Chapter XV: Part 15

§ 10. As Mr. Spencer is here considering science merely with reference to its importance in earning a livelihood, it is not beside the question to remark, that in a great number of instances, the knowledge of the science which underlies an operation confers no practical ability whatever. No one sees the better for understanding the structure of the eye and the undulatory theory of light. In swimming or rowing, a senior wrangler has no advantage over a man who is entirely ignorant about the laws of fluid pressure. As far as money-getting is concerned then, science will not be found to be universally serviceable. Mr. Spencer gives instances indeed, where science would prevent very expensive blundering; but the true inference is, not that the blunderers should learn science, but that they should mind their own business, and take the opinion of scientific men about theirs. “Here is a mine,” says he, “in the sinking of which many shareholders ruined themselves, from not knowing that a certain fossil belonged to the old red sandstone, below which no coal is found.” Perhaps they were misled by the little knowledge which Pope tells us is a dangerous thing. If they had been entirely ignorant, they would surely have called in a professional geologist, whose opinion would have been more valuable than their own, even though geology had taken the place of classics in their schooling. “Daily are men induced to aid in carrying out inventions which a mere tyro in science could show to be futile.” But these are men whose function it would always be to lose money, not make it, whatever you might teach them.[187] I have great doubt, therefore, whether the learning of sciences will ever be found a ready way of making a fortune. But directly we get beyond the region of pounds, shillings, and pence, I agree most cordially with Mr. Spencer that a rational knowledge has an immense superiority over empirical knowledge. And, as a part of their education, boys should be taught to distinguish the one from the other, and to desire rational knowledge. Much might be done in this way by teaching, not all the sciences and nothing else, but the main principles of some one science, which would enable the more intelligent boys to understand and appreciate the value of “a rational explanation of phenomena.” I believe this addition to what was before a literary education has already been made in some of our leading schools, as Harrow, Rugby, and the City of London.[188]

§ 11. Next, Mr. Spencer would have instruction in the proper way of rearing offspring form a part of his curriculum. There can be no question of the importance of this knowledge, and all that Mr. Spencer says of the lamentable ignorance of parents is, unfortunately, no less undeniable. But could this knowledge be imparted early in life? Young people would naturally take but little interest in it. It is by parents, or at least by those who have some notion of the parental responsibility, that this knowledge should be sought. The best way in which we can teach the young will be so to bring them up that when they themselves have to rear children the remembrance of their own youth may be a guide and not a beacon to them. But more knowledge than this is necessary, and I differ from Mr. Spencer only as to the proper time for acquiring it.

§ 12. Next comes the knowledge which fits a man for the discharge of his functions as a citizen, a subject to which Dr. Arnold attached great importance at the time of the first Reform Bill, and which deserves our attention all the more in consequence of the second and third. But what knowledge are we to give for this purpose? One of the subjects which seem especially suitable is history. But history, as it is now written, is, according to Mr. Spencer, useless. “It does not illustrate the right principles of political action.” “The great mass of historical facts are facts from which no conclusions can be drawn—unorganisable facts, and, therefore, facts of no service in establishing principles of conduct, which is the chief use of facts. Read them if you like for amusement, but do not flatter yourself they are instructive.” About the right principles of political action we seem so completely at sea that, perhaps, the main thing we can do for the young is to point out to them the responsibilities which will hereafter devolve upon them, and the danger, both to the state and the individual, of just echoing the popular cry without the least reflection, according to our present usage. But history, as it is now written by great historians, may be of some use in training the young both to be citizens and men. “Reading about the fifteen decisive battles, or all the battles in history, would not make a man a more judicious voter at the next election,” says Mr. Spencer. But is this true? The knowledge of what has been done in other times, even by those whose coronation renders them so distasteful to Mr. Spencer, is knowledge which influences a man’s whole character, and may, therefore, affect particular acts, even when we are unable to trace the connexion. As it has been often said, the effect of reading history is, in some respects, the same as that of travelling. Anyone in Mr. Spencer’s vein might ask, “If a man has seen the Alps, of what use will that be to him in weighing out groceries?” Directly, none at all; but indirectly, much. The travelled man will not be such a slave to the petty views and customs of his trade as the man who looks on his county town as the centre of the universe. The study of history, like travelling, widens the student’s mental vision, frees him to some extent from the bondage of the present, and prevents his mistaking conventionalities for laws of nature. It brings home to him, in all its force, the truth that “there are also people beyond the mountain” (_Hinter dem Berge sind auch Leute_), that there are higher interests in the world than his own business concerns, and nobler men than himself or the best of his acquaintance. It teaches him what men are capable of, and thus gives him juster views of his race. And to have all this truth worked into the mind contributes perhaps as largely to “complete living” as knowledge of the Eustachian tubes or of the normal rate of pulsation.[189] I think, therefore, that the works of great historians and biographers, which we already possess, may be usefully employed in education. It is difficult to estimate the value of history according to Mr. Spencer’s idea, as it has yet to be written; but I venture to predict that if boys, instead of reading about the history of nations in connection with their leading men, are required to study only “the progress of society,” the subject will at once lose all its interest for them; and, perhaps, many of the facts communicated will prove, after all, no less unorganisable than the fifteen decisive battles.

§ 13. Lastly, we come to that “remaining division of human life which includes the relaxations and amusements filling leisure hours.” Mr. Spencer assures us that he will yield to none in the value he attaches to æsthetic culture and its pleasures; but if he does not value the fine arts less, he values science more; and painting, music, and poetry would receive as little encouragement under his dictatorship as in the days of the Commonwealth. “As the fine arts and belles-lettres occupy the leisure part of life, so should they occupy the leisure part of education.” This language is rather obscure; but the only meaning I can attach to it is, that music, drawing, poetry, &c., may be taught if time can be found when all other knowledges are provided for. This reminds me of the author whose works are so valuable that they will be studied when Shakspeare is forgotten—but not before. Any one of the sciences which Mr. Spencer considers so necessary might employ a lifetime. Where then shall we look for the leisure part of education when education includes them all?[190]

§ 14. But, if adopting Mr. Spencer’s own measure, we estimate the value of knowledge by its influence on action, we shall probably rank “accomplishments” much higher than they have hitherto been placed in the schemes of educationists. Knowledge and skill connected with the business of life, are of necessity acquired in the discharge of business. But the knowledge and skill which make our leisure valuable to ourselves and a source of pleasure to others, can seldom be gained after the work of life has begun. And yet every day a man may benefit by possessing such an ability, or may suffer from the want of it. One whose eyesight has been trained by drawing and painting finds objects of interest all around him, to which other people are blind. A primrose by a river’s brim is, perhaps, more to him who has a feeling for its form and colour than even to the scientific student, who can tell all about its classification and component parts. A knowledge of music is often of the greatest practical service, as by virtue of it, its possessor is valuable to his associates, to say nothing of his having a constant source of pleasure and a means of recreation which is most precious as a relief from the cares of life. Of far greater importance is the knowledge of our best poetry. One of the first reforms in our school course would have been, I should have thought, to give this knowledge a much more prominent place; but Mr. Spencer consigns it, with music and drawing, to “the leisure part of education.” Whether a man who was engrossed by science, who had no knowledge of the fine arts except as they illustrated scientific laws, no acquaintance with the lives of great men, or with any history but sociology, and who studied the thoughts and emotions expressed by our great poets merely with a view to their psychological classification—whether such a man could be said to “live completely” is a question to which every one, not excepting Mr. Spencer himself, would probably return the same answer. And yet this is the kind of man which Mr. Spencer’s system would produce where it was most successful.

§ 15. Let me now briefly sum up the conclusions arrived at, and consider how far I differ from Mr. Spencer. I believe that there is no one study which is suited to train the faculties of the mind at every stage of its development, and that when we have decided on the necessity of this or that knowledge, we must consider further what is the right time for acquiring it. I believe that intellectual education should aim, not so much at communicating facts, however valuable, as at showing the boy what true knowledge is, and giving him the power and the _disposition_ to acquire it. I believe that the exclusively scientific teaching which Mr. Spencer approves would not effect this. It would lead at best to a very one-sided development of the mind. It might fail to engage the pupil’s interest sufficiently to draw out his faculties, and in this case the net outcome of his school-days would be no larger than at present. Of the knowledges which Mr. Spencer recommends for special objects, some, I think, would not conduce to the object, and some could not be communicated early in life, (1.) For indirect self-preservation we do not require to know physiology, but the results of physiology. (2.) The science which bears on special pursuits in life has not, in many cases, any pecuniary value, and although it is most desirable that every one should study the science which makes his work intelligible to him, this must usually be done when his schooling is over. The school will have done its part if it has accustomed him to the intellectual processes by which sciences are learned, and has given him an intelligent appreciation of their value.[191] (3.) The right way of rearing and training children should be studied, but not by the children themselves. (4.) The knowledge which fits a man to discharge his duties as a citizen is of great importance, and, as Dr. Arnold pointed out, is likely to be entirely neglected by those who have to struggle for a livelihood. The schoolmaster should, therefore, by no means neglect this subject with those of his pupils whose school-days will soon be over, but, probably, all that he can do is to cultivate in them a sense of the citizen’s duty, and a capacity for being their own teachers. (5.) The knowledge of poetry, belles-lettres, and the fine arts, which Mr. Spencer hands over to the leisure part of education, is the only knowledge in his program which I think should most certainly form a prominent part in the curriculum of every school.

§ 16. I therefore differ, though with great respect, from the conclusions at which Mr. Spencer has arrived. But I heartily agree with him that we are bound to inquire into the relative value of knowledges, and if we take, as I should willingly do, Mr. Spencer’s test, and ask how does this or that knowledge influence action (including in our inquiry its influence on mind and character, through which it bears upon action), I think we should banish from our schools much that has hitherto been taught in them, besides those old tormentors of youth (laid, I fancy, at last—_requiescant in pace_)—the _Propria quæ Maribus_ and its kindred absurdities. What we _should_ teach is, of course, not so easily decided as what we _should not_.

§ 17. I now come to consider Mr. Spencer’s second chapter, in which, under the heading of “Intellectual Education,” he gives an admirable summing up of the main principles in which the great writers on the subject have agreed, from Comenius downwards. These principles are, perhaps, not all of them unassailable, and even where they are true, many mistakes must be expected before we arrive at the best method of applying them; but the only reason that can be assigned for the small amount of influence they have hitherto exercised is, that most teachers are as ignorant of them as of the abstrusest doctrines of Kant and Hegel.

§ 18. In stating these principles Mr. Spencer points out that they merely form a commencement for a science of education. “Before educational methods can be made to harmonise in character and arrangement with the faculties in the mode and order of unfolding, it is first needful that we ascertain with some completeness how the faculties _do_ unfold. At present we have acquired on this point only a few general notions. These general notions must be developed in detail—must be transformed into a multitude of specific propositions before we can be said to possess that _science_ on which the _art_ of education must be based. And then, when we have definitely made out in what succession and in what combinations the mental powers become active, it remains to choose out of the many possible ways of exercising each of them, that which best conforms to its natural mode of action. Evidently, therefore, it is not to be supposed that even our most advanced modes of teaching are the right ones, or nearly the right ones.” It is not to be wondered at that we have no science of education. Those who have been able to observe the phenomena have had no interest in generalising from them. Up to the present time the schoolmaster has been a person to whom boys were sent to learn Latin and Greek. He has had, therefore, no more need of a science than the dancing-master.[192] But the present century, which has brought in so many changes, will not leave the state of education as it found it. Latin and Greek, if they are not dethroned in our higher schools, will have their despotism changed for a very limited monarchy. A course of instruction certainly without Greek and perhaps without Latin will have to be provided for middle schools. Juster views are beginning to prevail of the schoolmaster’s function. It is at length perceived that he has to assist the development of the human mind, and perhaps, by-and-bye, he may think it as well to learn all he can of that which he is employed in developing. When matters have advanced as far as this, we may begin to hope for a science of education. In Locke’s day he could say of physical science that there was no such science in existence. For thousands of years the human race had lived in ignorance of the simplest laws of the world it inhabited. But the true method of inquiring once introduced, science has made such rapid conquests, and acquired so great importance, that some of our ablest men seem inclined to deny, if not the existence, at least the value, of any other kind of knowledge. So, too, when teachers seek by actual observation to discover the laws of mental development, a science may be arrived at, which, in its influence on mankind, would perhaps rank before any we now possess.

§ 19. Those who have read the previous Essays will have seen in various forms most of the principles which Mr. Spencer enumerates, but I gladly avail myself of his assistance in summing them up.

1. We should proceed from the simple to the complex, both in our choice of subjects and in the way in which each subject is taught. We should begin with but few subjects at once, and, successively adding to these, should finally carry on all subjects abreast.

Each larger concept is made by a combination of smaller ones, and presupposes them. If this order is not attended to in communicating knowledge, the pupil can learn nothing but words, and will speedily sink into apathy and disgust.

§ 20. That we must proceed from the known to the unknown is something more than a corollary to the above;[193] because not only are new concepts formed by the combination of old, but the mind has a liking for what it knows, and this liking extends itself to all that can be connected with its object. The principle of using the known in teaching the unknown is so simple, that all teachers who really endeavour to make anything understood, naturally adopt it. The traveller who is describing what he has seen and what we have not seen tells us that it is in one particular like this object, and in another like that object, with which we are already familiar. We combine these different concepts we possess, and so get some notion of things about which we were previously ignorant. What is required in our teaching is that the use of the known should be employed more systematically. Most teachers think of boys who have no school learning as entirely ignorant. The least reflection shows, however, that they know already much more than schools can ever teach them. A sarcastic examiner is said to have handed a small piece of paper to a student and told him to write _all he knew_ on it. Perhaps many boys would have no difficulty in stating the sum of their school-learning within very narrow limits, but with other knowledge a child of five years old, could he write, might soon fill a volume.[194] Our aim should be to connect the knowledge boys bring with them to the schoolroom with that which they are to acquire there.[195] I suppose all will allow, whether they think it a matter of regret or otherwise, that hardly anything of the kind has hitherto been attempted. Against this state of things I cannot refrain from borrowing Mr. Spencer’s eloquent protest. “Not recognising the truth that the function of books is supplementary—that they form an indirect means to knowledge when direct means fail, a means of seeing through other men what you cannot see for yourself, teachers are eager to give second-hand facts in place of first-hand facts. Not perceiving the enormous value of that spontaneous education which goes on in early years, not perceiving that a child’s restless observation, instead of being ignored or checked, should be diligently ministered to, and made as accurate and complete as possible, they insist on occupying its eyes and thoughts with things that are, for the time being, incomprehensible and repugnant. Possessed by a superstition which worships the symbols of knowledge instead of the knowledge itself, they do not see that only when his acquaintance with the objects and processes of the household, the street, and the fields, is becoming tolerably exhaustive, only then should a child be introduced to the new sources of information which books supply, and this not only because immediate cognition is of far greater value than mediate cognition, but also because the words contained in books can be rightly interpreted into ideas only in proportion to the antecedent experience of things.”[196] While agreeing heartily in the spirit of this protest, I doubt whether we should wait till the child’s acquaintance with the objects and processes of the household, the streets, and the fields, is becoming tolerably exhaustive before we give him instruction from books. The point of time which Mr. Spencer indicates is, at all events, rather hard to fix, and I should wish to connect book-learning as soon as possible with the learning that is being acquired in other ways. Thus might both the books, and the acts and objects of daily life, win an additional interest. If, _e.g._, the first reading-books were about the animals, and later on about the trees and flowers which the children constantly meet with, and their attention was kept up by large coloured pictures, to which the text might refer, the children would soon find both pleasure and advantage in reading, and they would look at the animals and trees with a keener interest from the additional knowledge of them they had derived from books. This is, of course, only one small application of a very influential principle.

§ 21. One marvellous instance of the neglect of this principle is found in the practice of teaching Latin grammar before English grammar. As Professor Seeley has so well pointed out, children bring with them to school the knowledge of language in its concrete form. They may soon be taught to observe the language they already know, and to find, almost for themselves, some of the main divisions of words in it. But, instead of availing himself of the child’s previous knowledge, the schoolmaster takes a new and difficult language, differing as much as possible from English, a new and difficult science, that of grammar, conveyed, too, in a new and difficult terminology, and all this he tries to teach at the same time. The consequence is that the science is destroyed, the terminology is either misunderstood, or, more probably, associated with no ideas, and even the language for which every sacrifice is made, is found, in nine cases out of ten, never to be acquired at all.[197]

§ 22. 2. “All development is an advance from the indefinite to the definite.” I do not feel very certain of the truth of this principle, or of its application, if true. Of course, a child’s intellectual conceptions are at first vague, and we should not forget this; but it is rather a fact than a principle.

§ 23. 3. “Our lessons ought to start from the concrete, and end in the abstract.” What Mr. Spencer says under this head well deserves the attention of all teachers. “General formulas which men have devised to express groups of details, and which have severally simplified their conceptions by uniting many facts into one fact, they have supposed must simplify the conceptions of a child also. They have forgotten that a generalisation is simple only in comparison with the whole mass of particular truths it comprehends; that it is more complex than any one of these truths taken simply; that only, after many of these single truths have been acquired, does the generalisation ease the memory and help the reason; and that, to a mind not possessing these single truths, it is necessarily a mystery. Thus, confounding two kinds of simplification, teachers have constantly erred by setting out with “first principles,” a proceeding essentially, though not apparently, at variance with the primary rule [of proceeding from the simple to the complex], which implies that the mind should be introduced to principles through the medium of examples, and so should be led from the particular to the general, from the concrete to the abstract.” In conformity with this principle, Pestalozzi made the actual counting of things precede the teaching of abstract rules in arithmetic. Basedow introduced weights and measures into the school, and Mr. Spencer describes some exercise in cutting out geometrical figures in cardboard, as a preparation for geometry. The difficulty about such instruction is that it requires apparatus, and apparatus is apt to get lost or out of order. But if apparatus is good for anything at all, it is worth a little trouble. There is a tendency in the minds of many teachers to depreciate “mechanical appliances.” Even a decent black-board is not always to be found in our higher schools. But, though such appliances will not enable a bad master to teach well, nevertheless, other things being equal, the master will teach better with them than without them. There is little credit due to him for managing to dispense with apparatus. An author might as well pride himself on being saving in pens and paper.

§ 24. 4. “The genesis of knowledge in the individual must follow the same course as the genesis of knowledge in the race.” This is the thesis on which I have no opinion to offer.

§ 25. 5. From the above principle Mr. Spencer infers that every study should have a purely experimental introduction, thus proceeding through an empirical stage to a rational.

§ 26. 6. A second conclusion which Mr. Spencer draws is that, in education, the process of self-development should be encouraged to the utmost. Children should be led to make their own investigations, and to draw their own inferences. They should be told as little as possible, and induced to discover as much as possible. I quite agree with Mr. Spencer that this principle cannot be too strenuously insisted on, though it obviously demands a high amount of intelligence in the teacher. But if education is to be a training of the faculties, if it is to prepare the pupil to teach himself, something more is needed than simply to pour in knowledge and make the pupil reproduce it. The receptive and reproductive faculties form but a small portion of a child’s powers, and yet the only portion which many schoolmasters seek to cultivate. It is indeed, not easy to get beyond this point; but the impediment is in us, not in the children. “Who can watch,” ask Mr. Spencer, “the ceaseless observation, and inquiry, and inference, going on in a child’s mind, or listen to its acute remarks in matters within the range of its faculties, without perceiving that these powers it manifests, if brought to bear systematically upon studies _within the same range_, would readily master them without help? This need for perpetual telling results from our stupidity, not from the child’s. We drag it away from the facts in which it is interested, and which it is actively assimilating of itself. We put before it facts far too complex for it to understand, and therefore distasteful to it. Finding that it will not voluntarily acquire these facts, we thrust them into its mind by force of threats and punishment. By thus denying the knowledge it craves, and cramming it with knowledge it cannot digest, we produce a morbid state of its faculties, and a consequent disgust for knowledge in general. And when, as a result, partly of the stolid indolence we have brought on, and partly of still-continued unfitness in its studies, the child can understand nothing without explanation, and becomes a mere passive recipient of our instruction, we infer that education must necessarily be carried on thus. Having by our method induced helplessness, we make the helplessness a reason for our method.” It is, of course, much easier to point out defects than to remedy them: but every one who has observed the usual indifference of schoolboys to their work, and the waste of time consequent on their inattention or only half-hearted attention to the matter before them, and then thinks of the eagerness with which the same boys throw themselves into the pursuits of their play-hours, will feel a desire to get at the cause of this difference; and, perhaps, it may seem to him partly accounted for by the fact that their school-work makes a monotonous demand on a single faculty—the memory.

§ 27. 7. This brings me to the last of Mr. Spencer’s principles of intellectual education. Instruction must excite the interest of the pupils and therefore be pleasurable to them. “Nature has made the healthful exercise of our faculties both of mind and body pleasurable. It is true that some of the highest mental powers as yet but little developed in the race, and congenitally possessed in any considerable degree only by the most advanced, are indisposed to the amount of exertion required of them. But these, in virtue of their very complexity will in a normal course of culture come last into exercise, and will, therefore, have no demands made on them until the pupil has arrived at an age when ulterior motives can be brought into play, and an indirect pleasure made to counterbalance a direct displeasure. With all faculties lower than these, however, the immediate gratification consequent on activity is the normal stimulus, and under good management the only needful stimulus. When we have to fall back on some other, we must take the fact as evidence that we are on the wrong track. Experience is daily showing with greater clearness that there is always a method to be found productive of interest—even of delight—and it ever turns out that this is the method proved by all other tests to be the right one.”

§ 28. As far as I have had the means of judging, I have found that the majority of teachers reject this principle. If you ask them why, most of them will tell you that it is impossible to make school-work interesting to children. A large number also hold that it is not desirable. Let us consider these two points separately.

Of course, if it is not possible to get children to take interest in anything they could be taught in school, there is an end of the matter. But no one really goes as far as this. Every teacher finds that some of the things boys are taught they like better than others, and perhaps that one boy takes to one subject and another to another; and he also finds, both of classes and individuals, that they always get on best with what they like best. The utmost that can be maintained is, then, that some subjects which must be taught will not interest the majority of the learners. And if it be once admitted that it is desirable to make learning pleasant and interesting to our pupils, this principle will influence us to some extent in the subjects we select for teaching, and still more in the methods by which we endeavour to teach them. I say we shall be guided _to some extent_ in the selection of subjects. There are theorists who assert that nature gives to young minds a craving for their proper aliment, so that they should be taught only what they show an inclination for. But surely our natural inclinations in this matter, as in others, are neither on the one hand to be ignored, nor on the other to be uncontrolled by such motives as our reason dictates to us. We at length perceive this in the physical nurture of our children. Locke directs that children are to have very little sugar or salt. “Sweetmeats of all kinds are to be avoided,” says he, “which, whether they do more harm to the maker or eater is not easy to tell.” (Ed. § 20.) Now, however, doctors have found out that young people’s taste for sweets should in moderation be gratified, that they require sugar as much as they require any other kind of nutriment. But no one would think of feeding his children entirely on sweetmeats, or even of letting them have an unlimited supply of plum puddings and hardbake. If we follow out this analogy in nourishing the mind, we shall, to some extent, gratify a child’s taste for “stories,” whilst we also provide a large amount of more solid fare. But although we should certainly not ignore our children’s likes and dislikes in learning, or in anything else, it is easy to attach too much importance to them. Dislike very often proceeds from mere want of insight into the subject. When a boy has “done” the First Book of Euclid without knowing how to judge of the size of an angle, or the Second Book without forming any conception of a rectangle, no one can be surprised at his not liking Euclid. And then the failure which is really due to bad teaching is attributed by the master to the stupidity of his pupil, and by the pupil to the dulness of the subject. If masters really desired to make learning a pleasure to their pupils, I think they would find that much might be done to effect this without any alteration in the subjects taught.

But the present dulness of school-work is not without its defenders. They insist on the importance of breaking in the mind to hard work. This can only be done, they say, by tasks which are repulsive to it. The schoolboy does not like, and ought not to like, learning Latin grammar any more than the colt should find pleasure in running round in a circle: the very fact that these things are not pleasant makes them beneficial. Perhaps a certain amount of such training may train _down_ the mind and qualify it for some drudgery from which it might otherwise revolt; but if this result is attained, it is attained at the sacrifice of the intellectual activity which is necessary for any higher function. As Carlyle says, (_Latter-Day PP._, No. iij), when speaking of routine work generally, you want nothing but a sorry nag to draw your sand-cart; your high-spirited Arab will be dangerous in such a capacity. But who would advocate for all colts a training which should render them fit for nothing but such humble toil? I shall say more about this further on (_v._ pp. 472 _ff._); here I will merely express my strong conviction that boys’ minds are frequently dwarfed, and their interest in intellectual pursuits blighted, by the practice of employing the first years of their school-life in learning by heart things which it is quite impossible for them to understand or care for. Teachers set out by assuming that little boys cannot understand anything, and that all we can do with them is to keep them quiet and cram them with forms which will come in useful at a later age. When the boys have been taught on this system for two or three years, their teacher complains that they are stupid and inattentive, and that so long as they can say a thing by heart they never trouble themselves to understand it. In other words, the teacher grumbles at them for doing precisely what they have been taught to do, for repeating words without any thought of their meaning.

§ 29. In this very important matter I am fully alive to the difference between theory and practice. It is so easy to recommend that boys should be got to understand and take an interest in their work—so difficult to carry out the recommendation! Grown people can hardly conceive that words which have in their minds been associated with familiar ideas from time immemorial, are mere sounds in the mouths of their pupils. The teacher thinks he is beginning at the beginning if he says that a transitive verb must govern an accusative, or that all the angles of a square are right angles. He gives his pupils credit for innate ideas up to this point, at all events, and advancing on this supposition he finds that he can get nothing out of them but memory-work; so he insists on this that his time and theirs may seem not to be wholly wasted. The great difficulty of teaching well, however, is after all but a poor excuse for contentedly teaching badly, and it would be a great step in advance if teachers in general were as dissatisfied with themselves as they usually are with their pupils.[198]

§ 30. I do not purpose following Mr. Spencer through his chapters on moral and physical education. In practice I find I can draw no line between moral and religious education; so the discussion of one without the other has not for me much interest. Mr. Spencer has some very valuable remarks on physical education which I could do little more than extract, and I have already made too many quotations from a work which will be in the hands of most of my readers.

§ 31. Mr. Spencer differs very widely from the great body of our schoolmasters. I have ventured in turn to differ on some points from Mr. Spencer; but I have failed to give any adequate notion of the work I have been discussing if the reader has not perceived that it is not only one of the most readable, but also one of the most important books on education in the English language.

XX.

THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTIONS.

$ 1. One of the great wants of middle-class education at present, is an ideal to work towards. Our old public schools have such an ideal. The model public school-man is a gentleman who is an elegant Latin and Greek scholar. True, this may not be a very good ideal, and some of our ablest men, both literary and scientific, are profoundly dissatisfied with it. But, so long as it is maintained, all questions of reform are comparatively simple. In middle-class schools, on the other hand, there is no _terminus ad quem_. A number of boys are got together, and the question arises, not simply _how_ to teach, but _what_ to teach. Where the masters are not university men, they are, it may be, not men of broad views or high culture. Of course no one will suppose me ignorant of the fact that a great number of teachers who have never been at a university, are both enlightened and highly cultivated; and also that many teachers who have taken degrees, even in honours, are neither. But, speaking broadly of the two classes, I may fairly assume that the non-university men are inferior in these respects to the graduates. If not, our universities should be reformed on Carlyle’s “live-coal” principle without further loss of time. Many non-university masters have been engaged in teaching ever since they were boys themselves, and teaching is a very narrowing occupation. They are apt therefore to be careless of general principles, and to aim merely at storing their pupils’ memory with _facts_—facts about language, about history, about geography, without troubling themselves to consider what is and what is not worth knowing, or what faculties the boys have, and how they should be developed. The consequence is their boys get up, for the purpose of forgetting with all convenient speed, quantities of details about as instructive and entertaining as the _Propria quæ maribus_, such as the division of England under the Heptarchy, the battles in the wars of the Roses, and lists of geographical names. Where the masters are university men, they have rather a contempt for this kind of cramming, which makes them do it badly, if they attempt it at all; but they are driven to this teaching in many cases because they do not know what to substitute in its place. In their own school-education they were taught classics and mathematics and nothing else. Their pupils are too young to have much capacity for mathematics, and they will leave school too soon to get any sound knowledge of classics; so the strength of the teaching ought clearly not to be thrown into these subjects. But the master really knows no other. He soon finds that he is not much his pupils’ superior in acquaintance with the theory of the English language or with history and geography. There are not many men with sufficient strength of will to study whilst their energies are taxed by teaching; and standard books are not always within reach: so the master is forced to content himself with hearing lessons in a perfunctory way out of dreary school-books. Hence it comes to pass that he goes on teaching subjects of which he himself is ignorant, subjects, too, of which he does not recognise the importance, with an enlightened disbelief in his own method of tuition. He finds it uphill work, to be sure, and is conscious that his pupils do not get on, however hard he may try to drive them; but he never hoped for success in his teaching, so the want of it does not distress him. I may be suspected of caricature, but not, I think, by university men who have themselves had to teach anything besides classics and mathematics.

§ 2. If there is any truth in what I have been saying, school-teaching, in subjects other than classics and mathematics (which I am not now considering), is very commonly a failure. And a failure it must remain until boys can be got to work with a will, in other words, to feel interest in the subject taught. I know there is a strong prejudice in some people’s minds against the notion of making learning pleasant. They remind us that school should be a preparation for after-life. After-life will bring with it an immense amount of drudgery. If, they say, things at school are made too easy and pleasant (words, by the way, very often and very erroneously confounded), school will cease to give the proper discipline: boys will be turned out not knowing what hard work is, which, after all, is the most important lesson that can be taught them. In these views I sincerely concur, so far as this at least, that we want boys to work hard, and vigorously to go through the necessary drudgery, _i.e._, labour in itself disagreeable. But this result is not attained by such a system as I have described. Boys do not learn to work _hard_, but in a dull stupid way, with most of their faculties lying dormant, and though they are put through a vast quantity of drudgery, they seem as incapable of throwing any energy into it as prisoners on the tread-mill. I think we shall find on consideration, that no one succeeds in any occupation unless that occupation is interesting, either in itself or from some object that is to be obtained by means of it. Only when such an interest is aroused is energy possible. No one will deny that, as a rule, the most successful men are those for whom their employment has the greatest attractions. We should be sorry to give ourselves up to the treatment of a doctor who thought the study of disease mere drudgery, or a dentist who felt a strong repugnance to operating on teeth. No doubt the successful man in every pursuit has to go through a great deal of drudgery, but he has a general interest in the subject, which extends, partially at least, to its most wearisome details; his energy, too, is excited by the desire of what the drudgery will gain for him.[199]

§ 3. Observe, that although I would have boys take pleasure in their work, I regard the pleasure as a _means_, not an end. If it could be proved that the mind was best trained by the most repulsive exercises, I should most certainly enforce them. But I do not think that the mind _is_ benefited by galley-slave labour; indeed, hardly any of its faculties are capable of such labour. We can compel a boy to learn a thing by heart, but we cannot compel him to wish to understand it; and the intellect does not act without the will (_v. supra_ p. 193). Hence, when anything is required which cannot be performed by the memory alone, the driving system utterly breaks down; and even the memory, as I hope to show presently, works much more effectually in matters about which the mind feels an interest. Indeed, the mind without sympathy and interest is like the sea-anemone when the tide is down, an unlovely thing, closed against external influences, enduring existence as best it can. But let it find itself in a more congenial element, and it opens out at once, shows altogether unexpected capacities, and eagerly assimilates all the proper food that comes within its reach. Our school teaching is often little better than an attempt to get sea-anemones to flourish on dry land.

§ 4. We see then, that a boy, before he can throw energy into a study, must find that study _interesting in itself, or in its results_.

Some subjects, properly taught, are interesting in themselves.

Some subjects may be interesting to older and more thoughtful boys, from a perception of their usefulness.

All subjects may be made interesting by emulation.

§ 5. Hardly any effort is made in some schools to interest the younger children in their work, and yet no effort can be, as the Germans say, more “rewarding.” The teacher of children has this advantage, that his pupils are never dull and listless, as youths are apt to be. If they are not attending to him, they very soon give him notice of it; and if he has the sense to see that their inattention is his fault, not theirs, this will save him much annoyance and them much misery. He has, too, another advantage, which gives him the power of gaining their attention—their emulation is easily excited. In the Waisenhaus at Halle I once heard a class of very young children, none of them much above six years old, perform feats of mental arithmetic quite, as I should have said, beyond their age, and I well remember the pretty eagerness with which each child held out a little hand and shouted, “_Mich! Bitte!_” to gain the privilege of answering.

§ 6. Then again, there are many subjects in which children take an interest. Indeed, all visible things, especially animals, are much more to them than to us. A child has made acquaintance with all the animals in the neighbourhood, and can tell you much more about the house and its surroundings than you know yourself. But all this knowledge and interest you would wish forgotten directly he comes into school. Reading, writing, and figures are taught in the driest manner. The two first are in themselves not uninteresting to the child, as he has something to do, and young people are much more ready to do anything than to learn anything. But when lessons are given the child to learn, they are not about things concerning which he has ideas and feels an interest, but you teach him mere sounds—_e.g._, that Alfred (to him only a name) came to the throne in 871, though he has no notion what the throne is, or what 871 means. The child learns the lesson with much trouble and small profit, bearing the infliction with what patience he can, till he escapes out of school and begins to learn much faster on a very different system.

§ 7. We cannot often introduce into the school the thing, much less the animal, which children would care to see, but we can introduce what will please them as well, in some cases even better, viz., good pictures. A teacher who could draw boldly on the blackboard, would have no difficulty in arresting the children’s attention. But, at present, few can do this, and pictures must be provided. A good deal has been done of late years in the way of illustrating children’s books, and even childhood must be the happier for such pictures as those of Tenniel and Harrison Weir. But it seems well understood that these gentlemen are incapable of doing anything for children beyond affording them innocent amusement, and we should be as much surprised at seeing their works introduced into that region of asceticism, the English school-room, as if we ran across one of Raphael’s Madonnas in a Baptist chapel.[200]

§ 8. I had the good fortune, many years ago, to be present at the lessons given by a very excellent teacher to the youngest class, consisting both of boys and girls, at the first _Bürger-schule_ of Leipzig. In Saxony the schooling which the state demands for each child, begins at six years old, and lasts till fourteen. These children were, therefore, between six and seven. In one year, a certain Dr. Vater taught them to read, write, and reckon. His method of teaching was as follows:—Each child had a book with pictures of objects, such as a hat, a slate, &c. Under the picture was the name of the object in printing and writing characters, and also a couplet about the object. The children having opened their books, and found the picture of a hat, the teacher showed them a hat, and told them a tale connected with one. He then asked the children questions about his story, and about the hat he had in his hand—What was the colour of it? &c. He then drew a hat on the blackboard, and made the children copy it on their slates. Next he wrote the word “hat” and told them that for people who could read this did as well as the picture. The children then copied the word on their slates. The teacher proceeded to analyse the word “hat, (_hut_).” “It is made up,” said he, “of three sounds, the most important of which is the _a_ (_u_), which comes in the middle.” In all cases the vowel sound was first ascertained in every syllable, and then was given an approximation to consonantal sounds before and after. The couplet was now read by the teacher, and the children repeated it after him. In this way the book had to be worked over and over till the children were perfectly familiar with everything in it. They had been already six months thus employed when I visited the school, and knew the book pretty thoroughly. To test their knowledge, Dr. Vater first wrote a number of capitals at random on the board, and called out a boy to tell him words having these capitals as initials. This boy had to call out a girl to do something of the kind, she a boy, and so forth. Everything was done very smartly, both by master and children. The best proof I saw of their accuracy and quickness was this: the master traced words from the book very rapidly with a stick on the blackboard, and the children always called out the right word, though I could not follow him. He also wrote with chalk words which the children had never seen, and made them name first the vowel sounds, then the consonantal, then combine them.

I have been thus minute in my description of this lesson, because it seems to me an admirable example of the way in which children between six and eight years of age should be taught. The method (see Rüegg’s _Pädagogik_, p. 360; also _Die Normalwörtermethode_, published by Orell, Füssli, Zürich, 1876), was arranged and the book prepared by the late Dr. Vogel, who was then Director of the school. Its merits, as its author pointed out to me, are:—1. That it connects the instruction with objects of which the child has already an idea in his mind, and so associates new knowledge with old; 2. That it gives the children plenty to _do_ as well as to learn, a point on which the Doctor was very emphatic; 3. That it makes the children go over the same matter in various ways till they have _learnt a little thoroughly_, and then applies their knowledge to the acquirement of more. Here the Doctor seems to have followed Jacotot. But though the method was no doubt a good one, I must say its success at Leipzig was due at least as much to Dr. Vater as to Dr. Vogel. This gentleman had been taking the youngest class in this school for twenty years, and, whether by practice or natural talent, he had acquired precisely the right manner for keeping children’s attention. He was energetic without bustle and excitement, and quiet without a suspicion of dulness or apathy. By frequently changing the employment of the class, and requiring smartness in everything that was done, he kept them all on the alert. The lesson I have described was followed without pause by one in arithmetic, the two together occupying an hour and three quarters, and the interest of the children never flagged throughout.