes fils, mais de les préparer pour être élevés: My business is not to educate my sons, but to prepare them for being educated.” (N. Héloïse, 5th P., Lett. 3.)[120]

§ 7. There is much that is very pleasing in this picture of ideal family life; but when Rousseau comes formally to propound his ideas on education, he gives up family life to attain greater simplicity. “Je m’en tiens à ce qui est plus simple,” says he: “What I stick to is the more simple.” He tries to state everything in its lowest terms, so to speak; and this method is excellent so long as he puts on one side only what is accidental, and retains all the essentials of the problem. But his rage for simplicity sometimes carried him beyond this. There is an old Cambridge story of a problem introducing an elephant “whose weight may be neglected.” This is after the manner of Rousseau. In the bringing up of the model child, he “neglects” parents, brothers and sisters, young companions; and though he says that the needful qualities of a master may be expected only in “un homme de génie,” he hands over Émile to a governor to live an isolated life in the country.

§ 8. This governor is to devote himself, for some years, entirely to imparting to his pupil these difficult arts—the art of being ignorant and of losing time. Till he is twelve years old, Émile is to have no direct instruction whatever. “At that age he shall not know what a book is,” says Rousseau; though elsewhere we are told that he will learn to read of his own accord by the time he is ten, if no attempt is made to teach him. He is to be under no restraint, and is to do nothing but what he sees to be useful.

§ 9. Freedom from restraint is, however, to be apparent, not real. As in ordinary education the child employs all its faculties in duping the master, so in education “according to Nature” the master is to devote himself to duping the child. “Let him always be his own master in appearance, and do you take care to be so in reality. There is no subjection so complete as that which preserves the appearance of liberty; it is by this means even the will is led captive.”

§ 10. “The most critical interval of human nature is that between the hour of our birth and twelve years of age. This is the time wherein vice and error take root without our being possessed of any instrument to destroy them.” (Ém. ij., 79.) Throughout this season, the governor is to be at work training the pupil in the art of being ignorant and losing time. “The first education should be purely negative. It consists by no means in teaching virtue or truth, but in securing the heart from vice and the intellect from error. If you could do nothing and let nothing be done, if you could bring on your pupil healthy and strong to the age of 12 without his being able to tell his right hand from his left, from your very first lessons the eyes of his understanding would open to reason. Being without prejudices and without habits he would have nothing in him to thwart the effect of your care; and by beginning with doing nothing you would have made an educational prodigy.”[121]

“Exercise his body, his organs, his senses, his powers; but keep his mind passive as long as possible. Mistrust all his sentiments formed before the judgment which determines their value. Restrain, avoid all foreign impressions, and to prevent the birth of evil be in no hurry to cause good; for good is good only in the light of reason. Look on all delays as so many advantages: it is a great gain to advance towards the goal without loss: let childhood ripen in children. In short, whatever lesson they may need, be sure not to give it them to-day if you can safely put it off till to-morrow.”[122]

“Do not, then, alarm yourself much about this apparent idleness. What would you say of the man, who, in order to make the most of life, should determine never to go to sleep? You would say, The man is mad: he is not enjoying the time; he is depriving himself of it: to avoid sleep he is hurrying towards death. Consider, then, that it is the same here, and that childhood is the sleep of reason.”[123]

§ 11. We have now reached the climax (or shall we say the nadir?) in negation. Rousseau has given the coup de grâce to the ideal of the Renascence. Comenius was the first to take a comprehensive view of the educator’s task and to connect it with man’s nature and destiny; but he could not get clear from an over-estimate of the importance of knowledge. According to his ideal, man should know all things; so in practice he thought too much of imparting knowledge. Then came Locke and treated the imparting of knowledge as of trifling importance when compared with the formation of character; but he too in practice hardly went so far as this principle might have led him. He was much under the influence of social distinctions, and could not help thinking of what it was necessary for a gentleman to know. So that Rousseau was the very first to shake himself entirely free from the notion which the Renascence had handed down that man was mainly a learning animal. Rousseau has the courage to deny this in the most emphatic manner possible, and to say: “For the first 12 years the educator must teach the child nothing.”

§ 12. In this reaction against the Renascence Rousseau puts the truth in the form of such a violent paradox that we start back in terror. But it was perhaps necessary thus to sweep away the ordinary schoolroom rubbish before the true nature of the educator’s task could be fairly considered. The rubbish having been cleared away what was to take its place? No longer having his mind engrossed by the knowledge he wished to communicate, the educator had now an eye for something else not less worthy of his attention, viz., the child itself. Rousseau was the first to base education entirely on a study of the child to be educated; and by doing this he became, as I believe, one of the greatest of educational Reformers.

§ 13. It was, however, purely as a thinker, or rather as a voice giving expression to the general discontent that Rousseau became such a tremendous force in Europe. He has indeed often been called the father of the first French Revolution which he did not live to see. But, as Macaulay has well said, a good deal besides eloquent writing is needed to cause such a convulsion; and we can no more attribute the French Revolution to the writings of Rousseau than we can attribute the shock of an explosion of gunpowder to the lucifer match without which it might never have happened (v. Macaulay’s Barrère). Rousseau did in the world of ideas what the French Revolutionists afterwards did in the world of politics; he made a clean sweep and endeavoured to start afresh.

§ 14. I have already said that as regards education I think his labours in destruction were of very great value. But what shall we say of his efforts at construction? There would not be the least difficulty in showing that most of his proposals are impracticable. It is no more “natural” to treat as a typical case a child brought up in solitude than it would be to write a treatise on the rearing of a bee cut off from the hive.[124] Rousseau requires impossibilities, e.g., he postulates that the child is never to be brought into contact with anyone who might set a bad example. Modern science has shown us that the young are liable to take diseases from impurities in the air they breathe: but as yet no one has proposed that all children should be kept at an elevation of 5,000 feet above the level of the sea. Yet the advice would be about as practicable as the advice of Rousseau. A method which always starts with paradox and not infrequently ends with platitude might seem to have little in its favour; and Rousseau has had far less influence since (in the words of Herman Merivale) “he was dethroned with the fall of his extravagant child, the [First] Republic.” No doubt the great exponent of English opinion was right in calling Rousseau “the most un-English stranger who ever landed on our shores” (Times, 29 Aug., 1873); and the torch of his eloquence will never cause a conflagration, still less an explosion, here. His disregard for “appearances”—or rather his evident purpose of making an impression by defying “appearances” and saying just the opposite of what is expected, is simply distressing to us. But there is no denying Rousseau’s genius. His was one of the original voices that go on sounding and awakening echoes in all lands. Willingly or unwillingly, at first hand or from imperfect echoes, everyone who studies education must study Rousseau.

§ 15. As specimens of Rousseau’s teaching I will give a few characteristic passages from the Émile.

“Everything is good as it leaves the hands of the Creator: everything degenerates in the hands of man.”[125] These are the first words of the “Émile,” and the key-note of Rousseau’s philosophy.

§ 16. “We are born weak, we have need of strength; we are born destitute of everything, we have need of assistance; we are born stupid, we have need of understanding. All that we have not at our birth, and which we require when grown up, is bestowed on us by education. This education we receive from nature, from men, or from things. The internal development of our organs and faculties is the education of nature: the use we are taught to make of that development is the education given us by men; and in the acquisitions made by our own experience on the objects that surround us, consists our education from things.”[126] “Since the concurrence of these three kinds of education is necessary to their perfection, it is by that one which is entirely independent of us, we must regulate the two others.”[127]

§ 17. Now “to live is not merely to breathe; it is to act, it is to make use of our organs, our senses, our faculties, and of all those parts of ourselves which give us the feeling of our existence. The man who has lived most, is not he who has counted the greatest number of years, but he who has most thoroughly felt life.”[128]

§ 18. The aim of education, then, must be complete living.

But ordinary education, instead of seeking to develop the life of the child, sacrifices childhood to the acquirement of knowledge, or rather the semblance of knowledge, which it is thought will prove useful to the youth or the man. Rousseau’s great merit lies in his having exposed this fundamental error. He says, very truly, “We do not understand childhood, and pursuing false ideas of it our every step takes us further astray. The wisest among us fix upon what it concerns men to know without ever considering what children are capable of learning. They always expect to find the man in the child without thinking of what the child is before it is a man. And this is the study to which I have especially devoted myself, in order that should my entire method be false and visionary, my observations might always turn to account. I may not have seen aright what ought to be done: but I believe I have seen aright the subject on which we have to act. Begin then by studying your pupils better, for most certainly you do not understand them.”[129] “Nature wills that children should be children before they are men. If we seek to pervert this order we shall produce forward fruits without ripeness or flavour, and tho’ not ripe, soon rotten: we shall have young savans and old children. Childhood has ways of seeing, thinking, feeling peculiar to itself; nothing is more absurd than to wish to substitute ours in their place.”[130] “We never know how to put ourselves in the place of children; we do not enter into their ideas, we attribute to them our own; and following always our own train of thought, even with syllogisms we manage to fill their heads with nothing but extravagance and error.”[131] “I wish some discreet person would give us a treatise on the art of observing children—an art which would be of immense value to us, but of which fathers and schoolmasters have not as yet learnt the very first rudiments.”[132]

§ 19. In these passages, Rousseau strikes the key-note of true education. The first thing necessary for us is to see aright the subject on which we have to act. Unfortunately, however, this subject has often been the subject most neglected in the schoolroom. Children have been treated as if they were made for their school books, not their school books for them. As education has been thought of as learning, childhood has been treated as unimportant, a necessary stage in existence no doubt, but far more troublesome and hardly more interesting than the state of the chrysalis. If some forms of words, tables, declensions, county towns, and the like can be drummed into children, this is, say educators of the old school, a clear gain. For the rest nothing can be done with them except teaching them to read, write, and say the multiplication table.

But since the publication of the Émile, there has been in the world a very different view of education. According to this view, the importance of childhood is not to be measured by the amount of our knowledge, or even the number of our words, we can force it to remember. According to this view, in dealing with children we must not think of our knowledge or of our notions at all. We must think not of our own minds, but of the minds of the little ones.[133]

§ 20. The absurd results in which the opposite course has ended, Rousseau exposes with great severity. “All the studies demanded from the poor unfortunates lead to such things as are entirely beyond the range of their ideas, so you may judge what amount of attention they can give to them. Schoolmasters who make a great display of the instruction they give their pupils are paid to differ from me; but we see from what they do that they are entirely of my opinion. For what do they really teach? Words, words, for ever words. Among the various knowledges which they boast of giving, they are careful not to include such as would be of use; because these would involve a knowledge of things, and there they would be sure to fail; but they choose subjects that seem to be known when the terms are known such as heraldry, geography, chronology, languages and the like; all of them studies so foreign to a man, and still more to a child, that it is a great chance if anything of the whole lot ever proves useful to him on a single occasion in his whole life.”[134] “Whatever the study may be, without the idea of the things represented the signs representing them go for nothing. And yet the child is always kept to these signs without our being able to make him comprehend any of the things they represent.”[135] What does a child understand by “the globe”? An old geography book says candidly, that it is a round thing made of plaster; and this is the only notion children have of it. What a fearful waste, and worse than waste, it is to make them learn the signs without the things, when if they ever learn the things, they must at the same time acquire the signs! (Conf. Ruskin [supra p. 159, note].) “No! if Nature gives to the child’s brain this pliability which makes it capable of receiving impressions of every kind, this is not that we may engrave on it the names of kings, dates, the technical words of heraldry, of astronomy, of geography, and all those words meaningless at his age and useless at any age, with which we oppress his sad and sterile childhood; but that all the ideas which he can conceive and which are useful to him, all those which relate to his happiness and will one day make his duty plain to him, may trace themselves there in characters never to be effaced, and may assist him in conducting himself through life in a manner appropriate to his nature and his faculties.”[136]

§ 21. With Rousseau, as afterwards with Froebel, education was a kind of “child-gardening.” “Plants are developed by cultivation,” says he, “men by education: On façonne les plantes par la culture, et les hommes par l’éducation” (Ém. j., 6). The governor, who is the child-gardener, is to aim at three things: first, he is to shield the child from all corrupting influences; second, he is to devote himself to developing in the child a healthy and strong body in which the senses are to be rendered acute by exercise; third, he is, by practice not precept, to cultivate the child’s sense of duty.

§ 22. In his study of children Rousseau fixed on their never-resting activity. “The failing energy concentrates itself in the heart of the old man; in the heart of the child energy is overflowing and spreads outwards; he feels in him life enough to animate all his surroundings. Whether he makes or mars it is all one to him: it is enough that he has changed the state of things, and every change is an action. If he seems by preference to destroy, this is not from mischief; but the act of construction is always slow, and the act of destruction being quicker is more suited to his vivacity.”[137]

One of the first requisites in the care of the young is then to provide for the expansion of their activity. All restraints such as swaddling clothes for infants and “school” and “lessons” for children are to be entirely done away with.[138] Literary instruction must not be thought of. “There must be no other book than the world,” says Rousseau, “no other instruction than facts. The child who reads does not think, he does nothing but read, he gets no instruction; he learns words: Point d’autre livre que le monde, point d’autre instruction que les faits. L’enfant qui lit ne pense pas, il ne fait que lire; il ne s’instruit pas, il apprend les mots.” (Ém. iij., 181.)[139]

§ 23. If it be objected that, according to Rousseau’s plan, there would be a neglect of memory, he replies: “Without the study of books the kind of memory that a child should have will not remain inactive; all he sees, all he hears, strikes him, and he remembers it; he keeps a record in himself of people’s actions and people’s talk; and all around him makes the book by which without thinking of it he is constantly enriching his memory against the time that his judgment may benefit by it: Sans étudier dans les livres, l’espèce de mémoire que peut avoir un enfant ne reste pas pour cela oisive; tout ce qu’il voit, tout ce qu’il entend le frappe, et il s’en souvient; il tient registre en lui-même des actions, des discours des hommes; et tout ce qui l’environne est le livre, dans lequel, sans y songer, il enrichit continuellement sa mémoire, en attendant que son jugement puisse en profiter.” (Ém. ij., 106.) We should be most careful not to commit to our memory anything we do not understand, for if we do, we can never tell what part of our stores really belong to us. (Ém. iij., 236.)

§ 24. On the positive side the most striking part of Rousseau’s advice relates to the training of the senses. “The first faculties which become strong in us,” says he, “are our senses. These then are the first that should be cultivated; they are in fact the only faculties we forget or at least those which we neglect most completely.” We find that the young child “wants to touch and handle everything. By no means check this restlessness; it points to a very necessary apprenticeship. Thus it is that the child gets to be conscious of the hotness or coldness, the hardness or softness, the heaviness or lightness of bodies, to judge of their size and shape and all their sensible properties by looking, feeling, listening, especially by comparing sight and touch, and combining the sensations of the eye with those of the fingers.”[140] “See a cat enter a room for the first time; she examines round and stares and sniffs about without a moment’s rest, she is satisfied with nothing before she has tried it and made it out. This is just what a child does when he begins to walk, and enters, so to say, the chamber of the world. The only difference is that to the sight which is common to the child and the cat the first joins in his observations the hands which nature has given him, and the other animal that subtle sense of smell which has been bestowed upon her. It is this tendency, according as it is well cultivated or the reverse, that makes children either sharp or dull, active or slow, giddy or thoughtful.

“The first natural movements of the child being then to measure himself with his surroundings and to test in everything he sees all its sensible properties which may concern him, his first study is a kind of experimental physics relating to his own preservation; and from this we divert him to speculative studies before he feels himself at home here below. So long as his delicate and flexible organs can adjust themselves to the bodies on which they ought to act, so long as his senses as yet uncorrupted are free from illusion, this is the time to exercise them all in their proper functions; this is the time to learn to understand the sensuous relations which things have with us. As everything that enters the mind finds its way through the senses, the first reason of a human being is a reason of sensations; this it is which forms the basis of the intellectual reason; our first masters in philosophy are our feet, our hands, our eyes. Substituting books for all this is not teaching us to reason, but simply to use the reason of other people; it teaches us to take a great deal on trust and never to know anything.

“In order to practise an art we must begin by getting the proper implements; and that we may have good use of these implements they must be made strong enough to stand wear and tear. That we may learn to think we must then exercise our members, our senses, our organs, as these are the implements of our intelligence; and that we may make the most of these implements the body which supplies them must be strong and healthy. We see then that far from man’s true reason forming itself independently of his body, it is the sound constitution of the body that makes the operations of the mind easy and certain.”[141]

§ 25. Rousseau does not confine himself to advising that the senses should be cultivated; he also gives some hints of the way in which they should be cultivated, and many modern experiments, such as “object lessons” and the use of actual weights and measures, may be directly traced to him. “As soon as a child begins to distinguish objects, a proper choice should be made in those which are presented to him.” Elsewhere he says, “To exercise the senses is not simply to make use of them; it is to learn to judge aright by means of them; it is to learn, so to say, to perceive; for we can only touch and see and hear according as we have learnt how. There is a kind of exercise perfectly natural and mechanical which serves to make the body strong without giving anything for the judgment to lay hold of: swimming, running, jumping, whip-top, stone throwing; all this is capital; but have we nothing but arms and legs? have we not also eyes and ears? and are these organs not needed in our use of the others? Do not then merely exercise the strength but exercise all the senses which direct it; get all you can out of each of them, and then check the impressions of one by the impressions of another. Measure, reckon, weigh, compare.”[142]

§ 26. Two subjects there were in which Émile was to receive instruction, viz.: music and drawing. Rousseau’s advice about drawing is well worth considering. He says: “Children who are great imitators all try to draw. I should wish my child to cultivate this art, not exactly for the art itself, but to make his eye correct and his hand supple: Les enfants, grands imitateurs, essayent tous de dessiner: je voudrais que le mien cultivât cet art, non précisément pour l’art même, mais pour se rendre l’œil juste et la main flexible.” (Ém. ij., 149). But Émile is to be kept clear of the ordinary drawing-master who would put him to imitate imitations; and there is a striking contrast between Rousseau’s suggestions and those of the authorities at South Kensington. Technical skill he cares for less than the training of the eye; so Émile is always to draw from the object, and, says Rousseau, “my intention is not so much that he should get to imitate the objects, as get to know them: mon intention n’est pas tant qu’il sache imiter les objets que les connaître.” (Ém. ij., 150).

§ 27. Before we pass the age of twelve years, at which point, as someone says, Rousseau substitutes another Émile for the one he has hitherto spoken of, let us look at his proposals for moral training. Rousseau is right, beyond question, in desiring that children should be treated as children. But what are children? What can they understand? What is the world in which they live? Is it the material world only, or is the moral world also open to them? (Girardin’s R., vol. ij., 136). On the subject of morals Rousseau seems to have admirable instincts,[143] but no principles, and moral as he is “on instinct,” there is always some confusion in what he Says. At one time he asserts that “there is only one knowledge to give children, and that is a knowledge of duty: Il n’y a qu’une science à enseigner aux enfants: c’est celle des devoirs de l’homme.” (Ém. j., 26). Elsewhere he says: “To know right from wrong, to be conscious of the reason of duty is not the business of a child: Connaître le bien et le mal, sentir la raison des devoirs de l’homme, n’est pas l’affaire d’un enfant.” (Ém. ij., 75).[144] In another place he mounts his hobby that “the most sublime virtues are negative” (Ém. ij., 95), and that about the best man who ever lived (till he found Friday?) was Robinson Crusoe. The outcome of all Rousseau’s teaching on this subject seems that we should in every way develop the child’s animal or physical life, retard his intellectual life, and ignore his life as a spiritual and moral being.

§ 28. A variety of influences had combined, as they combine still, to draw attention away from the importance of physical training; and by placing the child’s bodily organs and senses as the first things to be thought of in education, Rousseau did much to save us from the bad tradition of the Renascence. But there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy, and whatever Rousseau might say, Émile could never be restrained from inquiring after them. Every boy will think; i.e., he will think for himself, however unable he may seem to think in the direction in which his instructors try to urge him. The wise elders who have charge of him must take this into account, and must endeavour to guide him into thinking modestly and thinking right. Then again, as soon as the child can speak, or before, the world of sensation becomes for him a world, not of sensations only, but also of sentiments, of sympathies, of affections, of consciousness of right and wrong, good and evil. All these feelings, it is true, may be affected by traditional prejudices. The air the child breathes may also contain much that is noxious; but we have no more power to exclude the atmosphere of the moral world than of the physical. All we can do is to take thought for fresh air in both cases. As for Rousseau’s notion that we can withdraw the child from the moral atmosphere, we see in it nothing but a proof how little he understood the problems he professed to solve.[145]

§ 29. Although the governor is to devote himself to a single child, Rousseau is careful to protest against over-direction. “You would stupify the child,” says he, “if you were constantly directing him, if you were always saying to him, ‘Come here! Go there! Stop! Do this! Don’t do that!’ If your head always directs his arms, his own head becomes useless to him.” (Ém., ij., 114). Here we have a warning which should not be neglected by those who maintain the Lycées in France, and the ordinary private boarding-schools in England. In these schools a boy is hardly called upon to exercise his will all day long. He rises in the morning when he must; at meals he eats till he is obliged to stop; he is taken out for exercise like a horse; he has all his indoor work prescribed for him both as to time and quantity. In this kind of life he never has occasion to think or act for himself. He is therefore without self-reliance. So much care is taken to prevent his doing wrong, that he gets to think only of checks from without. He is therefore incapable of self-restraint. In the English public schools boys have much less supervision from their elders, and organise a great portion of their lives for themselves. This proves a better preparation for life after the school age; and most public schoolmasters would agree with Rousseau that “the lessons the boys get from each other in the playground are a hundred times more useful to them than the lessons given them in school: les leçons que les écoliers prennent entre eux dans la cour du collège leur sont cent fois plus utiles que tout ce qu’on leur dira jamais dans la classe.” (Ém. ij., 123.)

§ 30. On questions put by children, Rousseau says: “The art of questioning is not so easy as it may be thought; it is rather the art of the master than of the pupil. We must have learnt a good deal of a thing to be able to ask what we do not know. The learned know and inquire, says an Indian proverb, but the ignorant know not what to inquire about.” And from this he infers that children learn less from asking than from being asked questions. (N. H., 5th p. 490.)

§ 31. At twelve years old Émile is said to be fit for instruction. “Now is the time for labour, for instruction, for study; and observe that it is not I who arbitrarily make this choice; it is pointed out to us by Nature herself.”

§ 32. What novelties await us here? As we have seen Rousseau was determined to recommend nothing that would harmonise with ordinary educational practice; but even a genius, though he may abandon previous practice, cannot keep clear of previous thought, and Rousseau’s plan for instruction is obviously connected with the thoughts of Montaigne and of Locke. But while on the same lines with these great writers Rousseau goes beyond them and is both clearer and bolder than they are.

§ 33. Rousseau’s proposals for instruction have the following main features.

1st. Instruction is to be no longer literary or linguistic. The teaching about words is to disappear, and the young are not to learn by books or about books.

2nd. The subjects to be studied are to be mathematics and physical science.

3rd. The method to be adopted is not the didactic but the method of self-teaching.

4th. The hands are to be called into play as a means of learning.

§ 34. 1st. Till quite recently the only learning ever given in schools was book-learning, a fact to which the language of the people still bears witness: when a child does not profit by school instruction he is always said to be “no good at his book.” Now-a-days the tendency is to change the character of the schools so that they may become less and less mere “Ludi Literarii.” In this Rousseau seems to have been a century and more in advance of us; and yet we cannot credit him with any remarkable wisdom or insight about literature. He himself used books as a means of “collecting a store of ideas, true or false, but at any rate clear” (J. Morley’s Rousseau, j. chap. 3, p. 85), and he has recorded for us his opinion that “the sensible and interesting conversations of a young woman of merit are more proper to form a young man than all the pedantical philosophy of books” (Confessions, quoted by Morley j., 87). After this, whatever we may think of the merit of his suggestions we can sit at the Sage’s feet no longer.

§ 35. 2nd. Rousseau had himself little knowledge of mathematics and natural science, but he was strongly in favour of the “study of Nature”; and in his last years his devotion to botany became a passion. His curriculum for Émile is in the air, but the chief thing is to get him to attend to the phenomena of nature, and “to foster his curiosity by being in no hurry to satisfy it.”

§ 36. 3rd. About teaching and learning, there is one point on which we find a consensus of great authorities extending from the least learned of writers who was probably Rousseau to the most learned who was probably Friedrich August Wolf. In one form or other these assert that there is no true teaching but self-teaching.

Past a doubt the besetting weakness of teachers is “telling.” They can hardly resist the tendency to be didactic. They have the knowledge which they desire to find in their pupils, and they cannot help expressing it and endeavouring to pass it on to those who need it, “like wealthy men who care not how they give.” But true “teaching,” as Jacotot and his disciple Joseph Payne were never tired of testifying, is “causing to learn,” and it is seldom that “didactic” teaching has this effect. Rousseau saw this clearly, and clearly pointed out the danger of didacticism. As usual he by exaggeration laid himself open to an answer that seems to refute him, but in spite of this we feel that there is valuable truth underlying what he says. “I like not explanations given in long discourses,” says he; “young people pay little attention to them and retain little from them. The things themselves! The things themselves! I shall never repeat often enough that we attach too much importance to words: with our chattering education we make nothing but chatterers.”[146] Accordingly Rousseau lays down the rule that Émile is not to learn science but to invent it (qu’il n’apprenne pas la science; qu’il l’invente); and he even expects him to invent geometry. As Émile is not supposed to be a young Pascal but only an ordinary boy with extraordinary physical development such a requirement is obviously absurd, and Herbart has reckoned it among Rousseau’s Hauptfehler (Päd. Schriften, ij., 242). The training prescribed is in fact the training of the intellectual athlete; and the trainer may put the body through its exercises much more easily than the mind. Of this the practical teacher is only too conscious, and he will accept Rousseau’s advice, if at all, only as “counsels of perfection.” Rousseau says: “Émile, obliged to learn of himself, makes use of his own reason and not that of others; for to give no weight to opinion, none must be given to authority; and the more part of our mistakes come less from ourselves than from other people. From this constant exercise there should result a vigour of mind like that which the body gets from labour and fatigue. Another advantage is that we advance only in proportion to our strength. The mind like the body carries that only which it can carry. When the understanding makes things its own before they are committed to memory, whatever it afterwards draws forth belongs to it; but if the memory is burdened with what the understanding knows nothing about we are in danger of bringing from it things which the understanding declines to acknowledge.”[147] Again he writes: “Beyond contradiction we get much more clear and certain notions of the things we learn thus of ourselves than of those we derive from other people’s instruction, and besides not accustoming our reason to bow as a slave before authority, we become more ingenious in finding connexions, in uniting ideas, and in inventing our implements, than when we take all that is given us and let our minds sink into indifference, like the body of a man who always has his clothes put on for him, is waited on by his servants and drawn about by his horses till at length he loses the strength and use of his limbs. Boileau boasted of having taught Racine to find difficulty in rhyming. Among all the admirable methods of shortening the study of the sciences we might have need that some one should give us a way of learning them with effort.”[148]

§ 37. 4th. However highly we may value our gains from the use of books we must admit that in some ways the use of books tends to the neglect of powers that should not be neglected. As Rousseau wished to see the young brought up without books he naturally looked to other means of learning, especially to learning by the eye and by the hand. Much is now said about using the hand for education, and many will agree with Rousseau: “If instead of making a child stick to his books I employ him in a workshop, his hands work to the advantage of his intellect: he becomes a philosopher while he thinks he is becoming simply an artisan: Au lieu de coller un enfant sur des livres, si je l’occupe dans un atelier, ses mains travaillent au profit de son esprit: il devient philosophe, et croît n’être qu’un ouvrier.” (Ém. iij., 193).

§ 38. In these essays I have done what I could to shew the best that each reformer has left us. In Rousseau’s case I have been obliged to confine myself to his words. “We attach far too much importance to words,” said Rousseau, and yet it is by words and words only that Rousseau still lives; and for the sake of his words we forget his deeds. Of the Émile Mr. Morley says: “It is one of the seminal books in the history of literature. It cleared away the accumulation of clogging prejudices and obscure inveterate usage which made education one of the dark formalistic arts; and it admitted floods of light and air into tightly-closed nurseries and schoolrooms” (Rousseau, ij., 248). In the region of thought it set us free from the Renascence; and it did more than this, it announced the true nature of the teacher’s calling, “Study the subject you have to act upon.” In these words we have the starting point of the “New Education.” From them the educator gets a fresh conception of his task. We grown people have received innumerable impressions which, forgotten as they are, have left their mark behind in our way of looking at things; and as we advance in life these experiences and associations cluster around everything to which we direct our attention, till in the end the past seems to dominate the present and to us “nothing is but what is not.” But to the child the present with its revelations and the future which will be “something more, a bringer of new things,” are all engrossing. It is our business as teachers to try to realize how the world looks from the child’s point of view. We may know a great many things and be ready to teach them, but we shall have little success unless we get another knowledge which we cannot teach and can learn only by patient observation, a knowledge of “the subject to be acted on,” of the mind of our pupils and what goes on there. When we set out on this path, which was first clearly pointed out by Rousseau, teaching becomes a new occupation with boundless possibilities and unceasing interest in it. Every teacher becomes a learner, for we have to study the minds of the young, their way of looking at things, their habits, their difficulties, their likes and dislikes, how they are stimulated to exertion, how they are discouraged, how one mood succeeds another. What we need we may well devote a lifetime to acquiring; it is a knowledge of the human mind with the object of influencing it.

XV.
BASEDOW AND THE PHILANTHROPINUM.

§ 1. One of the most famous movements ever made in educational reform was started in the last century by John Bernard Basedow. Basedow was born at Hamburg in 1723, the son of a wigmaker. His early years were not spent in the ordinary happiness of childhood. His mother he describes as melancholy, almost to madness, and his father was severe almost to brutality. It was the father’s intention to bring up his son to his own business, but the lad ran away, and engaged himself as servant to a gentleman in Holstein. The master soon perceived what had never occurred to the father, viz., that the youth had very extraordinary abilities. Sent home with a letter from his master pointing out this notable discovery, Basedow was allowed to renounce the paternal calling, and to go to the Hamburg Grammar School (Gymnasium), where he was under Reimarus, the author of the “Wolfenbüttel Fragment.” In due course his friends managed to send him to the University of Leipzig to prepare himself for the least expensive of the learned professions—the clerical. Basedow, however, was not a man to follow the beaten tracks. After an irregular life he left the university too unorthodox to think of being ordained, and in 1749 became private tutor to the children of Herr von Quaalen in Holstein. In this situation his talent for inventing new methods of teaching first showed itself. He knew how to adapt himself to the capacity of the children, and he taught them much by conversation, and in the way of play, connecting his instruction with surrounding objects in the house, garden, and fields. Through Quaalen’s influence, he next obtained a professorship at Soroe, in Denmark, where he lectured for eight years, but his unorthodox writings raised a storm of opposition, and the Government finally removed him to the Gymnasium at Altona. Here he still continued his efforts to change the prevailing opinions in religious matters; and so great a stir was made by the publication of his “Philalethia,” and his “Methodical Instruction in both Natural and Biblical Religion,” that he and his family were refused the Communion at Altona, and his books were excluded, under a heavy penalty, from Lübeck.

§ 2. About this time Basedow, incited by Rousseau’s “Emile,” turned his attention to a fresh field of activity, in which he was to make as many friends as in theology he had found enemies. A very general dissatisfaction was then felt with the condition of the schools. Physical education was not attempted in them. The mother-tongue was neglected. Instruction in Latin and Greek, which was the only instruction given, was carried on in a mechanical way, without any thought of improvement. The education of the poor and of the middle classes received but little attention. “Youth,” says Raumer, “was in those days, for most children, a sadly harassed period. Instruction was hard and heartlessly severe. Grammar was caned into the memory, so were portions of Scripture and poetry. A common school punishment was to learn by heart Psalm cxix. School-rooms were dismally dark. No one conceived it possible that the young could find pleasure in any kind of work, or that they had eyes for aught besides reading and writing. The pernicious age of Louis XIV. had inflicted on the poor children of the upper class, hair curled by the barber and messed with powder and pomade, braided coats, knee breeches, silk stockings, and a dagger by the side—for active, lively children a perfect torture” (Gesch. d. Pädagogik, ii. 297). Kant gave expression to a very wide-spread feeling when he said that what was wanted in education was no longer a reform but a revolution. Here, then, was a good scope offered for innovators, and Basedow was a prince of innovators.

§ 3. Having succeeded in interesting the Danish minister, Bernstorff, in his plans, he was permitted to devote himself entirely to a work on the subject of education whilst retaining his income from the Altona Gymnasium. The result was his “Address to Philanthropists and Men of Property on Schools and Studies and their Influence on the Public Weal” (1766), in which he announces the plan of his “Elementary.”[149] In this address he calls upon princes, governments, town-councils, dignitaries of the Church, freemasons’ lodges, &c., &c., if they loved their fellow-creatures, to come to his assistance in bringing out his book. Nor did he call in vain. When the “Elementary” at length appeared (in 1774), he had to acknowledge contributions from the Emperor Joseph II., from Catherine II. of Russia, from Christian VII. of Denmark, from the Grand Prince Paul, and many other celebrities, the total sum received being over 2,000l.

§ 4. While Basedow was travelling about (in 1774) to get subscriptions, he spent some time in Frankfurt, and thence made an excursion to Ems with two distinguished companions, one of them Lavater, and the other a young man of five-and-twenty, already celebrated as the author of “Götz von Berlichingen,” and the “Sorrows of Werther.” Of Basedow’s personal peculiarities at this time Goethe has left us an amusing description in the “Wahrheit und Dichtung;” but we must accept the portrait with caution: the sketch was thrown in as an artistic contrast with that of Lavater, and no doubt exaggerates those features in which the antithesis could be brought out with best effect.

“One could not see,” writes Goethe, “a more marked contrast than between Lavater and Basedow. As the lines of Lavater’s countenance were free and open to the beholder, so were Basedow’s contracted, and as it were drawn inwards, Lavater’s eye, clear and benign, under a very wide eye-lid; Basedow’s, on the other hand, deep in his head, small, black, sharp, gleaming out from under shaggy eyebrows, whilst Lavater’s frontal bone seemed bounded by two arches of the softest brown hair. Basedow’s impetuous rough voice, his rapid and sharp utterances, a certain derisive laugh, an abrupt changing of the topic of conversation, and whatever else distinguished him, all were opposed to the peculiarities and the behaviour by which Lavater had been making us over-fastidious.”

§ 5. Goethe approved of Basedow’s desire to make all instruction lively and natural, and thought that his system would promote mental activity and give the young a fresher view of the world: but he finds fault with the “Elementary,” and prefers the “Orbis Pictus” of Comenius, in which subjects are presented in their natural connection. Basedow himself, says Goethe, was not a man either to edify or to lead other people. Although the object of his journey was to interest the public in his philanthropic enterprise, and to open not only hearts but purses, and he was able to speak eloquently and convincingly on the subject of education, he spoilt everything by his tirades against prevalent religious belief, especially on the subject of the Trinity.

§ 6. Goethe found in Basedow’s society an opportunity of “exercising, if not enlightening,” his mind, so he bore with his personal peculiarities, though apparently with great difficulty. Basedow seems to have delighted in worrying his associates. “He would never see anyone quiet but he provoked him with mocking irony, in a hoarse voice, or put him to confusion by an unexpected question, and laughed bitterly when he had gained his end; yet he was pleased when the object of his jests was quick enough to collect himself, and answer in the same strain.” So far Goethe was his match; but he was nearly routed by Basedow’s use of bad tobacco, and of some tinder still worse with which he was constantly lighting his pipe and poisoning the air insufferably. He soon discovered Goethe’s dislike to this preparation of his, so he took a malicious pleasure in using it and dilating upon its merits.

§ 7. Here is an odd account of their intercourse. During their stay at Ems Goethe went a great deal into fashionable society. “To make up for these dissipations,” he writes, “I always passed a part of the night with Basedow. He never went to bed, but dictated without cessation. Occasionally he cast himself on the couch and slumbered, while his amanuensis sat quietly, pen in hand, ready to continue his work when the half-awakened author should once more give free course to his thoughts. All this took place in a close confined chamber, filled with the fumes of tobacco and the odious tinder. As often as I was disengaged from a dance I hastened up to Basedow, who was ready at once to speak and dispute on any question; and when after a time I hurried again to the ball-room, before I had closed the door behind me he would resume the thread of his essay as composedly as if he had been engaged with nothing else.”

§ 8. It was through a friend of Goethe’s, Behrisch, whose acquaintance we make in the “Wahrheit und Dichtung,” that Basedow became connected with Prince Leopold of Dessau. Behrisch was tutor to the Prince’s son, and by him the Prince was so interested in Basedow’s plans that he determined to found an Institute in which they should be realised. Basedow was therefore called to Dessau, and under his direction was opened the famous Philanthropinum. Then for the first, and probably for the last time, a school was started in which use and wont were entirely set aside, and everything done on “improved principles.” Such a bold enterprise attracted the attention of all interested in education, far and near: but it would seem that few parents considered their own children vilia corpora on whom experiments might be made for the public good. When, in May 1776, a number of schoolmasters and others collected from different parts of Germany, and even from beyond Germany, to be present by Basedow’s invitation at an examination of the children, they found only thirteen pupils in the Philanthropinum, including Basedow’s own son and daughter.

§ 9. Before we investigate how Basedow’s principles were embodied in the Philanthropinum, let us see the form in which he had already announced them. The great work from which all children were to be taught was the “Elementary.” As a companion to this was published the “Book of Method” (Methodenbuch) for parents and teachers. The “Elementary” is a work in which a great deal of information about things in general is given in the form of dialogue, interspersed with tales and easy poetry. Except in bulk, it does not seem to me to differ very materially from many of the reading-books, which, in late years, have been published in this country. It had the advantage, however, of being accompanied by a set of engravings to which the text referred, though they were too large to be bound up with it. The root-ideas of Basedow put forth in his “Book of Method,” and other writings, are those of Rousseau. For example, “You should attend to nature in your children far more than to art. The elegant manners and usages of the world are for the most part unnatural (Unnatur). These come of themselves in later years. Treat children like children, that they may remain the longer uncorrupted. A boy whose acutest faculties are his senses, and who has no perception of anything abstract, must first of all be made acquainted with the world as it presents itself to the senses. Let this be shown him in nature herself, or where this is impossible, in faithful drawings or models. Thereby can he, even in play, learn how the various objects are to be named. Comenius alone has pointed out the right road in this matter. By all means reduce the wretched exercises of the memory.” Elsewhere he gives instances of the sort of things to which this method should be applied. 1st. Man. Here he would use pictures of foreigners and wild men, also a skeleton, a hand in spirits, and other objects still more appropriate to a surgical museum. 2nd. Animals. Only such animals are to be depicted as it is useful to know about, because there is much that ought to be known, and a good method of instruction must shorten rather than increase the hours of study. Articles of commerce made from the animals may also be exhibited. 3rd. Trees and plants. Only the most important are to be selected. Of these the seeds also must be shown, and cubes formed of the different woods. Gardeners’ and farmers’ implements are to be explained. 4th. Minerals and chemical substances. 5th. Mathematical instruments for weighing and measuring; also the air-pump, siphon, and the like. The form and motion of the earth are to be explained with globes and maps. 6th. Trades. The use of various tools is to be taught. 7th. History. This is to be illustrated by engravings of historical events. 8th. Commerce. Samples of commodities may be produced. 9th. The younger children should be shown pictures of familiar objects about the house and its surroundings.

§ 10. We see from this list that Basedow contemplated giving his educational course the charm of variety. Indeed, with that candour in acknowledging mistakes which partly makes amends for the effrontery too common in the trumpetings of his own performances, past, present, and to come, he confesses that when he began the “Elementary” he had exaggerated notions of the amount boys were capable of learning, and that he had subsequently very much contracted his proposed curriculum. And even “the Revolution,” which was to introduce so much new learning into the schools, could not afford entirely to neglect the old. However pleased parents might be with the novel acquirements of their children, they were not likely to be satisfied without the usual knowledge of Latin, and still less would they tolerate the neglect of French, which in German polite society of the eighteenth century was the recognised substitute for the vulgar tongue. These, then, must be taught. But the old methods might be abandoned, if not the old subjects. Basedow proposed to teach both French and Latin by conversation. Let a cabinet of models, or something of the kind, be shown the children; let them learn the names of the different objects in Latin or French; then let questions be asked in those languages, and the right answers at first put into the children’s mouths. When they have in this way acquired some knowledge of the language, they may apply it to the translating of an easy book. Basedow does not claim originality for the conversational method. He appeals to the success with which it had been already used in teaching French. “Are the French governesses,” he asks, “who, without vocabularies and grammars, first by conversation, then by reading, teach their language very successfully and very rapidly in schools of from thirty to forty children, better teachers than most masters in our Latin schools?”

§ 11. On the subject of religion the instruction was to be quite as original as in matters of less importance. The teachers were to give an impartial account of all religions, and nothing but “natural religion” was to be inculcated.

§ 12. The key-note of the whole system was to be—everything according to nature. The natural desires and inclinations of the children were to be educated and directed aright, but in no case to be suppressed.

§ 13. These, then, were the principles and the methods which, as Basedow believed, were to revolutionise education through the success of the Philanthropinum. Basedow himself, as we might infer from Goethe’s description of him, was by no means a model director for the model Institution, but he was fortunate in his assistants. Of these he had three at the time of the public examination, of whom Wolke is said to have been the ablest.

§ 14. A lively description of the examination was afterwards published by Herr Schummel of Magdeburg, under the title of “Fred’s Journey to Dessau.” It purports to be written by a boy of twelve years old, and to describe what took place without attempting criticism. A few extracts will give us a notion of the instruction carried on in the Philanthropin.

“I have just come from a visit with my father to the Philanthropinum, where I saw Herr Basedow, Herr Wolke, Herr Simon, Herr Schweighäuser, and the little Philanthropinists. I am delighted with all that I have seen, and hardly know where to begin my description of it. There are two large white houses, and near them a field with trees. A pupil—not one of the regular scholars, but of those they call Famulants (a poorer class, who were servitors)—received us at the door, and asked if we wished to see Herr Basedow. We said ‘Yes,’ and he took us into the other house, where we found Herr Basedow in a dressing-gown, writing at a desk. We came at an inconvenient time, and Herr Basedow said he was very busy. He was very friendly, however, and promised to visit us in the evening. We then went into the other house, and enquired for Herr Wolke.” By him they were taken to the scholars. “They have,” says Fred, “their hair cut very short, and no wig-maker is employed. Their throats are quite open, and their shirt-collars fall back over their coats.” Further on he describes the examination. “The little ones have gone through the oddest performances. They play at ‘word of command.’ Eight or ten stand in a line like soldiers, and Herr Wolke is officer. He gives the word in Latin, and they must do whatever he says. For instance, when he says Claudite oculos, they all shut their eyes; when he says Circumspicite, they look about them; Imitamini sartorem, they all sew like tailors; Imitamini sutorem, they draw the waxed thread like the cobblers. Herr Wolke gives a thousand different commands in the drollest fashion. Another game, ‘the hiding game,’ I will also teach you. Some one writes a name, and hides it from the children—the name of some part of the body, or of a plant, or animal, or metal—and the children guess what it is. Whoever guesses right gets an apple or a piece of cake. One of the visitors wrote Intestina, and told the children it was a part of the body. Then the guessing began. One guessed caput, another nasus, another os, another manus, pes, digiti, pectus, and so forth, for a long time; but one of them hit it at last. Next Herr Wolke wrote the name of a beast, a quadruped. Then came the guesses: leo, ursus, camelus, elephas, and so on, till one guessed right—it was mus. Then a town was written, and they guessed Lisbon, Madrid, Paris, London, till a child won with St. Petersburg. They had another game, which was this: Herr Wolke gave the command in Latin, and they imitated the noises of different animals, and made us laugh till we were tired. They roared like lions, crowed like cocks, mewed like cats, just as they were bid.”

§ 15. The subject that was next handled had also the effect of making the strangers laugh, till a severe reproof from Herr Wolke restored their gravity. A picture was brought, in which was represented a sad-looking woman, whose person indicated the approaching arrival of another subject for education. From one part of the picture it also appeared that the prospective mother, with a prodigality of forethought, had got ready clothing for both a boy and a girl. After a warning from Herr Wolke, that this was a most serious and important subject, the children were questioned on the topics the picture suggested. They were further taught the debt of gratitude they owed to their mothers, and the German fiction about the stork was dismissed with due contempt.

§ 16. Next came the examination in arithmetic. Here there seems to have been nothing remarkable, except that all the rules were worked vivâ voce. From the arithmetic Herr Wolke went on to an “Attempt at various small drawings.” He asked the children what he should draw. Some one answered leonem. He then pretended he was drawing a lion, but put a beak to it; whereupon the children shouted Non est Leo—leones non habent rostrum! He went on to other subjects, as the children directed him, sometimes going wrong that the children might put him right. In the next exercise dice were introduced, and the children threw to see who should give an account of an engraving. The engravings represented workmen at their different trades, and the child had to explain the process, the tools, &c. A lesson on ploughing and harrowing was given in French, and another, on Alexander’s expedition to India, in Latin. Four of the pupils translated passages from Curtius and from Castalio’s Bible, which were read to them. “These children,” said the teacher, “knew not a word of Latin a year ago.” “The listeners were well pleased with the Latin,” writes Fred, “except two or three, whom I heard grumbling that this was all child’s play, and that if Cicero, Livy, and Horace were introduced, it would soon be seen what was the value of Philanthropinist Latin.” After the examination, two comedies were acted by the children, one in French, the other in German.

Most of the strangers seem to have left Dessau with a favourable impression of the Philanthropin. They were especially struck with the brightness and animation of the children.

§ 17. How far did the Philanthropinum really deserve their good opinion? The conclusion to which we are driven by Fred’s narrative is, that Basedow carried to excess his principle—“Treat children as children, that they may remain the longer uncorrupted;” and that the Philanthropinum was, in fact, nothing but a good infant-school. Surely none of the thirteen children who were the subjects of Basedow’s experiments could have been more than ten years old. But if we consider Basedow’s system to have been intended for children, say between the ages of six and ten, we must allow that it possessed great merits. At the very beginning of a boy’s learning, it has always been too much the custom to make him hate the sight of a book, and escape at every opportunity from school-work, by giving him difficult tasks, and neglecting his acutest faculties. “Children love motion and noise,” says Basedow: “here is a hint from nature.” Yet the youngest children in most schools are expected to keep quiet and to sit at their books for as many hours as the youths of seventeen or eighteen. Their vivacity is repressed with the cane. Their delight in exercising their hands and eyes and ears is taken no notice of; and they are required to keep their attention fixed on subjects often beyond their comprehension, and almost always beyond the range of their interests. Everyone who has had experience in teaching boys knows how hard it is to get them to throw themselves heartily into any task whatever; and probably this difficulty arises in many cases, from the habits of inattention and of shirking school-work, which the boys have acquired almost necessarily from the dreariness of their earliest lessons.[150] Basedow determined to change all this; and in the Philanthropin no doubt he succeeded. We have already seen some of the expedients by which he sought to render school-work pleasurable. He appealed, wherever it was possible, to the children’s senses; and these, especially the sight, were trained with great care by exercises, such as drawing, shooting at a mark, &c. One of these exercises, intended to give quick perception, bears a curious likeness to what has since been practised in a very different educational system. A picture, with a somewhat varied subject, was exhibited for a short time and removed. The boys had then, either verbally or on paper, to give an account of it, naming the different objects in proper order. Houdin, if I rightly remember, tells us that the young thieves of Paris are required by their masters to make a mental inventory of the contents of a shop window, which they see only as they walk rapidly by. Other exercises of the Philanthropinum connected the pupils with more honourable callings. They became acquainted with both skilled and unskilled manual labour. Every boy was taught a handicraft, such as carpentering and turning, and was put to such tasks as threshing corn. Basedow’s division of the twenty-four hours was the following: Eight hours for sleep, eight for food and amusement, and, for the children of the rich, six hours of school-work, and two of manual labour. In the case of the children of the poor, he would have the division of the last eight hours inverted, and would give for school-work two, and for manual labour six. The development of the body was specially cared for in the Philanthropinum. Gymnastics were now first introduced into modern schools; and the boys were taken long expeditions on foot—the commencement, I believe, of a practice now common throughout Germany.

§ 18. As I have already said, Basedow proved a very unfit person to be at the head of the model Institution. Many of his friends agreed with Herder, that he was not fit to have calves entrusted to him, much less children. He soon resigned his post; and was succeeded by Campe, who had been one of the visitors at the public examination. Campe did not remain long at the Philanthropinum; but left it to set up a school, on like principles, at Hamburg. His fame now rests on his writings for the young; one of which—“Robinson Crusoe the Younger”—is still a general favourite.

Other distinguished men became connected with the Philanthropin—among them Salzmann, and Matthison the poet—and the number of pupils rose to over fifty; gathered we are told, from all parts of Europe between Riga and Lisbon. But this number is by no means a fair measure of the interest, nay, enthusiasm, which the experiment excited. We find Pastor Oberlin raising money on his wife’s earrings to send a donation. We find the philosopher Kant prophesying that quite another race of men would grow up, now that education according to Nature had been introduced.

§ 19. These hopes were disappointed. Kant confesses as much in the following passage in his treatise “On Pædagogy”:—

“One fancies, indeed, that experiments in education would not be necessary; and that we might judge by the understanding whether any plan would turn out well or ill. But this is a great mistake. Experience shows that often in our experiments we get quite opposite results from what we had anticipated. We see, too, that since experiments are necessary, it is not in the power of one generation to form a complete plan of education. The only experimental school which, to some extent, made a beginning in clearing the road, was the Institute at Dessau. This praise at least must be allowed it, notwithstanding the many faults which could be brought up against it—faults which are sure to show themselves when we come to the results of our experiments, and which merely prove that fresh experiments are necessary. It was the only School in which the teachers had liberty to work according to their own methods and schemes, and where they were in free communication both among themselves and with all learned men throughout Germany.”

§ 20. We observe here, that Kant speaks of the Philanthropinum as a thing of the past. It was finally closed in 1793. But even from Kant we learn that the experiment had been by no means a useless one. The conservatives, of course, did not neglect to point out that young Philanthropinists, when they left school, were not in all respects the superiors of their fellow-creatures. But, although no one could pretend that the Philanthropinum had effected a tithe of what Basedow promised, and the “friends of humanity” throughout Europe expected, it had introduced many new ideas, which in time had their influence, even in the schools of the opposite party. Moreover, teachers who had been connected with the Philanthropinum founded schools on similar principles in different parts of Germany and Switzerland, as Bahrd’s at Heidesheim, and Salzmann’s celebrated school at Schnepfenthal, which is, I believe, still thriving. Their doctrines, too, made converts among other masters, the most celebrated of whom was Meierotto of Berlin.

§ 21. Little remains to be said of Basedow. He lived chiefly at Dessau, earning his subsistence by private tuition, but giving offence by his irregularities. In 1790, when visiting Magdeburg, he died, after a short illness, in his sixty-seventh year. His last words were, “I wish my body to be dissected for the good of my fellow-creatures.”

Basedow has a posthumous connexion with this country as the great-grandfather of Professor Max Müller. Basedow’s son became “Regierungs Präsident,” in Dessau. The President’s daughter, born in 1800, became the wife of the poet Wilhelm Müller, and the mother of Max Müller. Max Müller has contributed a life of his great-grandfather to the Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie.

Those who read German and care about either Basedow or Comenius should get Die Didaktik Basedows im Vergleiche zur Didaktik des Comenius von Dr. Petru Garbovicianu (Bucarest, C. Gobl), 1887. This is a very good piece of work; it is printed in roman type, and the price is only 1s. 6d.

Since the above was in type I have got an important book, L’Education en Allemagne au Dix-huitième Siècle: Basedow et le Philanthropinisme, by A. Pinloche (Paris, A. Colin, 1889.)

XVI.
PESTALOZZI.
1746-1827.

§ 1. Qui facit per alium facit per se. It is thus the law holds us accountable for the action of others which we direct. By the extension of this rule we immensely increase the personality of great writers and may credit them with vast spheres of action which never come within their consciousness. No man gains and suffers more from this consideration than Rousseau. On the one hand, we may attribute to him the crimes of Robespierre and Saint-Just; on the other Pestalozzi was instigated by him to turn to farming and—education.

In treating of Rousseau as an educational reformer I passed over a life in which almost every incident tends to weaken the effect of his words. With Pestalozzi we must turn to his life for the true source of his writings and the best comment on them.

§ 2. John Henry Pestalozzi was born at Zurich in 1746. His father dying when he was five years old, he was brought up with a brother and sister by a pious and self-denying mother and by a faithful servant “Babeli,” who had comforted the father in his last hours by promising to stay with his family. Thus Pestalozzi had an advantage denied to Rousseau and denied as it would seem to Locke; there was scope for his home affections, and the head was not developed before the heart. When he was sent to a day-school he became to some extent the laughing stock of his companions who dubbed him Harry Oddity of Foolborough; but he gained their good-will by his unselfishness. It was remembered that on the shock of an earthquake when teachers and taught fled from the school building Harry Oddity was induced to go back and bring away what his companions considered precious. His holidays he spent with his grandfather the pastor of a village some three miles from Zurich, where the lad learnt the condition of the rural poor and saw what a good man could do for them. He always looked back to these visits as an important element in his education. “The best way for a child to acquire the fear of God,” he wrote, “is for him to see and hear a true Christian.” The grandfather’s example so affected him that he wished to follow in his steps, and he became a student of theology.[151]

§ 3. Even as a student Pestalozzi proved that he was no ordinary man. In his time there was great intellectual and moral enthusiasm among the students of the little Swiss University. Some distinguished professors, especially Bodmer, had awakened a craving for the old Swiss virtues of plain living and high thinking; and a band of students, among whom Lavater was leader and Pestalozzi played a prominent part, became eager reformers. The citizens of the great towns like Geneva and Zurich had become in effect privileged classes; and as their spokesmen the Geneva magistrates condemned the Contrat Social and the Emile. This raised the indignation of the reforming students at Zurich; and though their organ, a periodical called the Memorial, kept clear of politics, one Muller wrote a paper which contained some strong language, and this was held to be proof of a conspiracy. Muller fled and was banished. Pestalozzi and some other of his friends were imprisoned. The Memorial was suppressed.

§ 4. It is in this Memorial, a weekly paper edited by Lavater who was five years Pestalozzi’s senior that we have Pestalozzi’s earliest writing. We find him coming forward as “a man of aspirations.” No one he says can object to his expressing his wishes. And “wishes” with a man of 19 are usually hopes. Among other wishes he says: “I would that some one would draw up in a simple manner a few principles of education intelligible to everybody; that some generous people would then share the expense of printing, so that the pamphlet might be given to the public for nothing or next to nothing. I would then have clergymen distribute it to all fathers and mothers, so that they might bring up their children in a rational and Christian manner. But,” he adds, “perhaps this is asking too much at a time.”

The Memorial was suppressed because “the privileged classes” knew that it was in the hands of their opponents. Pestalozzi then and always felt keenly the oppression to which the peasants were exposed; and he spoke of “the privileged” as men on stilts who must descend among the people before they could secure a natural and firm position. He also satirises them in some of his fables, as, e.g., that of the “Fishes and the Pike.” “The fishes in a pond brought an accusation against the pike who were making great ravages among them. The judge, an old pike, said that their complaint was well founded, and that the defendants, to make amends, should allow two ordinary fish every year to become pike.”

§ 5. By this time Pestalozzi had given up theology and had taken to the law. Now under the influence of Rousseau, or rather of the craving for a simple “natural” life which found its most eloquent expression in Rousseau’s writing, Pestalozzi made a bonfire of his MSS. and decided on becoming a farmer.

§ 6. There was another person concerned in this decision. In his childhood he had one day ventured into the shop of one of the leading tradesmen, Herr Schulthess, bent on procuring for his farthings some object of delight; but he found there a little shop-keeper, Anna Schulthess, seven years his senior, who discouraged his extravagance and persuaded him to keep his money. Anna and he since those days had become engaged—not at all to the satisfaction of her parents. Their intimacy had been strengthened by their concern for a common friend, a young man named Bluntschli, who died of consumption. This friend, three years older than Pestalozzi, seems to have understood him thoroughly; and in the parting advice he gave him there was a warning which happily for the general good was in after years neglected. “I am going,” said Bluntschli, “and you will be left alone. Avoid any career in which you might become the victim of your own goodness and trust, and choose some quiet life in which you will run no risk. Above all, do not take part in any important undertaking without having at your side a man who by his cool judgment, knowledge of men and things, and unshakable fidelity may be able to protect you from the dangers to which you will be exposed.”

§ 7. When the friendship with Anna Schulthess had ripened into a betrothal Pestalozzi spent a year in the neighbourhood of Bern learning farming under a man then famous for his innovations. His new ideas Pestalozzi absorbed very readily. “I had come to him,” he says, “a political visionary, though with many profound and correct attainments, views, and anticipations in matters political. I went away from him just as great an agricultural visionary, though with many enlarged and correct ideas and intentions with regard to agriculture.”

§ 8. During his “learning year” he kept up a correspondence with his betrothed, and the letters of both, which have been preserved, differ very widely from love-letters in general. Of himself Pestalozzi gives an account which shows that in part at least he could see himself as others saw him. “Dearest,” he writes, “those of my faults which appear to me most important in relation to the situation in which I may be placed in after-life are improvidence, incautiousness, and a want of presence of mind to meet unexpected changes in my prospects.... Of my great, and indeed very reprehensible negligence in all matters of etiquette, and generally in all matters which are not in themselves of importance, I need not speak; anyone may see them at first sight of me. I also owe you the open confession, my dear, that I shall always consider my duties toward my beloved partner subordinate to my duties towards my country; and that, although I shall be the tenderest husband, nevertheless, I hold myself bound to be inexorable to the tears of my wife if she should ever attempt to restrain me by them from the direct performance of my duties as a citizen, whatever this must lead to. My wife shall be the confidante of my heart, the partner of all my most secret counsels. A great and honest simplicity shall reign in my house. And one thing more. My life will not pass without important and very critical undertakings. I shall not forget ... my first resolutions to devote myself wholly to my country. I shall never, from fear of man, refrain from speaking when I see that the good of my country calls upon me to speak. My whole heart is my country’s: I will risk all to alleviate the need and misery of my fellow-countrymen. What consequences may the undertakings to which I feel myself urged on draw after them! how unequal to them am I! and how imperative is my duty to show you the possibility of the great dangers which they may bring upon me! My dear, my beloved friend, I have now spoken candidly of my character and my aspirations. Reflect upon everything. If the traits which it was my duty to mention diminish your respect for me, you will still esteem my sincerity, and you will not think less highly of me, that I did not take advantage of your want of acquaintance with my character for the attainment of my inmost wishes.”

§ 9. The young lady addressed was worthy of her lover. “Such nobleness, such elevation of character, reach my very soul,” said she. With equal nobleness she encouraged Pestalozzi in his schemes and took the consequences without a murmur during their long married life of 46 years.

§ 10. Full of new ideas about farming Pestalozzi now thought he saw his way to making a fortune. He took some poor land near Birr not far from Zurich, and persuaded a banking firm to advance money with which he proposed to cultivate vegetables and madder. In September, 1769, he was married, and six months later the pair settled in a new house, “Neuhof,” which Pestalozzi had built on his land.

§ 11. But in spite of his excellent ideas and great industry, his speculation failed. The bankers soon withdrew their money. Pestalozzi was not cautious enough for them. However, his wife’s friends prevented an immediate collapse.

§ 12. But before he had any reason to doubt the success of his speculation Pestalozzi had begun to reproach himself with being engrossed by it. What had become of all his thoughts for the people? Was he not spending his strength entirely to gain the prosperity of himself and his household? These thoughts came to him with all the more force when a son was born to him; and at this time they naturally connected themselves with education. He had now seen a good deal of the degraded state of the peasantry. How were they to be raised out of it?

§ 13. To Pestalozzi there seemed one answer and one only. This was by education. To many people in the present day it might seem that “education,” when quite successful, would qualify labourers to become clerks. This was not the notion of Pestalozzi. Rousseau had completely freed him from bondage to the Renascence, and education did not mean to him a training in the use of books. He looked at the children of the lowest class of the peasants and asked himself what they needed to raise them. Knowledge would not do it. “The thing was not that they should know what they did not know, but that they should behave as they did not behave” ([supra, p. 169]); and the road to right action lay through right feeling. If they could be made conscious that they were loved and cared for, their hearts would open and give back love and respect in return. More than this, they must be taught not only to respect their elders but also themselves. They must be taught to help themselves and contribute to their own maintenance. So Pestalozzi resolved to take into his own house some of the very poorest children, to bring them up in an atmosphere of love, and to instruct them in field-work and spinning which would soon partly (as Pestalozzi hoped, wholly) pay for their keep. Thus, just at the time when the experiment for himself failed he began for others an experiment that seemed likely to add indefinitely to his difficulties.

§ 14. In the winter of 1774 the first children were taken into Neuhof. The consequences to his wife and to his little son only four years old might have vanquished the courage of a less ardent philanthropist. “Our position entailed much suffering on my wife;” he writes, “but nothing could shake us in our resolve to devote our time, strength and remaining fortune to the simplification of the instruction and domestic education of the people.”

§ 15. These children, at first not more than 20 in number, Pestalozzi treated as his own. They worked with him in the summer in the garden and fields, in winter in the house. Very little time was given to separate lessons, the children often learning while they worked with their hands. Pestalozzi held that talking should come before reading and writing; and he practised them in conversation on subjects taken from their every day life. They also repeated passages from the Bible till they knew them by heart.

§ 16. In a few months, as we are told, the appearance of these poor little creatures had entirely changed; though fed only on bread and vegetables they looked strong and hearty, and their faces gained an expression of cheerfulness, frankness and intelligence which till then had been totally wanting. They made good progress with their manual work as well as with the associated lessons, and took pleasure in both. In all they said and did, they seemed to show their consciousness of their benefactor’s kind care of them.

§ 17. This experiment naturally drew much attention to it, and when it had gone on over a year Pestalozzi was induced by his friend Iselin of Basel to insert in the Ephemerides (a paper of which Iselin was editor), an “appeal ... for an institution intended to provide education and work for poor country children.” In this appeal Pestalozzi narrates his experience. “I have proved,” says he, “that it is not regular work that stops the development of so many poor children, but the turmoil and irregularity of their lives, the privations they endure, the excesses they indulge in when opportunity offers, the wild rebellious passions so seldom restrained, and the hopelessness to which they are so often a prey. I have proved that children after having lost health, strength and courage in a life of idleness and mendicity have, when once set to regular work quickly recovered their health and spirits and grown rapidly. I have found that when taken out of their abject condition they soon become kindly, trustful and sympathetic; that even the most degraded of them are touched by kindness, and that the eyes of the child who has been steeped in misery, grow bright with pleasure and surprise, when, after years of hardship, he sees a gentle friendly hand stretched out to help him; and I am convinced that when a child’s heart has been touched the consequences will be great for his development and entire moral character.”

Pestalozzi therefore would have the very poorest children brought up in private establishments where agriculture and industry were combined, and where they would learn to work steadily and carefully with their hands, the chief part of their time being devoted to this manual work, and their instruction and education being associated with it. And he asks for support in greatly increasing the establishment he has already begun.

§ 18. Encouraged by the support he received and still more by his love for the children and his own too sanguine disposition Pestalozzi enlarged his undertaking. The consequence was bankruptcy. Several causes conspired to bring about this result. Whatever he might do for the children, he could not educate the parents, and these were many of them beggars with the ordinary vices of their class. With the usual discernment of such people they soon came to the conclusion that Pestalozzi was making a fortune out of their children’s labour; so they haunted Neuhof, treated Pestalozzi with the greatest insolence, and often induced their children to run away in their new clothes. This would account for much, but there was another cause of failure that accounted for a great deal more. This was Pestalozzi’s extreme incapacity as an administrator. Even his industrial experiment he carried on in such a way that it proved a source of expense rather than of profit. He says himself, that, contrary to his own principles, which should have led him to begin at the beginning and lay a good foundation in teaching, he put the children to work that was too difficult for them, wanted them to spin fine thread before their hands got steadiness and skill by exercise on the coarser kind, and to manufacture muslin before they could turn out well-made cotton goods. “Before I was aware of it,” he adds, “I was deeply involved in debt, and the greater part of my dear wife’s property and expectations had, as it were, in an instant gone up in smoke.”

§ 19. The precise arrangement made with the creditors we do not know. The bare facts remain that the children were sent away, and that the land was let for the creditors’ benefit; but Pestalozzi remained in the house. This was settled in 1780.

§ 20. We have now come to the most gloomy period in Pestalozzi’s history, a period of eighteen years, and those the best years in a man’s life, which Pestalozzi spent in great distress from poverty without and doubt and despondency within. When he got into difficulties, his friends, he tells us, loved him without hope: “in the whole surrounding district it was everywhere said that I was a lost man, that nothing more could be done for me.” “In his only too elegant country house,” we are told, “he often wanted money, bread, fuel, to protect himself against hunger and cold.” “Eighteen years!—what a time for a soul like his to wait! History passes lightly over such a period. Ten, twenty, thirty years—it makes but a cipher difference if nothing great happens in them. But with what agony must he have seen day after day, year after year gliding by, who in his fervent soul longed to labour for the good of mankind and yet looked in vain for the opportunity!” (Palmer.)

§ 21. But he who was always ready to sacrifice himself for others now found someone, and that a stranger, ready to make a great sacrifice for him. A servant, named Elizabeth Naef, heard of the disaster and distress at Neuhof, and her master having just died she resolved to go to the rescue. At first Pestalozzi refused her help. He did not wish her to share the poverty of his household, and he felt himself out of sympathy with her “evangelical” form of piety. But Elizabeth declared she had come to stay, and when Pestalozzi found he could not shake her determination he consented, saying, “Well, you will find after all that God is in our house also.”

§ 22. To this pious sensible but illiterate peasant woman Pestalozzi was fond of tracing many of his ideas. She was the original of his Gertrude, and it was of her he wrote: “God’s sun pursues its path from morning to evening; yet your eye detects no movement, your ear no sound. Even when it goes down, you know that it will rise again and continue to ripen the fruits of the earth. Extreme as it may seem, I am not ashamed to say that this is an image of Gertrude as of every woman who makes her house a temple of the living God and wins heaven for her husband and children.” (Leonard and Gertrude). She was invaluable at Neuhof and restored comfort to the household. In after years she managed the establishment at Yverdun and married one of the Krüsis who were Pestalozzi’s assistants.

§ 23. Writing of the gloomy years at Neuhof Pestalozzi afterwards said; “My head was grey, yet I was still a child. With a heart in which all the foundations of life were shaken, I still pursued in those stormy times my favourite object, but my way was one of prejudice, of passion and of error.” But with Pestalozzi self-depreciation had “almost grown the habit of his soul,” and in his writings at Neuhof at this period we find no traces of this prejudice, passion and error from which he supposes himself to have suffered. He certainly did not abandon his love of humanity; and in his sacrifice for it he sought a religious basis. In these Neuhof days he wrote: “Christ teaches us by His example and doctrine to sacrifice not only our possessions but ourselves for the good of others, and shews us that nothing we have received is absolutely ours but is merely entrusted to us by God to be piously employed in the service of charity.” (Quoted by Guimps. R’s trans. 72.) Whatever were his doubts and difficulties, he never swerved from pursuing the great object of his life, and nothing could cloud his mind as to the true method of attaining that object. As he afterwards wrote to Gessner (Wie Gertrud u.s.w.), “Even while I was the sport of men who condemned me I never lost sight for a moment of the object I had in view, which was the removal of the causes of the misery that I saw on all sides of me. My strength too kept on increasing, and my own misfortunes taught me valuable truths. I knew the people as no one else did. What deceived no one else always deceived me, but what deceived everybody else deceived me no longer.... My own sufferings have enabled me to understand the sufferings of the people and their causes as no man without suffering can understand them. I suffered what the people suffered and saw them as no one else saw them; and strange as it may seem, I was never more profoundly convinced of the fundamental truths on which I had based my undertaking than when I saw that I had failed.” (R’s. Guimps 74.)

§ 24. Pestalozzi still had a few friends who did not despise the dreamer of dreams. Among them was the editor of the Ephemerides, Iselin. This friend encouraged him to write, and there soon appeared in the Ephemerides a series of reflexions under the title of “The Evening Hour of a Hermit.” Not many editors would have printed these aphorisms, and they attracted little or no attention at the time, but they have proved worth attending to. “The fruit of Pestalozzi’s past years, they are,” says Raumer, “at the same time the seed-corn of the years that were to come, the plan and key to his action in pedagogy.... The drawing of the architect of genius contains his work, even though the architect himself has not skill enough to carry out his own design.” (Quoted by Otto Fischer).[152]

§ 25. What was the connexion between Pestalozzi’s belief at this season and complete belief in dogmatic Christianity? The question is one that will always be asked and can never, I think, be fully answered. In the days preceding the French Revolution it was a proof of wisdom to “Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, and cling to Faith,” even though the Faith were “beyond the forms of Faith” (see Tennyson’s Ancient Sage). But Pestalozzi did far more than this. He traced all virtue and strength in the people to belief in the Fatherhood of God; and he saw in unbelief the severance of all the bonds of society. The “Hermit” does not indeed use the phrases common among “evangelical” Christians, but that he was indeed a Christian is established not only by the general tone of his aphorisms but still more clearly by his last words: “The Man of God, who with his sufferings and death has restored to humanity the lost feeling of the child’s disposition towards God is the Redeemer of the world; he is the sacrificed Priest of the Lord; he is the Mediator between God and God-forgetting mankind. His teaching is pure justice, educating philosophy of the people; it is the revelation of God the Father to the lost race of his children.”

§ 26. The “Evening Hour” remaining almost unnoticed, Pestalozzi’s friends urged him to write something in a more popular form. So he set to work on a tale which should depict the life of the peasantry and shew the causes of their degradation and the cure. With extraordinary rapidity he wrote between the lines of an old account book the first part of his “Leonard and Gertrude.” The book, which was complete in itself, and through the good offices of Iselin (of the Ephemerides), soon found a publisher, suddenly sprang into immense popularity, a popularity of which nothing but the “continuations” could ever have deprived it. In the works of a great artist we see natural objects represented with perfect fidelity and yet with a life breathed into them by genius, which is wanting or at least is not visible to common eyes in the originals. Just so do we find Swiss peasant life depicted by Pestalozzi. The delineation is evidently true to nature; and, at the same time, shows Nature as she reveals herself to genius. But for this work something more than genius was necessary, viz., sympathy and love. In the preface to the first edition, he says, “In that which I here relate, and which I have, for the most part, seen and heard myself in the course of an active life, I have taken care not once to add my own opinion to what I saw and heard the people themselves saying, feeling; believing, judging, and attempting.” In a later edition (1800) he says, “I desired nothing then, and I desire nothing else now, as the object of my life, but the welfare of the people, whom I love, and whom I feel to be miserable as few feel them to be miserable, because I have with them borne their sufferings as few have borne them.”

§ 27. Wherever German was read this book excited vast interest, and though it seemed to most people only a good tale, it met with some more discerning readers. The Bern Agricultural Society sent the author their thanks and a gold medal, and Pestalozzi was at once recognised as a man who understood the peasantry and had good ideas for raising them. The book is and must remain a classic, but Pestalozzi in his zeal to spread the truth added again and again “continuations,” and these became less and less popular in the method of exposition.[153]

§ 28. Here and there we get glimpses of the trials Pestalozzi had gone through in his industrial experiment. “The love and patience,” he writes, “with which Gertrude bore with the disorderly and untrained little ones was almost past belief. Their eyes were often anywhere but on their yarn, so that this would now be too thick, and now too thin. When they had spoiled it, they would watch for a moment when Gertrude was not looking, and throw it out of the window by the handful, until they found that she discovered the trick when she weighed their work at night.” (E. C’s. trans., p. 122.) And in this connexion Pestalozzi preached his doctrine of perfect attainment. “‘What you can’t do blindfold,’” said Harry, “‘you can’t do at all.’” (ib.)

§ 29. “Gertrude,” we are told, “seemed quite unable to explain her method in words;” and here no doubt Pestalozzi was speaking of himself; but like Gertrude he “would let fall some significant remark which went to the root of the whole matter of education.” As an instance we may take what Gertrude said to the schoolmaster: “You should do for the children what their parents fail to do for them. The reading, writing, and arithmetic are not after all what they most need. It is all well and good for them to learn something, but the really important thing for them is to be something.” When this truth is fully realized by teachers and school managers there will be some hope for national education.

§ 30. “Although Gertrude exerted herself to develop very early the manual dexterity of her children, she was in no haste for them to learn to read and write; but she took pains to teach them early how to speak: for, as she said, ‘Of what use is it for a person to be able to read and write if he cannot speak, since reading and writing are only an artificial sort of speech.’ ... She did not adopt the tone of an instructor towards the children ... and her verbal instruction seemed to vanish in the spirit of her real activity, in which it always had its source. The result of her system was that each child was skilful, intelligent, and active to the full extent that its age and development allowed.” (Ib. p. 130.)

§ 31. In this book we see that knowledge is treated as valueless unless it has a basis in action. “The pastor was soon convinced that all verbal instruction in so far as it aims at true human wisdom and at the highest goal of this wisdom, true religion, ought to be subordinated to a constant training in practical domestic labour.... So he strove to lead the children without many words to a quiet industrious life, and thus to lay the foundations of a silent worship of God and love of humanity. To this end he connected every word of his brief religious teachings with their actual every-day experience, so that when he spoke of God and eternity, it seemed to them as if he were speaking of father and mother, house and home; in short of the things with which they were most familiar” (p. 156). Thus he built on the foundation laid by the schoolmaster, who “cared for the children’s heads as he did for their hearts, and demanded that whatever entered them should be plain and clear as the silent moon in the sky. To insure this he taught them to see and hear with accuracy, and cultivated their powers of attention” (p. 157).

§ 32. With all his love for the children, an element of severity was not wanting. Pestalozzi maintained that “love was only useful in the education of men when in conjunction with fear: for they must learn to root out thorns and thistles, which they never do of their own accord, but only under compulsion and in consequence of training” (p. 157).

§ 33. Just at the end of the book “the Duke” appoints a commission to report on the success of the Bonal experiment, and Pestalozzi makes him give the following order: “To insure thoroughness there must be among the examiners men skilled in law and finance, merchants, clergymen, government officials, schoolmasters, and physicians, besides women of different ranks and conditions of life who shall view the matter with their woman’s eyes and be sure there is nothing visionary in the background” (p. 180). In this respect Pestalozzi is in advance of us still. No woman has yet sat on an educational commission.

§ 34. Thus we find Pestalozzi at the age of thirty-five turning author, and for the next six or seven years he worked indefatigably with his pen. Most men of genius have some leading purpose which unites their varied activities, and this was specially true of Pestalozzi. He never lost sight of his one object, which was the elevation of the people; and this he held to be attainable only by means of education properly so called. The success of the first part of Leonard and Gertrude he now endeavoured to turn to account in spreading true ideas of education. With this intent he published Christopher and Eliza: My Second Book for the People (1782), which was a kind of commentary on Leonard and Gertrude. But the public wished to be amused, not taught; and the book was a failure. He was thus driven into the attempt already mentioned to catch the public ear by continuing Leonard and Gertrude, thus endangering his first and, as it proved, his only great success in literature.

§ 35. To gain circulation for his ideas he also started a weekly paper called the Swiss Journal, and issued it regularly throughout the year 1782; but the subscribers were so few that he was then obliged to give it up. I have not the smallest doubt that it was, as Guimps says, full of wisdom, but not the kind of wisdom that readers of periodicals are likely to care for.[154]

§ 36. In the Swiss Journal we get a hint of the analogy between the development of the plant and of the man. This analogy, often as it had been observed before, was never before so fruitful as it became in the hands of Pestalozzi and Froebel. The passage quoted by Guimps is this: “Teach me, summer day, that man formed from the dust of the earth, grows and ripens like the plant rooted in the soil.”

§ 37. Between the close of the year 1787 and 1797 Pestalozzi did not publish anything. Though he had become famous, had made the acquaintance of the greatest men in Germany, such as Goethe, Wieland, Herder, and Fichte, and had been declared a “Citizen of the French Republic,” together with Bentham, Tom Payne, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Washington, Madison, Klopstock, Kozciusko, &c., he was nearly starving, and, naturally enough in that state of affairs both private and public, he was in great despondency. As we have seen, his whole life and work were founded on religion and on the only religion possible for us, the Christian religion; but carried away by his political radicalism he seems at this time to have doubted whether Christianity was more than the highest human wisdom. In October, 1793, he wrote to a friend in Berlin: “I doubt, not because I look on doubt as the truth, but because the sum of the impressions of my life has driven faith with its blessings from my soul. Thus impelled by my fate I see nothing more in Christianity but the purest and noblest teaching of the victory of the spirit over the flesh, the one possible means of raising our nature to its true nobility, or in other words of establishing the empire of the reason over the senses by the development of the purest feelings of the heart.” If this was the lowest point to which Pestalozzi’s faith sank in the days of the Revolution, it remained for practical purposes higher than the faith of most professing Christians then and since.

§ 38. At this time we find him complaining: “My agriculture swallows up all my time. I am longing for winter with its leisure. My time passes like a shadow.” He was then forty-six years of age and seemed to himself to have done nothing.

§ 39. Another five years he had to wait before he found an opportunity for action. During this time, impelled by Fichte, he endeavoured to give his ideas philosophic completeness, and after labouring for three years with almost incredible toil he published in 1797 his “Inquiry into the Course of Nature in the Development of the Human Race.” This book is pronounced even by his biographer Guimps to be “prolix and obscure,” and, says Pestalozzi, “nobody understood me.” But even in this book there was much wisdom, had the world cared to learn; but the world had then no place for Pestalozzi, and as he says at the end of this book, “without even asking whether the fault was his or another’s, it crushed him with its iron hammer as the mason crushes a useless stone.” He was, however, not actually crushed, and a place was in time found for him.

§ 40. The world might be pardoned for neglecting an Inquiry which even a biographer finds “prolix and obscure.” But why could it see nothing in another book which Pestalozzi published in the same year, “Figures to my ABC Book,” or according to its later title, “Fables,” a series of apologues as witty and wise as those of Lessing.[155]

§ 41. As I have said already ([supra p. 239]) there seems a marked distinction between thinkers and doers, at least in education, and we seldom find a man great in both. But with all his weakness as a practical man Pestalozzi proved great both as a thinker and a doer. He not only thought out what should be done, but he also made splendid efforts to do it. His first attempt at Neuhof was, as we have seen, all his own; so was the next at Stanz; but afterwards he had to work with others, and the work would have come to a standstill if he had not gained the co-operation of the magistrates, the parents of the children, and his own assistants. So he never again had the free hand, or at least the free thought which bore such good fruit in his enforced cessation from practice in the years between 1780 and 1798. It is well then to ask, as his biographer Guimps has asked, what was the main outcome of Pestalozzi’s thought before he plunged into action a second time in 1798.

§ 42. Pestalozzi set himself to find a means of rescuing the people from their poverty and degradation. This he held would last as long as their moral and intellectual poverty lasted; so there was no hope except in an education that should make them better and more intelligent. In studying the children even of the most degraded parents he found the seeds, as it were, of a wealth of faculties, sentiments, tastes, and capabilities, which, if developed, might make them reasonable and upright human beings. But what was called education did nothing of the kind. Instead of developing the noblest part of the child’s nature it neglected this entirely, and bringing to the child the knowledge, ideas, and feelings of others, it tried to make him “learn” them. So “education” did little beyond stifling the child’s individuality under a mass of borrowed ideas. The schoolmaster worked, as it were, from without to within. This Pestalozzi would change, and make education begin in the child and work from within outwards. Acting on this principle he sought for some means of developing the child’s inborn faculties, and he found as he says: “Nature develops all the powers of humanity by exercising them; they increase with use.” (Evening Hour, Aph. 22.) No means can be found of exercising the higher faculties which can be compared with the actual relations of daily life; so Pestalozzi declares: “The pure sentiment of truth and wisdom is formed in the narrow circle of the relationships which affect us, the circumstances which suggest our actions, and the common knowledge which we cannot do without.” And taking as his starting-point the needs, desires, and connexions of actual life he was naturally led to associate the work of the body with that of the mind, to develop industry and study side by side, to combine the workshop and the school. With regard to instruction he was never tired of insisting on the importance of thorough mastery in the first elements, and there was to be no advance till this mastery was attained. (See what “Harry” says, [supra p. 306].) “The schools,” he says (E. H., No. 28), “hastily substitute an artificial method of words for the truer method of Nature which knows no hurry but waits.”

§ 43. In this account of Pestalozzi’s doctrine before 1798 I have as usual followed M. Guimps. According to him Pestalozzi had discovered “a principle which settles the law of man’s development, and is the fundamental principle of education.” This principle M. Guimps briefly states as follows: “All the real knowledge, useful powers, and noble sentiments that a man can acquire are but the extension of his individuality by the development of the powers and faculties that God has put in him, and by their assimilation of the elements supplied by the outer world. There exists for this development and the work of assimilation a natural and necessary order, an order which the school mostly sets at nought.”

§ 44. Now we come to the period of Pestalozzi’s practical activity. In 1798 Switzerland was overrun by the French. Everything was remodelled after the French pattern; and in conformity with the existing phase in the model country the government of Switzerland was declared to be in the hands of five “Directors.” Pestalozzi was a Radical, and he at once set to work to serve the new government with his pen. The Directors gladly welcomed such an ally as the author of Leonard and Gertrude, and they made him editor of a newspaper intended to diffuse the revolutionary principles among the people. Naturally enough they supposed that he, like other people, “wanted” something; but when asked what he wanted he replied simply that he wished to be a schoolmaster. The Directors, especially Le Grand, took a genuine interest in education, and were quite willing that Pestalozzi should be allowed a free hand in his “new departure.” They therefore agreed to find the funds with which Pestalozzi might open a new Institution in Aargau.

§ 45. But the editorship and the plans for the new Institution came to an abrupt ending. The Catholic cantons did not acquiesce in giving up their local liberties and being subjected to a new government in the hands of men whom they regarded as heretics and even atheists. Consequently those missionaries of enlightenment, the French troops, at once fell upon them and slaughtered many without distinction of age or sex. The French, we are told, did not expect to meet with resistance; so their light became lightning and struck dead the stupid people who could not or would not see. “Our soldiers” (it is Michelet who speaks) “were ferocious at Stanz.” (Nos Fils, 217). This ferocity at Stanz in September, 1798, was in secret disapproved of by the Directors, who were nominally responsible for it. But all they could do was to provide in a measure for the “111 infirm old people, the 169 orphans, and 237 other children,” who were left totally destitute. Le Grand proposed to Pestalozzi that he should, for the present, give up his other plans and go to Stanz (which is on the Lake of Lucerne) to take charge of the orphan and destitute children. Pestalozzi was not the man to refuse such a task as this. He at once set out. Some buildings connected with an Ursuline convent were, without the consent of the nuns, made over to him. Workmen were employed upon them, and as soon as a single room could be inhabited Pestalozzi received forty children into it. This was in January, 1799, in the middle of a remarkably cold winter.

§ 46. Thus under circumstances perhaps less unfavourable than they seemed began the five months’ trial of pure Pestalozzianism. The physical difficulties were immense. At first Pestalozzi and all the children were shut up day and night in a single room. He had throughout no helper of any kind but one female servant, and he had to do everything for the children, even what was most menial and disgusting. As soon as possible the number was increased, and before long was nearly eighty, some of the children having to go out to sleep. But great as were the material difficulties, those arising from the opposition and hatred of the people he came to succour were still worse. To them he seemed no philanthropist, but only a servant of the devil, an agent of the wicked government which had sent its ferocious soldiers and slaughtered the parents of these poor children, a Protestant who came to complete the work by destroying their souls. Pestalozzi, who was making heroic efforts in their behalf, seems to have wondered at the animosity shown him by the people of Stanz; but on looking back we must admit that in the circumstances it was only natural.

§ 47. And yet in spite of enormous difficulties of every kind Pestalozzi triumphed. Within the five months he spent with them he attached to him the hearts of the children, and produced in them a marvellous physical, intellectual, and moral change. “If ever there was a miracle,” says Michelet, “it was here. It was the reward of a strong faith, of a wonderful expansion of heart. He believed, he willed, he succeeded.” (Nos Fils 223.)

What was the great act of faith by which Pestalozzi triumphed? According to M. Michelet he stood before these vicious and degraded children and said, “Man is good.” Pestalozzi does not tell us this himself; and as a benighted believer in Christianity, I venture to differ from the enlightened Michelet. As far as I can judge from Pestalozzi’s own teaching the source of his strength was his belief in the goodness not of Man but of God.

§ 48. But encouraged and rewarded as he was by the result, Pestalozzi could not long have maintained this fearful exertion. He was over fifty years of age, and he must soon have succumbed; indeed he was already spitting blood when in June, 1799, the French soldiers, whose action had brought him to Stanz, drove him away again. Falling back before the Austrians they had need of a hospital in Stanz, and demanded the buildings occupied by Pestalozzi and the children. So almost all the children had to be sent away, and then at last Pestalozzi took thought for his own health and retired to some baths in the mountains. But most of his peculiarities in teaching may be said to date from the experience at Stanz; and I will therefore give this experience in his own words.

§ 49. The following is the account given in his letter to his friend Gessner. (I have in part availed myself of Mr. Russell’s translation of Guimps, pp. 149 ff.)

“My friend, once more I awake from a dream; once more I see my work destroyed, and my failing strength wasted.

“But, however weak and unfortunate my attempt, a friend of humanity will not grudge a few moments to consider the reasons which convince me that some day a more fortunate posterity will certainly take up the thread of my hopes at the place where it is now broken....

“I once more made known, as well as I could, my old wishes for the education of the people. In particular, I laid my whole scheme before Legrand (then one of the Directors), who not only took a warm interest in it, but agreed with me that the Republic stood in urgent need of a reform of public education. He also agreed with me that much might be done for the regeneration of the people by giving a certain number of the poorest children an education which should be complete, but which, far from lifting them out of their proper sphere, would but attach them the more strongly to it.

“I limited my desires to this one point, Legrand helping me in every possible way. He even thought my views so important that he once said to me: ‘I shall not willingly give up my present post till you have begun your work.’ ...

“It was my intention to try to find near Zurich or in Aargau a place where I should be able to join industry and agriculture to the other means of instruction, and so give my establishment all the development necessary to its complete success. But the Unterwalden disaster (September, 1798) left me no further choice in the matter. The Government felt the urgent need of sending help to this unfortunate district, and begged me for this once to make an attempt to put my plans into execution in a place where almost everything that could have made it a success was wanting.

“I went there gladly. I felt that the innocence of the people would make up for what was wanting, and that their distress would, at any rate, make them grateful.

“My eagerness to realise at last the great dream of my life would have led me to work on the very highest peaks of the Alps, and, so to speak, without fire or water.

“For a house, the Government made over to me the new part of the Ursuline convent at Stanz, but when I arrived it was still uncompleted, and not in any way fitted to receive a large number of children. Before anything else could be done, then, the house itself had to be got ready. The Government gave the necessary orders, and Rengger pushed on the work with much zeal and useful activity. I was never indeed allowed to want for money.

“In spite, however, of the admirable support I received, all this preparation took time, and time was precisely what we could least afford, since it was of the highest importance that a number of children, whom the war had left homeless and destitute, should be received at once.

“I was still without everything but money when the children crowded in; neither kitchen, rooms, nor beds were ready to receive them. At first this was a source of inconceivable confusion. For the first few weeks I was shut up in a very small room; the weather was bad, and the alterations, which made a great dust and filled the corridors with rubbish, rendered the air very unhealthy.

“The want of beds compelled me at first to send some of the poor children home at night; these children generally came back the next day covered with vermin. Most of them on their arrival were very degenerated specimens of humanity. Many of them had a sort of chronic skin-disease, which almost prevented their walking, or sores on their heads, or rags full of vermin; many were almost skeletons, with haggard, careworn faces, and shrinking looks; some brazen, accustomed to begging, hypocrisy, and all sorts of deceit; others broken by misfortune, patient, suspicious, timid, and entirely devoid of affection. There were also some spoilt children amongst them who had known the sweets of comfort, and were therefore full of pretensions. These kept to themselves, affected to despise the little beggars their comrades, and to suffer from this equality, and seemed to find it impossible to adapt themselves to the ways of the house, which differed too much from their old habits. But what was common to them all was a persistent idleness, resulting from their want of physical and mental activity. Out of every ten children there was hardly one who knew his A B C; as for any other knowledge, it was, of course, out of the question.

“The entire absence of school learning was what troubled me least, for I trusted in the natural powers that God bestows on even the poorest and most neglected children. I had observed for a long time that behind their coarseness, shyness, and apparent incapacity, are hidden the finest faculties, the most precious powers; and now, even amongst these poor creatures by whom I was surrounded at Stanz, marked natural abilities soon began to show themselves. I knew how useful the common needs of life are in teaching men the relations of things, in bringing out their natural intelligence, in forming their judgment, and in arousing faculties which, buried, as it were, beneath the coarser elements of their nature, cannot become active and useful till they are set free. It was my object then to set free these faculties, and bring them to bear on the pure and simple circumstances of domestic life, for I was convinced this was all that was wanting, and these natural faculties would shew themselves capable of raising the hearts and minds of my pupils to all that I could desire.

“I saw then how my wishes might be carried out; and I was persuaded that my affection would change the state of my children just as quickly as the spring sun would awake to new life the earth that winter had benumbed. I was not deceiving myself: before the spring sun melted the snow of our mountains my children were hardly to be recognised.

“But I must not anticipate. Just as in the evening I often mark the quick growth of the gourd by the side of the house, so I want you to mark the growth of my plant; and, my friend, I will not hide from you the worm which sometimes fastens on the leaves, sometimes even on the heart.

“I opened the establishment with no other helper but a woman-servant. I had not only to teach the children, but to look after their physical needs. I preferred being alone, and, unfortunately, it was the only way to reach my end. No one in the world would have cared to enter into my views for the education of children, and at that time I knew scarcely any one even capable of it.

“In proportion as the men whom I might have called to my aid were highly educated just so far they failed to understand me, and were incapable of confining themselves even in theory to the simple starting-points which I sought to come back to. All their views about the organisation and requirements of the enterprise differed entirely from mine. What they specially objected to was the notion that the enterprise might be carried out without the aid of any artificial means, and simply by the influence of nature in the environment of the children, and by the activity aroused in them by the needs of their daily life.

“And yet it was precisely upon this idea that I based all my hope of success; it was, as it were, a basis for innumerable other points of view.

“Experienced teachers, then, could not help me; still less boorish, ignorant men. I had nothing to put into the hands of assistants to guide them, nor any results or apparatus by which I could make my ideas clearer to them. Thus, whether I would or no, I had first to make my experiment alone, and collect facts to illustrate the essential features of my system before I could venture to look for outside help. Indeed, in my then position, nobody could help me. I knew that I must help myself and shaped my plans accordingly.

“I wanted to prove by my experiment that if public education is to have any real value for humanity, it must imitate the means which make the merit of domestic education; for it is my opinion that if school teaching does not take into consideration the circumstances of family life, and everything else that bears on a man’s general education, it can only lead to an artificial and methodical dwarfing of humanity.

“In any good education, the mother must be able to judge daily, nay hourly, from the child’s eyes, lips, and face, of the slightest change in his soul. The power of the educator, too, must be that of a father, quickened by the general circumstances of domestic life.

“Such was the foundation upon which I built. I determined that there should not be a minute in the day when my children should not be aware from my face and my lips that my heart was theirs, that their happiness was my happiness, and their pleasures my pleasures.

“Man readily accepts what is good, and the child readily listens to it; but it is not for you that he wants it, master and educator, but for himself. The good to which you would lead him must not depend on your capricious humour or passion; it must be a good which is good in itself and by the nature of things, and which the child can recognize as good. He must feel the necessity of your will in things which concern his comfort before he can be expected to obey it.

“Whatever he does gladly, whatever gains him credit, whatever tends to accomplish his great hopes, whatever awakens his powers and enables him truly to say I can, all this he wills.

“But this will is not aroused by words; it is aroused only by a kind of complete culture which gives feelings and powers. Words do not give the thing itself, but only an expression, a clear picture, of the thing which we already have in our minds.

“Before all things I was bound to gain the confidence and the love of the children. I was sure that if I succeeded in this all the rest would come of itself. Friend, only think how I was placed, and how great were the prejudices of the people and of the children themselves, and you will comprehend what difficulties I had to overcome.”

After narrating what we already know he goes on:

“Think, my friend, of this temper of the people, of my weakness, of my poor appearance, of the ill-will to which I was almost publicly exposed, and then judge how much I had to endure for the sake of carrying on my work.

“And yet, however painful this want of help and support was to me, it was favourable to the success of my undertaking, for it compelled me to be always everything for my children. I was alone with them from morning till night. It was from me that they received all that could do them good, soul and body. All needful help, consolation, and instruction they received direct from me. Their hands were in mine, my eyes were fixed on theirs.

“We wept and smiled together. They forgot the world and Stanz; they only knew that they were with me and I with them. We shared our food and drink. I had about me neither family, friends, nor servants; nothing but them. I was with them in sickness, and in health, and when they slept. I was the last to go to bed, and the first to get up. In the bedroom I prayed with them, and, at their own request, taught them till they fell asleep. Their clothes and bodies were intolerably filthy, but I looked after both myself, and was thus constantly exposed to the risk of contagion.

“This is how it was that these children gradually became so attached to me, some indeed so deeply that they contradicted their parents and friends when they heard evil things said about me. They felt that I was being treated unfairly, and loved me, I think, the more for it. But of what avail is it for the young nestlings to love their mother when the bird of prey that is bent on destroying them is constantly hovering near?

“However, the first results of these principles and of this line of action were not always satisfactory, nor, indeed, could they be so. The children did not always understand my love. Accustomed to idleness, unbounded liberty, and the fortuitous and lawless pleasures of an almost wild life, they had come to the convent in the expectation of being well fed, and of having nothing to do. Some of them soon discovered that they had been there long enough, and wanted to go away again; they talked of the school fever that attacks children when they are kept employed all day long. This dissatisfaction, which showed itself during the first months, resulted principally from the fact that many of them were ill, the consequence either of the sudden change of diet and habits, or of the severity of the weather and the dampness of the building in which we lived. We all coughed a great deal, and several children were seized with a peculiar sort of fever. This fever, which always began with sickness, was very general in the district. Cases of sickness, however, not followed by fever, were not at all rare, and were an almost natural consequence of the change of food. Many people attributed the fever to bad food, but the facts soon showed them to be wrong, for not a single child succumbed.

“On the return of spring it was evident to everybody that the children were all doing well, growing rapidly, and gaining colour. Certain magistrates and ecclesiastics, who saw them some time afterwards, stated that they had improved almost beyond recognition....

“Months passed before I had the satisfaction of having my hand grasped by a single grateful parent. But the children were won over much sooner. They even wept sometimes when their parents met me or left me without a word of salutation. Many of them were perfectly happy, and used to say to their mothers: ‘I am better here than at home.’ At home, indeed, as they readily told me when we talked alone, they had been ill-used and beaten, and had often had neither bread to eat nor bed to lie down upon. And yet these same children would sometimes go off with their mothers the very next morning.

“A good many others, however, soon saw that by staying with me they might both learn something and become something, and these never failed in their zeal and attachment. Before very long their conduct was imitated by others who had not altogether the same feelings.

“Those who ran away were the worst in character and the least capable. But they were not incited to go till they were free of their vermin and their rags. Several were sent to me with no other purpose than that of being taken away again as soon as they were clean and well clothed.

“But after a time their better judgment overcame the defiant hostility with which they arrived. In 1799[156] I had nearly eighty children. Most of them were bright and intelligent, some even remarkably so.

“For most of them study was something entirely new. As soon as they found that they could learn, their zeal was indefatigable, and in a few weeks children who had never before opened a book, and could hardly repeat a Pater Noster or an Ave, would study the whole day long with the keenest interest. Even after supper, when I used to say to them, ‘Children, will you go to bed, or learn something?’ they would generally answer, especially in the first month or two, ‘Learn something.’ It is true that afterwards, when they had to get up very early, it was not quite the same.

“But this first eagerness did much towards starting the establishment on the right lines, and making the studies the success they ultimately were, a success indeed, which far surpassed my expectations. And yet great beyond expression were my difficulties. I did not as yet find it possible to organise the studies properly.

“Neither my trust nor my zeal had been able to overcome either the intractability of individuals or the want of coherence in the whole experiment. The general order of the establishment, I felt, must be based upon order of a higher character. As this higher order did not yet exist, I had to attempt to create it; for without this foundation I could not hope to organise properly either the teaching or the general management of the place, nor should I have wished to do so. I wanted everything to result not from a preconceived plan, but from my relations with the children. The high principles and educating forces I was seeking, I looked for from the harmonious common life of my children, from their common attention, activity, and needs. It was not, then, from any external organisation that I looked for the regeneration of which they stood so much in need. If I had employed constraint, regulations, and lectures, I should, instead of winning and ennobling my children’s hearts, have repelled them and made them bitter, and thus been farther than ever from my aim. First of all, I had to arouse in them pure, moral, and noble feelings, so that afterwards, in external things, I might be sure of their ready attention, activity, and obedience. I had, in short, to follow the high precept of Jesus Christ, ‘Cleanse first that which is within, that the outside may be clean also; and if ever the truth of this precept was made manifest, it was made manifest then.

“My one aim was to make their new life in common, and their new powers, awaken a feeling of brotherhood amongst the children, and make them affectionate, just, and considerate.

“I was successful in gaining my aims. Amongst these seventy wild beggar-children there soon existed such peace, friendship, and cordial relations as are rare even between actual brothers and sisters.

“The principle to which I endeavoured to conform all my conduct was as follows: Endeavour, first, to broaden your children’s sympathies, and, by satisfying their daily needs, to bring love and kindness into such unceasing contact with their impressions and their activity, that these sentiments may be engrafted in their hearts; then try to give them such judgment and tact as will enable them to make a wise, sure, and abundant use of these virtues in the circle which surrounds them. In the last place, do not hesitate to touch on the difficult questions of good and evil, and the words connected with them. And you must do this especially in connection with the ordinary events of every day, upon which your whole teaching in these matters must be founded, so that the children may be reminded of their own feelings, and supplied, as it were, with solid facts upon which to base their conception of the beauty and justice of the moral life. Even though you should have to spend whole nights in trying to express in two words what others say in twenty, never regret the loss of sleep.

“I gave my children very few explanations; I taught them neither morality nor religion. But sometimes, when they were perfectly quiet, I used to say to them, ‘Do you not think that you are better and more reasonable when you are like this than when you are making a noise?’ When they clung round my neck and called me their father, I used to say, ‘My children, would it be right to deceive your father? After kissing me like this, would you like to do anything behind my back to vex me?’ When our talk turned on the misery of the country, and they were feeling glad at the thought of their own happier lot, I would say, ‘How good God is to have given man a compassionate heart!’ ... They perfectly understood that all they did was but a preparation for their future activity, and they looked forward to happiness as the certain result of their perseverance. That is why steady application soon became easy to them, its object being in perfect accordance with their wishes and their hopes. Virtue, my friend, is developed by this agreement, just as the young plant thrives when the soil suits its nature, and supplies the needs of its tender shoots.

“I witnessed the growth of an inward strength in my children, which, in its general development, far surpassed my expectations, and in its particular manifestations not only often surprised me, but touched me deeply.

“When the neighbouring town of Altdorf was burnt down, I gathered the children round me, and said, ‘Altdorf has been burnt down; perhaps, at this very moment, there are a hundred children there without home, food, or clothes; will you not ask our good Government to let twenty of them come and live with us?’ I still seem to see the emotion with which they answered, ‘Oh, yes, yes!’ ‘But, my children,’ I said, ‘think well of what you are asking! Even now we have scarcely money enough, and it is not at all certain that if these poor children came to us, the Government would give us any more than they do at present, so that you might have to work harder, and share your clothes with these children, and sometimes perhaps go without food. Do not say, then, that you would like them to come unless you are quite prepared for all these consequences.’ After having spoken to them in this way as seriously as I could, I made them repeat all I had said, to be quite sure that they had thoroughly understood what the consequences of their request would be. But they were not in the least shaken in their decision, and all repeated, ‘Yes, yes, we are quite ready to work harder, eat less, and share our clothes, for we want them to come.’

“Some refugees from the Grisons having given me a few crowns for my poor children, I at once called them and said, ‘These men are obliged to leave their country; they hardly know where they will find a home to-morrow, yet, in spite of their trouble, they have given me this for you. Come and thank them.’ And the emotion of the children brought tears to the eyes of the refugees.

“It was in this way that I strove to awaken the feeling of each virtue before talking about it, for I thought it unwise to talk to children on subjects which would compel them to speak without thoroughly understanding what they were saying.

“I followed up this awakening of the sentiments by exercises intended to teach the children self-control, so that all that was good in them might be applied to the practical questions of every-day life.

“It will easily be understood that, in this respect, it was not possible to organise any system of discipline for the establishment; that could only come slowly, as the general work developed.

“Silence, as an aid to application, is perhaps the great secret of such an institution. I found it very useful to insist on silence when I was teaching, and also to pay particular attention to the attitude of my children. I succeeded so well that the moment I asked for silence, I could teach in quite a low voice. The children repeated my words all together; and as there was no other sound, I was able to detect the slightest mistakes of pronunciation. It is true that this was not always so. Sometimes, whilst they repeated sentences after me, I would ask them as if in fun to keep their eyes fixed on their middle fingers. It is hardly credible how useful simple things of this sort sometimes are as means to the very highest ends.

“One young girl, for instance, who had been little better than a savage, by keeping her head and body upright, and not looking about, made more progress in her moral education than any one would have believed possible.

“These experiences have shown me that the mere habit of carrying oneself well does much more for the education of the moral sentiments than any amount of teaching and lectures in which this simple fact is ignored.

“Thanks to the application of these principles, my children soon became more open, more contented and more susceptible to every good and noble influence than any one could possibly have foreseen when they first came to me, so utterly devoid were they of ideas, good feelings, and moral principles. As a matter of fact, this lack of previous instruction was not a serious obstacle to me; indeed, it hardly troubled me at all. I am inclined even to say that, in the simple method I was following, it was often an advantage, for I had incomparably less trouble to develop those children whose minds were still blank, than those who had already acquired inaccurate ideas. The former, too, were much more open than the latter to the influence of all pure and simple sentiments.

“But when the children were obdurate and churlish, then I was severe, and made use of corporal punishment.

“My dear friend, the pedagogical principle which says that we must win the hearts and minds of our children by words alone without having recourse to corporal punishment, is certainly good, and applicable under favourable conditions and circumstances; but with children of such widely different ages as mine, children for the most part beggars, and all full of deeply-rooted faults, a certain amount of corporal punishment was inevitable, especially as I was anxious to arrive surely, speedily, and by the simplest means, at gaining an influence over them all, for the sake of putting them all in the right road. I was compelled to punish them, but it would be a mistake to suppose that I thereby, in any way, lost the confidence of my pupils.

“It is not the rare and isolated actions that form the opinions and feelings of children, but the impressions of every day and every hour. From such impressions they judge whether we are kindly disposed towards them or not, and this settles their general attitude towards us. Their judgment of isolated actions depends upon this general attitude.

“This is how it is that punishments inflicted by parents rarely make a bad impression. But it is quite different with schoolmasters and teachers who are not with their children night and day, and have none of those relations with them which result from life in common.

“My punishments never produced obstinacy; the children I had beaten were quite satisfied if a moment afterwards I gave them my hand and kissed them, and I could read in their eyes that the final effect of my blows was really joy. The following is a striking instance of the effect this sort of punishment sometimes had. One day one of the children I liked best, taking advantage of my affection, unjustly threatened one of his companions. I was very indignant, and my hand did not spare him. He seemed at first almost broken-hearted, and cried bitterly for at least a quarter of an hour. When I had gone out, however, he got up, and going to the boy he had ill-treated, begged his pardon, and thanked him for having spoken about his bad conduct. My friend, this was no comedy; the child had never seen anything like it before.

“It was impossible that this sort of treatment should produce a bad impression on my children, because all day long I was giving them proofs of my affection and devotion. They could not misread my heart, and so they did not misjudge my actions. It was not the same with the parents, friends, strangers, and teachers who visited us; but that was natural. But I cared nothing for the opinion of the whole world, provided my children understood me.

“I always did my best, therefore, to make them clearly understand the motives of my actions in all matters likely to excite their attention and interest. This, my friend, brings me to the consideration of the moral means to be employed in a truly domestic education.

“Elementary moral education, considered as a whole, includes three distinct parts: the children’s moral sense must first be aroused by their feelings being made active and pure; then they must be exercised in self-control, so that they may give themselves to that which is right and good; finally they must be brought to form for themselves, by reflection and comparison, a just notion of the moral rights and duties which are theirs by reason of their position and surroundings.

“So far, I have pointed out some of the means I employed to reach the first two of these ends. They were just as simple for the third; for I still made use of the impressions and experiences of their daily life to give my children a true and exact idea of right and duty. When, for instance, they made a noise, I appealed to their own judgment, and asked them if it was possible to learn under such conditions. I shall never forget how strong and true I generally found their sense of justice and reason, and how this sense increased and, as it were, established their good will.

“I appealed to them in all matters that concerned the establishment. It was generally in the quiet evening hours that I appealed to their free judgment. When, for instance, it was reported in the village that they had not enough to eat, I said to them, ‘Tell me, my children, if you are not better fed than you were at home? Think, and tell me yourselves, whether it would be well to keep you here in such a way as would make it impossible for you afterwards, in spite of all your application and hard work, to procure what you had become accustomed to. Do you lack anything that is really necessary? Do you think that I could reasonably and justly do more for you? Would you have me spend all the money that is entrusted to me on thirty or forty children instead of on eighty as at present? Would that be just?’

“In the same way, when I heard that it was reported that I punished them too severely, I said to them: ‘You know how I love you, my children; but tell me would you like me to stop punishing you? Do you think that in any other way I can free you from your deeply-rooted bad habits, or make you always mind what I say?’ You were there, my friend, and saw with your own eyes the sincere emotion with which they answered, ‘We don’t complain about your hitting us. We wish we never deserved it. But we want to be punished when we do wrong.’

“Many things that make no difference in a small household could not be tolerated where the numbers were so great. I tried to make my children feel this, always leaving them to decide what could or could not be allowed. It is true that in my intercourse with them I never spoke of liberty or equality; but, at the same time, I encouraged them as far as possible to be free and unconstrained in my presence, with the result that every day I marked more and more that clear open look in their eyes which, in my experience, is the sign of a really liberal education. I could not bear the thought of betraying the trust in me which I saw shining in their eyes; I strove constantly to strengthen it and at the same time their free individuality, that nothing might happen to trouble those angel-eyes, the sight of which caused me the most intense delight. But I could not endure frowns and anxious looks; I myself smoothed away the frowns; then the children smiled, and even among themselves they took care not to shew frowning faces.

“By reason of their great number, I had occasion nearly every day to point out the difference between good and evil, justice and injustice. Good and evil are equally contagious amongst so many children, so that, according as the good or bad sentiments spread, the establishment was likely to become either much better or much worse than if it had only contained a smaller number. About this, too, I talked to them frankly. I shall never forget the impression that my words produced when, in speaking of a certain disturbance that had taken place among them, I said, ‘My children, it is the same with us as with every other household; when the children are numerous, and each gives way to his bad habits, the disorder becomes such that the weakest mother is driven to take sensible measures in bringing up her children, and make them submit to what is just and right. And that is what I must do now. If you do not willingly assist in the maintenance of order, our establishment cannot go on, you will fall back into your former condition, and your misery—now that you have been accustomed to a good home, clean clothes, and regular food—will be greater than ever. In this world, my children, necessity and conviction alone can teach a man to behave; when both fail him, he is hateful. Think for a moment what you would become if you were safe from want and cared nothing for right, justice, or goodness. At home there was always some one who looked after you, and poverty itself forced you to many a right action; but with convictions and reason to guide you, you will rise far higher than by following necessity alone.’

“I often spoke to them in this way without troubling in the least whether they each understood every word, feeling quite sure that they all caught the general sense of what I said....

“Here are a few more thoughts which produced a great impression on my children: ‘Do you know anything greater or nobler than to give counsel to the poor, and comfort to the unfortunate? But if you remain ignorant and incapable, you will be obliged, in spite of your good heart, to let things take their course; whereas, if you acquire knowledge and power, you will be able to give good advice, and save many a man from misery.’

“I have generally found that great, noble, and high thoughts are indispensable for developing wisdom and firmness of character.

“Such an instruction must be complete in the sense that it must take account of all our aptitudes and all our circumstances; it must be conducted, too, in a truly psychological spirit, that is to say, simply, lovingly, energetically, and calmly. Then, by its very nature, it produces an enlightened and delicate feeling for everything true and good, and brings to light a number of accessory and dependent truths, which are forthwith accepted and assimilated by the human soul, even in the case of those who could not express these truths in words.

“I believe that the first development of thought in the child is very much disturbed by a wordy system of teaching, which is not adapted either to his faculties or the circumstances of his life. According to my experience, success depends upon whether what is taught to children commends itself to them as true through being closely connected with their own personal observation and experience....

“I knew no other order, method, or art, but that which resulted naturally from my children’s conviction of my love for them, nor did I care to know any other.

“Thus I subordinated the instruction of my children to a higher aim, which was to arouse and strengthen their best sentiments by the relations of every-day life as they existed between themselves and me....

“As a general rule I attached little importance to the study of words, even when explanations of the ideas they represented were given.

“I tried to connect study with manual labour, the school with the workshop, and make one thing of them. But I was the less able to do this as staff, material, and tools were all wanting. A short time only before the close of the establishment, a few children had begun to spin; and I saw clearly that, before any fusion could be effected, the two parts must be firmly established separately—study, that is, on the one hand, and labour on the other.

“But in the work of the children I was already inclined to care less for the immediate gain than for the physical training which, by developing their strength and skill, was bound to supply them later with a means of livelihood. In the same way I considered that what is generally called the instruction of children should be merely an exercise of the faculties, and I felt it important to exercise the attention, observation, and memory first, so as to strengthen these faculties before calling into play the art of judging and reasoning; this, in my opinion, was the best way to avoid turning out that sort of superficial and presumptuous talker, whose false judgments are often more fatal to the happiness and progress of humanity than the ignorance of simple people of good sense.

“Guided by these principles, I sought less at first to teach my children to spell, read, and write than to make use of these exercises for the purpose of giving their minds as full and as varied a development as possible....

“In natural history they were very quick in corroborating what I taught them by their own personal observations on plants and animals. I am quite sure that, by continuing in this way, I should soon have been able not only to give them such a general acquaintance with the subject as would have been useful in any vocation, but also to put them in a position to carry on their education themselves by means of their daily observations and experiences; and I should have been able to do all this without going outside the very restricted sphere to which they were confined by the actual circumstances of their lives. I hold it to be extremely important that men should be encouraged to learn by themselves and allowed to develop freely. It is in this way alone that the diversity of individual talent is produced and made evident.

“I always made the children learn perfectly even the least important things, and I never allowed them to lose ground; a word once learnt, for instance, was never to be forgotten, and a letter once well written never to be written badly again. I was very patient with all who were weak or slow, but very severe with those who did anything less well than they had done it before.

“The number and inequality of my children rendered my task easier. Just as in a family the eldest and cleverest child readily shows what he knows to his younger brothers and sisters, and feels proud and happy to be able to take his mother’s place for a moment, so my children were delighted when they knew something that they could teach others. A sentiment of honour awoke in them, and they learned twice as well by making the younger ones repeat their words. In this way I soon had helpers and collaborators amongst the children themselves. When I was teaching them to spell difficult words by heart, I used to allow any child who succeeded in saying one properly to teach it to the others. These child-helpers, whom I had formed from the very outset, and who had followed my method step by step, were certainly much more useful to me than any regular schoolmasters could have been.

“I myself learned with the children. Our whole system was so simple and so natural that I should have had difficulty in finding a master who would not have thought it undignified to learn and teach as I was doing....

“You will hardly believe that it was the Capuchin friars and the nuns of the convent that showed the greatest sympathy with my work. Few people, except Truttman, took any active interest in it. Those from whom I had hoped most were too deeply engrossed with their high political affairs to think of our little institution as having the least degree of importance.

“Such were my dreams; but at the very moment that I seemed to be on the point of realizing them, I had to leave Stanz.”

§ 50. Heroic efforts rise above the measurement of time. As Byron has said, “A thought is capable of years,” and it seldom happens that the nobleness of any human action depends on the time it lasts. Pestalozzi’s five months’ experiment at Stanz proved one of the most memorable events in the history of education. He was now completely satisfied that he saw his way to giving children a right education and “thus raising the beggar out of the dung-hill”; and seeing the right course he was urged by his love of the people into taking it. But how was he to set to work? His notions of school instruction differed entirely from those of the teaching profession; and even in the revolutionary age they had some reason for looking askance at this revolutionist. “He had everything against him,” we read, “thick, indistinct speech, bad writing, ignorance of drawing, scorn of grammatical learning. He had studied various branches of natural history, but without any particular attention either to classification or terminology. He was conversant with the ordinary operations in arithmetic, but he would have had difficulty in getting through a really long sum in multiplication or division; and he probably had never tried to work out a problem in geometry. For years this dreamer had read no books. But instead of the usual knowledge that any young man of ordinary talent can acquire in a year or two, he understood thoroughly what most masters were entirely ignorant of—the mind of man and the laws of its development, human affections and the art of arousing and ennobling them. He seemed to have almost an intuitive insight into the development of human nature, and was never tired of contemplating it.” (C. Monnard in R.’s Guimps, p. 174.)[157]

§ 51. This man wished to be a schoolmaster, but who would venture to entrust him with a school? No one seemed willing to do this; and he would have been at a loss where to turn had he not had influential friends at Burgdorf, a town not far from Bern. These got for him permission to teach, not indeed the children of burgesses but the children of non-burgesses, seventy-three of whom used to assemble under a shoemaker in his house in the suburbs. With this arrangement, however, the shoemaker and the parents of the children were by no means satisfied. “If the burgesses like the new method,” they said very reasonably, “let them try it on their own children.” Their grumbling was heard, and permission to teach was withdrawn from Pestalozzi.

§ 52. The check, however, was only temporary. His friends were wiser than the shoemaker, and they procured for him admission into the lowest class of the school for burghers’ children. In this class there were about 25 children, boys and girls between the ages of 5 and 8. Here he proved that he was vastly different from a mere dreamer. After teaching these children in his own way for eight months he received the first official recognition of the merits of his system. The Burgdorf School Commission after the usual examination, wrote a public letter to Pestalozzi, in which they said: “The surprising progress of your little scholars of various capacities shews plainly that every one is good for something, if the teacher knows how to get at his abilities and develop them according to the laws of psychology. By your method of teaching you have proved how to lay the groundwork of instruction in such a way that it may afterwards support what is built on it.... Between the ages of 5 and 8, a period in which according to the system of torture enforced hitherto, children have learnt to know their letters, to spell and read, your scholars have not only accomplished all this with a success as yet unknown, but the best of them have already distinguished themselves by their good writing, drawing, and calculating. In them all you have been able so to arouse and excite a liking for history, natural history, mensuration, geography, &c., that thus future teachers must find their task a far easier one if they only know how to make good use of the preparatory stage the children have gone through with you” (Morf, Pt. I, p. 223).

§ 53. In consequence of this report, Pestalozzi in June 1800 was made master of the second school of Burgdorf, a school numbering about 70 boys and girls from 10 to 16 years old. With them Pestalozzi did not get on so well. Ramsauer, a poor boy of 10 who afterwards helped Pestalozzi at Yverdun and became one of his best teachers, has left us his remembrances. Two things seemed clear to the child’s mind: 1st, that their teacher was very kind but very unhappy; 2nd, that the pupils did not learn anything and behaved very badly. Many schoolmasters have smiled in derision at this account of Pestalozzi’s actual teaching; but in reading it several things should be borne in mind. First Ramsauer as a child would have a keen eye and good memory for the master’s eccentricities; but how far the teaching succeeded he could not judge, for he did not know what it aimed at. Then again he saw that Pestalozzi’s zeal was for the whole school, not for individual scholars. But the child who knew of nothing beyond Burgdorf could not tell that Pestalozzi was thinking not so much of the children of Burgdorf as of the children of Europe. For Burgdorf—whether it was pleased to honour or to dismiss Pestalozzi—could not contain him. His aims extended beyond the town, beyond canton Bern, beyond Switzerland even; and he was consumed with zeal to bring about a radical change in elementary education throughout Europe. The truth which was burning within him he has himself expressed as follows:

“If we desire to aid the poor man, the very lowest among the people, this can be done in one way only, that is, by changing his schools into true places of education, in which the moral, intellectual, and physical powers which God has put into our nature may be drawn out, so that the man may be enabled to live a life such as a man should live, contented in himself and satisfying other people. Thus and only thus does the man, whom in God’s wide world nobody helps and nobody can help, learn to help himself.” “The public common school-coach throughout Europe must not simply be better horsed, but still more it must be turned round and be brought on to an entirely new road.” (Quoted by Morf, P. I, p. 211.)

§ 54. Pestalozzi was now working heart and soul at the engineering of this “new road.” His grand successes hitherto had been gained more by the heart than by the head; but the school course must draw out the faculties of the head as well as of the heart. Pestalozzi made all instruction start from what children observed for themselves. “I laid special stress,” he says, “on just what usually affected their senses. And as I dwelt much on elementary knowledge, I wanted to know when the child receives its first lesson, and I soon came to the conviction that the first hour of learning dates from birth. From the very moment that the child’s senses open to the impressions of nature, nature teaches it. Its new life is but the faculty, now come to maturity, of receiving impressions; it is the awakening of the germs now perfect which will go on using all their forces and energies to secure the development of their proper organisation; it is the awakening of the animal now complete which will and shall become a man. So the sole instruction given to the human being consists merely in the art of giving a helping hand to this natural tendency towards its proper development; and this art consists essentially in the means of putting the child’s impressions in connexion and harmony with the precise degree of development the child has reached. There must be then in the impressions to be given him by instruction, a regular gradation; and the beginning and the progress of his various knowledges must exactly correspond with the beginning and increase in his powers as they are developed. From this I soon saw that this gradation must be ascertained for all the branches of human knowledge, especially for those fundamental notions from which our thinking power takes its rise. On such principles and no others is it possible to construct real school books and books about teaching” (Wie Gertrud, &c., Letter I.).

§ 55. In endeavouring to put teaching, as he said, “on a psychological basis,” Pestalozzi compared it to a mechanism. On one occasion when expounding his views, he was interrupted by the exclamation, “Vous voulez mécaniser l’éducation!” Pestalozzi was weak in French, and he took these words to mean, “You wish to get at the mechanism of education.” He accordingly assented, and was in his turn misunderstood. Soon afterwards he endeavoured to express the new thing by a new word and said, “Ich will den menschlichen Unterricht psychologisieren; I wish to psychologise instruction,” and this he explains to mean that he sought to make instruction fall in with the eternal laws which govern the development of the human intellect (Morf, I, p. 227). But this was a task which no one man could accomplish, not even Pestalozzi. The eternal laws which govern the development of mind have not been completely ascertained even after investigations carried on during thousands of years; and Pestalozzi did not know what had been established by previous thinkers. He made a gigantic effort to find both the laws and their application, but if he had continued to stand alone he could have done but little. Happily he attracted to him some young and vigorous assistants, who caught his enthusiasm and worked in his spirit. They did much, but there was one thing the Master could not communicate—his genius.

§ 56. Just at this time, before Pestalozzi found associates in his work, he drew up for a “Society of Friends of Education” an account of his method; and this begins with the words I have already quoted, “I want to psychologise education.” Basing all instruction on Anschauung (which is nearly equivalent to the child’s own observation), he explains how this may be used for a series of exercises, and he takes as the general elements of culture the following: language, drawing, writing, arithmetic, and the art of measuring. In the education of the poor he would lay special stress on the importance of two things, then and since much neglected, viz., singing and the sense of the beautiful. The mother’s cradle song should begin a series leading up to hymns of praise to God. Education should develop in all a sense of the beauties of Nature. “Nature is full of lovely sights, yet Europe has done nothing either to awaken in the poor a sense for these beauties, or to arrange them in such a way as to produce a series of impressions capable of developing this sense.... If ever popular education should cease to be the barbarous absurdity it now is, and put itself into harmony with the real needs of our nature, this want will be supplied.” (R.’s Guimps, 186.)

§ 57. In the last year of the eighteenth century (1800) Pestalozzi was toiling away, constant to his purpose but not clearly seeing the road before him. In March, 1800, he wrote to Zschokke: “For thirty years my life has been a well-nigh hopeless struggle against the most frightful poverty.... For thirty years I have had to forego many of the barest necessaries of life, and have had to shun the society of my fellow-men from sheer lack of decent clothes. Many and many a time have I gone without a dinner and eaten in bitterness a dry crust of bread on the road at a time when even the poorest were seated round a table. All this I have suffered and am still suffering to-day, and with no other object than the realization of my plans for helping the poor” (R.’s Guimps, 189). It was clear that he could not help others till he himself got help; and he now did get just the help he wanted, an assistant who though a schoolmaster was, strange to say, perfectly ready to learn, and to throw himself into carrying out another man’s ideas. This was Hermann Kruesi, a man twenty-five years old, who from the age of 18 had been master of the village school at Gais in Appenzell. In consequence of the war between the French and Austrians, Appenzell was now reduced to a state of famine, and bands of children were sent off to other cantons to escape starvation. Fischer, a friend of Pestalozzi’s, and himself an educationist taught by Salzmann ([supra 289]), wrote from Burgdorf to the pastor of Gais, offering to get thirty children taken in by the people of Burgdorf, and asking that they might be sent with some one who would look after them in the day-time and teach them. In answer to this invitation Kruesi, after a week’s march, entered Burgdorf with a troop of little ones. The children were drawn up in an open place, and benevolent people chose which they would adopt. Kruesi was taken into the Castle which the Government had made over partly to Fischer, partly to Pestalozzi. In it Kruesi opened a day-school. Fischer soon afterwards died; and Pestalozzi proposed to Kruesi, who had become entirely converted to his views, that they should unite and together carry on the school in the Castle. By a decree of 23rd July, 1800, the Executive Council granted to Pestalozzi the gratuitous use of as much of the Castle and garden as he needed, and thus was established Pestalozzi’s celebrated Institute at Burgdorf.

§ 58. Very soon Kruesi enlisted other helpers who had read Leonard and Gertrude, viz., Tobler and Buss, and this is his account of the party: “Our society thus consisted of four very different men ... the founder, whose chief reputation was that of a dreamy writer, incapable in practical life, and three young men, one [Tobler] a private tutor whose youth had been much neglected, who had begun to study late, and whose pedagogic efforts had never produced the results his character and talents seemed to promise; another [Buss], a bookbinder, who devoted his leisure to singing and drawing; and a third [Kruesi himself], a village schoolmaster who carried out the duties of his office as best he could without having been in any way prepared for them. Those who looked on this group of men, scarce one of them with a home of his own, naturally formed but a small opinion of their capabilities. And yet our work succeeded, and won the public confidence beyond the expectations of those who knew us, and even beyond our own” (R.’s Guimps, 304).

§ 59. With assistance from the Government there was added to the united schools of Pestalozzi and Kruesi a training class for teachers; and elementary teachers were sent to spend a month at Burgdorf and learn of Pestalozzi, as years afterwards they were sent to the same town to learn of Froebel. This Institute opened in January, 1801, and had nearly three years of complete success. In it was carried out Pestalozzi’s notion that there should be “no gulf between the home and the school.” On one occasion a parent visiting the establishment exclaimed, “Why, this is not a school but a family!” and Pestalozzi declared that this was the highest praise he could give it. The bond which united them all, both teachers and scholars, was love of “Father Pestalozzi.” Want of space kept the number of children below a hundred, and these enjoyed great freedom and worked away without rewards and almost without punishments. Both public reports and private speak very highly of the results. In June, 1802, the President of the Council of Public Education in Bern declares: “Pestalozzi has discovered the real and universal laws of all elementary teaching.” A visitor, Charles Victor von Bonstetten, writes: “The children know little, but what they know, they know well.... They are very happy and evidently take great pleasure in their lessons, which says a great deal for the method.... As it will be long before there is another Pestalozzi, I fear that the rich harvest his discovery seems to promise will be reserved for future ages.”

The success of the method was specially conspicuous in arithmetic. A Nürnberg merchant who came prejudiced against Pestalozzi was much impressed and has acknowledged: “I was amazed when I saw these children treating the most complicated calculations of fractions as the simplest thing in the world.”

§ 60. Up to this point Pestalozzi may be said to have gained by the disposition to “reform” or revolutionise everything, which had prevailed in Switzerland since 1798. But from the reaction which now set in he suffered more than he had gained. Switzerland sent deputies to Paris to discuss under the direction of the First Consul Bonaparte what should be their future form of Government. Among these deputies Pestalozzi was elected, and he set off thinking more of the future of the schools than of the future of the Government. At Paris he asked for an interview with Bonaparte, but destruction being in his opinion a much higher art than instruction, the First Consul said he could not be bothered about questions of A, B, C. He, however, deputed Monge to hear what Pestalozzi had to say, but the mathematician seems to have agreed with some English authorities that “there was nothing in Pestalozzi.”[158] On his return to Switzerland Pestalozzi was asked by Buss, “Did you see Bonaparte?” “No,” replied Pestalozzi, “I did not see Bonaparte and Bonaparte did not see me.” His presumption in thus putting himself on an equality with the great conqueror seems to have taken away the breath of his contemporaries: but “the whirligig of time brings in his revenges,” and before the close of the century Europe already thinks more in amount, and immeasurably more in respect, of Pestalozzi than of Bonaparte.

§ 61. As a result of the reaction the Government of United Switzerland ceased to exist, and the Cantons were restored. This destroyed Pestalozzi’s hopes of Government support, and even turned his Institute out of doors. The Castle of Burgdorf was at once demanded for the Prefect of the District; but Pestalozzi was offered an old convent at Münchenbuchsee near Bern, and thither he was forced to migrate.

§ 62. Close to Münchenbuchsee was Hofwyl where was the agricultural institution of Emmanuel Fellenberg. Fellenberg and Pestalozzi were old friends and correspondents, and as they had much regard for each other and Fellenberg was as great in administration as Pestalozzi in ideas, there seemed a chance of their benefiting by co-operation; but this could not be. The teachers desired that the administration should be put into the hands of Fellenberg, and this was done accordingly, “not without my consent,” says Pestalozzi, “but to my profound mortification.” He could not work with this “man of iron,” as he calls Fellenberg; so he left Münchenbuchsee and accepting one of several invitations he settled in the Castle of Yverdun near the lake of Neuchatel. Within a twelvemonth he was followed by his old assistants, who had found government by Fellenberg less to their taste than no-government by Pestalozzi.

§ 63. Thus arose the most celebrated Institute of which we read in the history of education. For some years its success seemed prodigious. Teachers came from all quarters, many of them sent by the Governments of the countries to which they belonged, that they might get initiated into the Pestalozzian system. Children too were sent from great distances, some of them being intrusted to Pestalozzi, some of them living with their own tutor in Yverdun and only attending the Institute during the day. The wave of enthusiasm for the new ideas seemed to carry everything before it; but there is nothing stable in a wave, and when the enthusiasm has subsided disappointment follows. This was the case at Yverdun, and Pestalozzi outlived his Institute. But the principles on which he worked and the spirit in which he worked could not pass away; and, at least in Germany, all elementary schoolmasters acknowledge how much they are indebted to his teaching.

§ 64. Of the state of things in the early days of the Institute we have a very lively account written for his own children by Professor Vuillemin, who entered it in 1805 as a child of eight, and was in it for two years. From this I extract the following portrait of Pestalozzi: “Imagine, my children, a very ugly man with rough bristling hair, his face scarred with small-pox and covered with freckles, an untidy beard, no neck-tie, his breeches not properly buttoned and coming down to his stockings, which in their turn descended on to his great thick shoes; fancy him panting and jerking as he walked; then his eyes which at one time opened wide to send a flash of lightning, at another were half closed as if engaged on what was going on within; his features now expressing a profound sadness and now again the most peaceful happiness; his speech either slow or hurried, either soft and melodious or bursting forth like thunder; imagine the man and you have him whom we used to call our Father Pestalozzi. Such as I have sketched him for you we loved him; we all loved him, for he loved us all; we loved him so warmly that when some time passed without our seeing him, we were quite troubled about it, and when he again appeared we could not take our eyes off him” (Guimps, 315).

§ 65. At this time he was no less loved by his assistants, who put up with any quarters that could be found for them, and received no salary. We read that the money paid by the scholars was kept in the room of “the head of the family”; every master could get the key, and when they required clothes they took from these funds just the sum requisite. This system, or want of system, went on for some time without abuse. As Vuillemin says, it was like a return to the early days of the Christian Church.

§ 66. We have seen that the first Emperor Napoleon “could not be bothered about questions of A, B, C.” His was the pride that goes before a fall. On the other hand the Prussian Government which he brought to the dust in the battle of Jena (1806) had the wisdom to perceive that children will become men, and that the nature of the instruction they receive will in a great measure determine what kind of men they turn out. How was Prussia again to raise its head? Its rulers decided that it was by the education of the people. “We have lost in territory,” said the king; “our power and our credit abroad have fallen; but we must and will go to work to gain in power and in credit at home. It is for this reason that I desire above everything that the greatest attention be paid to the education of the people” (Guimps, 319). About the same time the Queen (Louisa) wrote in her private diary, “I am reading Leonard and Gertrude, and I delight in being transported into the Swiss village. If I could do as I liked I should take a carriage and start for Switzerland to see Pestalozzi; I should warmly shake him by the hand, and my eyes filled with tears would speak my gratitude.... With what goodness, with what zeal, he labours for the welfare of his fellow-creatures! Yes, in the name of humanity, I thank him with my whole heart.”

So in the day of humiliation Prussia seriously went to work at the education of the people, and this she did on the lines pointed out by Pestalozzi. To him they were directed by their philosopher Fichte, who in his Addresses to the German Nation (delivered at Berlin 1807-8) declared that education was the only means of raising a nation, and that all sound reform of public instruction must be based on the principles of Pestalozzi.

To bring these principles to bear on popular education, the Prussian Government sent seventeen young men for a three years’ course to Pestalozzi’s Institute, “where,” as the Minister said in a letter to Pestalozzi, “they will be prepared not only in mind and judgment, but also in heart, for the noble vocation which they are to follow, and will be filled with a sense of the holiness of their task, and with new zeal for the work to which you have devoted your life.”

§ 67. Among the eminent men who were drawn to Yverdun were some who afterwards did great things in education, as e.g., Karl Ritter, Karl von Raumer the historian of education, the philosopher Herbart, and a man who was destined to have more influence than anyone, except perhaps Pestalozzi himself—I mean Friedrich Froebel. Ritter’s testimony is especially striking. “I have seen,” says he, “more than the Paradise of Switzerland, for I have seen Pestalozzi, and recognised how great his heart is, and how great his genius; never have I been so filled with a sense of the sacredness of my vocation and the dignity of human nature as in the days I spent with this noble man.... Pestalozzi knew less geography than a child in one of our primary schools, yet it was from him that I gained my chief knowledge of this science; for it was in listening to him that I first conceived the idea of the natural method. It was he who opened the way to me, and I take pleasure in attributing whatever value my work may have entirely to him.”

§ 68. At this time we read glowing accounts of the healthy and happy life of the children; and throughout Pestalozzi never lost a single pupil by illness. With a body of very able assistants, instruction was carried on for ten hours out of the twenty-four; but in these hours there was reckoned the time spent in drill, gymnastics, hand-work, and singing. The monotony of school-life was also broken by frequent “festivals.”

§ 69. And yet the Institute had taken into it the seeds of its own ruin. There were several causes of failure, though these were not visible till the house was divided against itself.

§ 70. First, Pestalozzi based the morality and discipline of the school on the relations of family life. He would be the “father” of all the children. At Burgdorf this relation seemed a reality, but it completely failed at Yverdun when the Institute became, from the number of the pupils and their differences in language, habits, and antecedents, a little world. The pupils still called him “Father Pestalozzi,” but he could no longer know them as a father should know his children. Thus the discipline of affection slowly disappeared, and there was no school discipline to take its place.

§ 71. Next, we can see that even at Burgdorf, and still more at Yverdun, Pestalozzi was attempting to do impossibilities. According to his system, the faculties of the child were to be developed in a natural unbroken order, and the first exercises were to give the child the power of surmounting later difficulties by its own exertions. But this education could not be started at any age, and yet children of every age and every country were received into the Institution. It was not likely that the fresh comers could be made to understand that they “knew nothing,” and must start over again on a totally different road. The teachers might take such pupils to the water of “sense-impressions,” but they could not inspire the inclination to drink, nor induce the lad to learn what he supposed himself to know already. ([Cfr. supra p. 64, § 4.])

§ 72. But there was a greater mischief at work than either of these. In his discourse to the members of the Institution on New Year’s Day, 1808, Pestalozzi surprised them all by his gloom. He had had a coffin brought in, and he stood beside it. “This work,” said he, “was founded by love, but love has disappeared from our midst.” This was only too true, and the discord was more deeply rooted than at first appeared. Among the brood of Pestalozzians there was a Catholic shepherd lad from Tyrol, Joseph Schmid by name, and he, in the end, proved a veritable cuckoo. As he shewed very marked ability in mathematics, he became one of the assistant masters; and a good deal of the fame of the Institution rested on the performances of his pupils. But his ideas differed totally from those of his colleagues, especially from those of Niederer, a clergyman with a turn for philosophy, who had become Pestalozzi’s chief exponent.

§ 73. After Pestalozzi’s gloomy speech, the masters, with the exception of Schmid, urged Pestalozzi to apply for a Government inquiry into the state of the Institution. This Pestalozzi did, and Commissioners were appointed, among them an educationist, Père Girard of Freiburg, by whom the Report was drawn up. The Report was not favourable. Père Girard was by no means inclined to sit at the feet of Pestalozzi, as he had principles of his own. Pestalozzi, he thought, laid far too much stress on mathematics, and he drew from him a statement that everything taught to a child should seem as certain as that two and two made four. “Then,” said Girard, “if I had thirty children I would not intrust you with one of them. You could not teach him that I was his father.” Thus the Report, though very friendly in tone, was by no means friendly in spirit. The Commissioners simply compared the performances of the scholars with what pupils of the same age could do in good schools of the ordinary type, and Père Girard stated, though not in the Report, that the Institution was inferior to the Cantonal School of Aargau. But the comparison of these incommensurables only shews that Girard was not capable of understanding what was going on at Yverdun. Indeed, he asserts “not only that the mother-tongue was neglected,” but also that the children, “though they had reached a high pitch of excellence in abstract mathematics, were inconceivably weak in all ordinary practical calculations.” This is absurd. In Pestalozzian teaching the abstract never went before ordinary practical calculations. The good Father evidently blunders, and takes “head-reckoning” for abstract, and pen or pencil arithmetic for practical work. Reckoning with slate or paper is no doubt “ordinary,” but a distinction has often to be drawn between what is ordinary and what is practical.

§ 74. Soon after this the disputes between Schmid and his colleagues waxed so fierce that Schmid was virtually driven away. In 1810 he left Yverdun, and declared the Institution “a disgrace to humanity.” Great was the disorder into which the Institution now fell from having over it only a genius with “an unrivalled incapacity to govern.” The days which “remind us of the early Church” were no more, and financial difficulties naturally followed them. For the next five years things went from bad to worse, and the masters were then driven to the desperate, and, as it proved, the fatal step of inviting the able and strong-willed Schmid back again. He came in 1815, he acquired entire control over Pestalozzi, and drove from him all his most faithful adherents, among them not only Niederer, who had invited the return of his rival, but even Kruesi and the faithful servant, Elizabeth Naef, now Mrs. Kruesi, the widow of Kruesi’s brother. Pestalozzi’s grandson married Schmid’s sister, and thus united with him by family ties, Schmid took entire possession of the old man and kept it till the end. His former colleagues seem to have been deceived in their estimate both of Schmid’s integrity and ability. He completed the ruin of the Institution, and he was finally expelled from Yverdun by the Magistrates.

§ 75. But while Pestalozzi seemed falling lower and lower to the eyes of the inhabitants of Yverdun, and so had little honour in his own country, his fame was spreading all over Europe. Of this Yverdun was to reap the benefit. In 1813-14, Austrian troops marched across Switzerland to invade France. In January, 1814, the Castle and other buildings in Yverdun were “requisitioned” for a military hospital, many of the Austrian soldiers being down with typhus fever. In a great fright the Municipality sent off two deputies to headquarters, then at Basel, to petition that this order might be withdrawn. As the order threatened the destruction of his Institution, Pestalozzi went with them, and it was entirely to him they owed their success. On their return they reported that “no military hospital would be established at Yverdun, and that M. Pestalozzi had been received with most extraordinary favour.”

§ 75. On this occasion Pestalozzi took the opportunity of preaching to the Emperor Alexander on the necessity of establishing good schools and of emancipating the serfs. The Emperor took the lecture in good part, and allowed the philanthropist to drive him into a corner and “button-hole” him.

§ 76. In 1815 Pestalozzi received a visit from an Englishman, or more accurately Scotsman—Dr. Bell, who, however, like most of our compatriots, could find nothing in Pestalozzi. Whatever we may think of Bell as an educationist, he was certainly a poor prophet. On leaving Yverdun he said, “In another twelve years mutual instruction will be adopted by the whole world and Pestalozzi’s method will be forgotten.”[159]

§ 77. In December, 1815, Pestalozzi was thrown more completely into the power of Schmid by losing the only companion from whom nothing but death could separate him—his wife. At the funeral Pestalozzi, standing by the coffin, and as if heard by her whose earthly remains were in it, ran over the disasters and trials they had passed through together, and the sacrifices she had made for him. “What in those days of affliction,” said he, “gave us strength to bear our troubles and recover hope?” and taking up a Bible he went on, “This is the source whence you drew, whence we both drew courage, strength, and peace.”

§ 78. The “death agony of the Institution,” as Guimps calls it, lasted for some years, but in this gloomy period there are only two incidents I will mention. The first is the publication of Pestalozzi’s writings, for which Schmid and Pestalozzi sought subscriptions; and the appeal was so cordially answered that Pestalozzi received £2,000. This sum he wished to devote to the carrying out of a plan he had always cherished of an orphanage at Neuhof; but the money seems to have melted we do not know how.

§ 79. The other incident is that of Pestalozzi’s last success. In spite of Schmid he would open a school for twelve neglected children at Clindy, a hamlet near Yverdun. Here he produced results like those which had crowned his first efforts at Neuhof, Stanz, and Burgdorf. Old, absent-minded, and incapable as he seemed in ordinary affairs, he, as though by enchantment, gained the attention and the affection of the children, and bent them entirely to his will. In a few months the number of children had risen to thirty, and wonderful progress had been made. Clindy at once became celebrated. Pestalozzi was induced to admit some children whose friends paid for them, and Schmid then persuaded the old man to remove the school into the Castle.

§ 80. In 1824 the Institution, which had lasted for twenty years, was finally closed, and Pestalozzi went to spend his remaining days (nearly three years as it proved) at Neuhof, which was then in the hands of his grandson. The year before his death he visited an orphanage conducted on his principles by Zeller at Beuggen near Rheinfelden. The children sang a poem of Goethe’s quoted in Leonard and Gertrude, and had a crown of oak ready to put on the old man’s head; but this he declined. “I am not worthy of it,” said he, “keep it for innocence.”

§ 81. On 17th February, 1827, at the age of eighty-one, Pestalozzi fell asleep.

§ 82. “The reform needed,” said Pestalozzi, “is not that the school-coach should be better horsed, but that it should be turned right round and started on a new track.” This may seem a violent metaphor, but perhaps it is not more violent than the change that was (and in this country still is) necessary. Let us try to ascertain what is the right road according to Pestalozzi, and then see on what road the school-coach is now travelling.

§ 83. The grand change advocated by Pestalozzi was a change of object. The main object of the school should not be to teach but to develop.

§ 84. This change of object naturally brings many changes with it. Measured by their capacity for acquiring school knowledge and skill young children may be considered, as one of H.M. Inspectors considered them, “the fag-end of the school.” But if the school exists not to teach but to develop, young children, instead of being the “fag-end,” become the most important part of all. In the development of all organisms more depends on the earlier than on the later stages; and there is no reason to doubt that this law holds in the case of human beings. On this account, from the days of Pestalozzi educational science has been greatly, I may say mainly, concerned with young children. For the dominating thought has been that the young human being is an undeveloped organism, and that in education that organism is developed. So the essence of Pestalozzianism lies not so much in its method as in its aim, not more in what it does than in what it endeavours to do.

§ 85. And thus it was that Pestalozzi (in Raumer’s words) “compelled the scholastic world to revise the whole of their task, to reflect on the nature and destiny of man, and also on the proper way of leading him from his youth towards that destiny.” And it was his love of his fellow-creatures that raised him to this standpoint. He was moved by “the enthusiasm of humanity.” Consumed with grief for the degradation of the Swiss peasantry, he never lost faith in their true dignity as men, and in the possibility of raising them to a condition worthy of it. He cast about for the best means of thus raising them, and decided that it could be effected, not by any improvement in their outward circumstances, but by an education which should make them what their Creator intended them to be, and should give them the use and the consciousness of all their inborn faculties. “From my youth up,” he says, “I felt what a high and indispensable human duty it is to labour for the poor and miserable; ... that he may attain to a consciousness of his own dignity through his feeling of the universal powers and endowments which he possesses awakened within him; that he may not only learn to gabble over by rote the religious maxim that ‘man is created in the image of God, and is bound to live and die as a child of God,’ but may himself experience its truth by virtue of the Divine power within him, so that he may be raised, not only above the ploughing oxen, but also above the man in purple and silk who lives unworthily of his high destiny” (Quoted in Barnard, p. 13).

Again he says (and I quote at length on the point, as it is indeed the key to Pestalozzianism), “Why have I insisted so strongly on attention to early physical and intellectual education? Because I consider these as merely leading to a higher aim, to qualify the human being for the free and full use of all the faculties implanted by the Creator, and to direct all these faculties towards the perfection of the whole being of man, that he may be enabled to act in his peculiar station as an instrument of that All-wise and Almighty Power that has called him into life” (To Greaves, p. 160).

§ 86. Believing in this high aim of education, Pestalozzi required a proper early training for all alike. “Every human being,” said he, “has a claim to a judicious development of his faculties by those to whom the care of his infancy is confided” (Ib. p. 163).

§ 87. Pestalozzi therefore most earnestly addressed himself to mothers, to convince them of the power placed in their hands, and to teach them how to use it. “The mother is qualified, and qualified by the Creator Himself, to become the principal agent in the development of her child; ... and what is demanded of her is—a thinking love.... God has given to thy child all the faculties of our nature, but the grand point remains undecided—how shall this heart, this head, these hands, be employed? to whose service shall they be dedicated? A question the answer to which involves a futurity of happiness or misery to a life so dear to thee.... It is recorded that God opened the heavens to the patriarch of old, and showed him a ladder leading thither. This ladder is let down to every descendant of Adam; it is offered to thy child. But he must be taught to climb it. And let him not attempt it by the cold calculations of the head, or the mere impulse of the heart; but let all these powers combine, and the noble enterprise will be crowned with success. These powers are already bestowed on him, but to thee it is given to assist in calling them forth” (To Greaves, p. 21). “Maternal love is the first agent in education.... Through it the child is led to love and trust his Creator and his Redeemer.”

§ 88. From the theory of development which lay at the root of Pestalozzi’s views of education, it followed that the imparting of knowledge and the training for special pursuits held only a subordinate position in his scheme. “Education, instead of merely considering what is to be imparted to children, ought to consider first what they may be said already to possess, if not as a developed, at least as an involved faculty capable of development. Or if, instead of speaking thus in the abstract, we will but recollect that it is to the great Author of life that man owes the possession, and is responsible for the use, of his innate faculties, education should not simply decide what is to be made of a child, but rather inquire what it was intended that he should become. What is his destiny as a created and responsible being? What are his faculties as a rational and moral being? What are the means for their perfection, and the end held out as the highest object of their efforts by the Almighty Father of all, both in creation and in the page of revelation?”

§ 89. Education, then, must consist “in a continual benevolent superintendence, with the object of calling forth all the faculties which Providence has implanted; and its province, thus enlarged, will yet be with less difficulty surveyed from one point of view, and will have more of a systematic and truly philosophical character, than an incoherent mass of ‘lessons’—arranged without unity of principle, and gone through without interest—which too often usurps its name.”

The educator’s task then is to superintend and promote the child’s development, morally, intellectually, and physically.

§ 90. “The essential principle of education is not teaching,” said Pestalozzi; “it is love” (R.’s G., 289). Again he says, “The child loves and believes before it thinks and acts” (Ib. 378). And in a very striking passage (Ib. 329), where he compares the development of the various powers of a human being to the development of a tree, he says, “These forces of the heart—faith and love—are in the formation of immortal man what the root is for the tree.” So, according to Pestalozzi, a child without faith and love can no more grow up to be what he should be than a tree can grow without a root. Apart from this vital truth there can be no such thing as Pestalozzianism.

“Ah yet when all is thought and said

The heart still overrules the head.”

It is our hearts and affections that lead us right or wrong far more than our intellects. In advocating the training of the minds of the people, Lord Derby once remarked that as Chairman of Quarter Sessions he had found most of the culprits brought before him were stupid and ignorant. It certainly cannot be denied that the commonest kind of criminal is bad in every way. He has his body ruined by debauchery, his intellect almost in abeyance, and his heart and affections set on what is vile and degrading. If you could cultivate his intellect you would certainly raise him out of the lowest and by far the largest of the criminal classes. But he might become a criminal of a type less disgusting in externals, but in reality far more dangerous. The most atrocious miscreant of our time, if not of all time, was a man who contrived a machine to sink ships in mid-ocean, his only object being to gain a sum of money on a false insurance. This man was a type of the élite of criminals, had received an intellectual training, and could not have been described by Lord Derby as ignorant or stupid.

§ 91. Pestalozzi then, much as he valued the development of the intellect, put first the moral and religious influence of education; and with him moral and religious were one and the same. He protested against the ordinary routine of elementary education, because “everywhere in it the flesh predominated over the spirit, everywhere the divine element was cast into the shade, everywhere selfishness and the passions were taken as the motives of action, everywhere mechanical habits usurped the place of intelligent spontaneity” (R.’s G., 470). Education for the people must be different to this. “Man does not live by bread alone; every child needs a religious development; every child needs to know how to pray to God in all simplicity, but with faith and love” (R.’s G., 378). “If the religious element does not run through the whole of education, this element will have little influence on the life; it remains formal or isolated”[160] (Ib. 381). And Pestalozzi sums up the essentials of popular education in the words: “The child accustomed from his earliest years to pray, to think, and to work, is already more than half educated” (Ib. 381).