TASKS.
"Why don't you get your task, instead of playing with your playthings
from morning till night? You are grown too old now to do nothing but
play. It is high time you should learn to read and write, for you
cannot be a child all your life, child; so go and fetch your _book_,
and learn your _task_."
This angry apostrophe is probably addressed to a child, at the moment
when he is intent upon some agreeable occupation, which is now to be
stigmatized with the name of Play. Why that word should all at once
change its meaning; why that should now be a crime, which was formerly
a virtue; why he, who had so often been desired to _go and play_,
should now be reviled for his obedience, the young casuist is unable
to discover. He hears that he is no longer a child: this he is willing
to believe; but the consequence is alarming. Of the new duties
incumbent upon his situation, he has but yet a confused idea. In his
manly character, he is not yet thoroughly perfect: his pride would
make him despise every thing that is childish, but no change has yet
been wrought in the inward man, and his old tastes and new ambition,
are in direct opposition. Whether to learn to read, be a dreadful
thing or not, is a question he cannot immediately solve; but if his
reasoning faculty be suspended, there is yet a power secretly working
within him, by which he will involuntarily be governed. This power is
the power of association: of its laws, he is, probably, not more
ignorant than his tutor; nor is he aware that whatever word or idea
comes into his mind, with any species of pain, will return, whenever
it is recalled to his memory, with the same feelings. The word Task,
the first time he hears it, is an unmeaning word, but it ceases to be
indifferent to him the moment he hears it pronounced in a terrible
voice. "Learn your task," and "fetch your book," recur to his
recollection with indistinct feelings of pain; and hence, without
further consideration, he will be disposed to dislike both books and
tasks; but his feelings are the last things to be considered upon this
occasion; the immediate business, is to teach him to read. A new era
in his life now commences. The age of learning begins, and begins in
sorrow. The consequences of a bad beginning, are proverbially ominous;
but no omens can avert his fate, no omens can deter his tutor from the
undertaking; the appointed moment is come; the boy is four years old,
and he must learn to read. Some people, struck with a panic fear, lest
their children should never learn to read and write, think that they
cannot be in too great a hurry to teach them. Spelling-books,
grammars, dictionaries, rods and masters, are collected; nothing is to
be heard of in the house but tasks; nothing is to be seen but tears.
"No tears! no tasks! no masters! nothing upon compulsion!" say the
opposite party in education. "Children must be left entirely at
liberty; they will learn every thing better than you can teach them;
their memory must not be overloaded with trash; their reason must be
left to grow."
Their reason will never grow, unless it be exercised, is the reply;
their memory must be stored whilst they are young, because, in youth,
the memory is most tenacious. If you leave them at liberty for ever,
they will never learn to spell; they will never learn Latin; they will
never learn Latin grammar; yet, they must learn Latin grammar, and a
number of other disagreeable things; therefore, we must give them
tasks and task-masters.
In all these assertions, perhaps, we shall find a mixture of truth
and errour; therefore, we had better be governed by neither party, but
listen to both, and examine arguments unawed by authority. And first,
as to the panic fear, which, though no argument, is a most powerful
motive. We see but few examples of children so extremely stupid as not
to have been able to learn to read and write between the years of
three and thirteen; but we see many whose temper and whose
understanding have been materially injured by premature or injudicious
instruction; we see many who are disgusted, perhaps irrecoverably,
with literature, whilst they are fluently reading books which they
cannot comprehend, or learning words by rote, to which they affix no
ideas. It is scarcely worth while to speak of the vain ambition of
those who long only to have it said, that their children read sooner
than those of their neighbours do; for, supposing their utmost wish to
be gratified, that their son could read before the age when children
commonly articulate, still the triumph must be of short duration, the
fame confined to a small circle of "foes and friends," and, probably,
in a few years, the memory of the phenomenon would remain only with
his doting grandmother. Surely, it is the use which children make of
their acquirements which is of consequence, not the possessing them a
few years sooner or later. A man, who, during his whole life, could
never write any thing that was worth reading, would find it but poor
consolation for himself, his friends, or the public, to reflect, that
he had been in joining-hand before he was five years old.
As it is usually managed, it is a dreadful task indeed to learn, and,
if possible, a more dreadful task to teach to read. With the help of
counters, and coaxing, and gingerbread, or by dint of reiterated pain
and terror, the names of the four-and-twenty letters of the alphabet,
are, perhaps, in the course of some weeks, firmly fixed in the pupil's
memory. So much the worse; all these names will disturb him, if he
have common sense, and at every step must stop his progress. To begin
with the vowels: each of these have several different sounds, and,
consequently, ought to have several names, or different signs, to
distinguish them in different circumstances. In the first lesson of
the spelling book, the child begins with a-b, makes ab; b-a makes ba.
The inference, if any general inference can be drawn from this lesson,
is, that when _a_ comes before _b_, it has one sound, and after _b_,
it has another sound; but this is contradicted by and by, and it
appears that _a_ after _b_, has various sounds, as in _ball_, in
_bat_, in _bare_. The letter _i_ in _fire_, is _i_, as we call it in
the alphabet, but in fir, it is changed; in _pin_, it is changed
again; so that the child, being ordered to affix to the same sign a
variety of sounds and names, and not knowing in what circumstances to
obey, and in what to disregard the contradictory injunctions imposed
upon him, he pronounces sounds at hazard, and adheres positively to
the last ruled case, or maintains an apparently sullen, or truly
philosophic and sceptical silence. Must _e_ in _pen_, and _e_ in
_where_, and _e_ in _verse_, and _e_ in _fear_, all be called _e_
alike? The child is patted on the head for reading _u_ as it ought to
be pronounced in _future_; but if, remembering this encouragement, the
pupil should venture to pronounce _u_ in _gun_, and _bun_, in the same
manner, he will, inevitably, be disgraced. Pain and shame, impress
precepts upon the mind: the child, therefore, is intent upon
remembering the new sound of _u_ in _bun_; but when he comes to
_busy_, and _burial_, and _prudence_, his last precedent will lead him
fatally astray, and he will again be called a _dunce_. _O_, in the
exclamation _Oh!_ is happily called by its alphabetical name; but in
_to_, we can hardly know it again, and in _morning_ and _wonder_, it
has a third and a fourth additional sound. The amphibious letter _y_,
which is either a vowel or a consonant, has one sound in one
character, and two sounds in the other; as a consonant, it is
pronounced as in _yesterday_; in _try_, it is sounded as _i_; in
_any_, and in the termination of many other words, it is sounded like
_e_. Must a child know all this by intuition, or must it be whipt into
him? But he must know a great deal more, before he can read the most
common words. What length of time should we allow him for learning,
when _c_ is to be sounded like _k_, and when like _s_? and how much
longer time shall we add for learning, when _s_ shall be pronounced
_sh_, as in _sure_, or _z_, as in _has_; the sound of which last
letter _z_, he cannot, by any conjuration, obtain from the name _zed_,
the only name by which he has been taught to call it? How much time
shall we allow a patient tutor for teaching a docile pupil, when _g_
is to be sounded soft, and when hard? There are many carefully worded
rules in the spelling-books, specifying before what letters, and in
what situations, _g_ shall vary in sound; but, unfortunately, these
rules are difficult to be learned by heart, and still more difficult
to understand. These laws, however positive, are not found to be of
universal application, or at least, a child has not always wit or time
to apply them upon the spur of the occasion. In coming to the words
_ingenious gentleman, get a good grammar_, he may be puzzled by the
nice distinctions he is to make in pronunciation in cases apparently
similar; but he has not yet become acquainted with all the powers of
this privileged letter: in company with _h_, it assumes the character
of _f_, as in _tough_; another time he meets it, perhaps, in the same
company, in the same place, and, as nearly as possible, in the same
circumstances, as in the word _though_; but now _g_ is to become a
silent letter, and is to pass incognito, and the child will commit an
unpardonable errour, if he claimed the incognito as his late
acquaintance _f_. Still, all these are slight difficulties; a moment's
reflection must convince us, that by teaching the common names of
every consonant in the alphabet, we prepare a child for misery, when
he begins to spell or read. A consonant, as sayeth the spelling-book,
is a letter which cannot be pronounced without a vowel before or after
it: for this reason, _B_, is called _be_, and _L_, _el_; but why the
vowel should come first in the one case, or last in the second, we are
not informed; nor are we told why the names of some letters have no
resemblance whatever to their sounds, either with a vowel before or
after them. Suppose, that after having learned the alphabet, a child
was to read the words
_Here is some apple-pye._
He would pronounce the letters thus:
_Acheare ies esoeme apepeele pewie._
With this pronunciation the child would never decipher these simple
words. It will be answered, perhaps, that no child is expected to read
as soon as he has learnt his alphabet: a long initiation of
monosyllabic, dissyllabic, trissyllabic, and polysyllabic words is
previously to be submitted to; nor, after this inauguration, are the
novices capable of performing with propriety the ceremony of reading
whole words and sentences. By a different method of teaching, all this
waste of labour and of time, all this confusion of rules and
exceptions, and all the consequent confusion in the understanding of
the pupil, may be avoided.
In teaching a child to read, every letter should have a precise single
sound annexed to its figure; this should never vary. Where two
consonants are joined together, so as to have but one sound, as ph,
sh, &c. the two letters should be coupled together by a distinct
invariable mark. Letters that are silent should be marked in such a
manner as to point out to the child that they are not to be sounded.
Upon these simple rules our method of teaching to read has been
founded. The signs or marks, by which these distinctions are to be
effected, are arbitrary, and may be varied as the teacher chooses; the
addition of a single point above or below the common letters is
employed to distinguish the different sounds that are given to the
same letter, and a mark underneath such letters as are to be omitted,
is the only apparatus necessary. These marks were employed by the
author in 1776, before he had seen Sheridan's, or any similar
dictionary; he has found that they do not confuse children as much as
figures, because when dots are used to distinguish sounds, there is
only a change of place, and no change of form: but any person that
chooses it, may substitute figures instead of dots. It should,
however, be remembered, that children must learn to distinguish the
figures before they can be useful in discriminating the words.
All these sounds, and each of the characters which denote them, should
be distinctly known by a child before we begin to teach him to read.
And here at the first step we must entreat the teacher to have
patience; to fix firmly in her mind, we say _her_ mind, because we
address ourselves to mothers; that it is immaterial whether a child
learns this alphabet in six weeks or in six months; at all events, let
it not be inculcated with restraint, or made tiresome, lest it should
retard the whole future progress of the pupil. We do not mean to
recommend the custom of teaching in play, but surely a cheerful
countenance is not incompatible with application.
The three sounds of the letter (a) should first be taught; they may be
learned by the dullest child in a week, if the letters are shown to
him for a minute or two, twice a day. Proper moments should be chosen
when the child is not intent upon any thing else; when other children
have appeared to be amused with reading; when the pupil himself
appears anxious to be instructed. As soon as he is acquainted with the
sounds of (_a_) and with their distinguishing marks, each of these
sounds should be formed into syllables, with each of the consonants;
but we should never name the consonants by their usual names; if it
be required to point them out by sounds, let them resemble the real
sounds or powers of the consonants; but in fact it will never be
_necessary_ to name the consonants separately, till their powers, in
combination with the different vowels, be distinctly acquired. It will
then be time enough to teach the common names of the letters. To a
person unacquainted with the principles upon which this mode of
teaching is founded, it must appear strange, that a child should be
able to read before he knows the names of his letters; but it has been
ascertained, that the names of the letters are an incumbrance in
teaching a child to read.
Vowels. | Dipthongs. | Consonants.
| |
Sounded as in | Sounded as in | & double Consonants
| |
| |
a fate | [=ea] ocean | c as in cap
[.a] fat | | [c.] city
[.a.] fall | [=ew] few | [=ch] child
e mere | | [=ch.] machine
[.e] met | [=ia] filial | g got
[e.] her | | [.g] age
[.e.] where | [=ie] Daniel | [=ng] long
i fine | | ing thing
[.i] in | [=io] minion | [=le] able
[i.] bird | | [=re] acre
[.i.] machine| [=oi] voice | [=ph] physic
o throne | | [.s] has
[.o] on | [=ou] found | [=sh] she
[o.] love | | [=sion] fusion
[..o] move | [=ow] now | [=th] the
u pure | | ti christian
[ue] busy | [ua] assuage| [=tion] nation
[u.] sun | | [=wh] who
[..u] full | [=ui] languid| [=ough] tough
[.y] by | |
[:y] ably | [=oy] joy |
Consonants
ba ca da fa ga ha ja ka la ma
na pa qua ra sa ta va wa ya za
(`) _This mark under a Letter shews that it is not to be
pronounced, as_ [.e.]ight _in which_ igh _are not
sounded._
[Transcriber's Note: The symbols in this table are as follows:
[.a] indicates dot above letter
[a.] indicates dot below letter
[.a.] indicates dot above letter and below letter
[..o] indicates dot in center of letter
[:a] indicates two dots above letter
[=ea] indicates a horizontal line through letters
[=ch.] indicates a horizontal line through letters and a dot below]
In the quotation from Mrs. Barbauld, at the bottom of the alphabetical
tables, there is a stroke between the letters _b_ and _r_ in
_February_, and between _t_ and _h_, in _there_, to show that these
letters are to be sounded together, so as to make one sound. The same
is to be observed as to (_ng_) in the word _long_, and also as to the
syllable _ing_, which, in the table No. 4, column 4, is directed to be
taught as one sound. The mark (.) of obliteration, is put under (_y_)
in the word _days_, under _e_ final in _there_, and also under one of
the _l_'s and the (_w_) in _yellow_, to show that these letters are
not to be pronounced. The exceptions to this scheme of articulation
are very few; such as occur, are marked, with the number employed in
Walker's dictionary, to denote the exception, to which excellent work,
the teacher will, of course, refer.
Parents, at the first sight of this new alphabet, will perhaps tremble
lest they should be obliged to learn the whole of it before they begin
to teach their children: but they may calm their apprehensions, for
they need only point out the letters in succession to the child, and
sound them as they are sounded in the words annexed to the letters in
the table, and the child will soon, by repetition, render the marks of
the respective letters familiar to the teacher. We have never found
any body complain of difficulty, who has gone on from letter to
letter along with the child who was taught.
As soon as our pupil knows the different sounds of (_a_) combined in
succession with all the consonants, we may teach him the rest of the
vowels joined with all the consonants, which will be a short and easy
work. Our readers need not be alarmed at the apparent slowness of this
method: six months, at the rate of four or five minutes each day, will
render all these combinations perfectly familiar. One of Mrs.
Barbauld's lessons for young children, carefully marked in the same
manner as the alphabet, should, when they are well acquainted with the
sounds of each of the vowels with each of the consonants, be put into
our pupil's hands.[7]
The sound of three or four letters together, will immediately become
familiar to him; and when any of the less common sounds of the vowels,
such as are contained in the second table, and the terminating sounds,
_tion_, _ly_, &c. occur, they should be read to the child, and should
be added to what he has got by rote from time to time. When all these
marks and their corresponding sounds are learnt, the primer should be
abandoned, and from that time the child will be able to read slowly
the most difficult words in the language. We must observe, that the
mark of obliteration is of the greatest service; it is a clue to the
whole labyrinth of intricate and uncouth orthography. The word though,
by the obliteration of three letters, may be as easily read as _the_
or _that_.
It should be observed that all people, before they can read fluently,
have acquired a knowledge of the general appearance of most of the
words in the language, independently of the syllables of which they
are composed. Seven children in the author's family were taught to
read in this manner, and three in the common method; the difference
of time, labour, and sorrow, between the two modes of learning,
appeared so clearly, that we can speak with confidence upon the
subject. We think that nine-tenths of the labour and disgust of
learning to read, may be saved by this method; and that instead of
frowns and tears, the usual harbingers of learning, cheerfulness and
smiles may initiate willing pupils in the most difficult of all human
attainments.
A and H, at four and five years old, after they had learned the
alphabet, without having ever combined the letters into syllables,
were set to read one of Mrs. Barbauld's little books. After being
employed two or three minutes every day, for a fortnight, in making
out the words of this book, a paper with a few raisins well concealed
in its folds, was given to each of them, with these words printed on
the outside of it, marked according to our alphabet:
"Open this, and eat what you find in it."
In twenty minutes, they read it distinctly without any assistance.
The step from reading with these marks, to reading without them, will
be found very easy. Nothing more is necessary, than to give children
the same books, without marks, which they can read fluently with them.
Spelling comes next to reading. New trials for the temper; new perils
for the understanding; positive rules and arbitrary exceptions;
endless examples and contradictions; till at length, out of all
patience with the stupid docility of his pupil, the tutor perceives
the absolute necessity of making him get by heart, with all convenient
speed, every word in the language. The formidable columns in dread
succession arise a host of foes; two columns a day, at least, may be
conquered. Months and years are devoted to the undertaking; but after
going through a whole spelling-book, perhaps a whole dictionary, till
we come triumphantly to spell _Zeugma_, we have forgotten to spell
_Abbot_, and we must begin again with _Abasement_. Merely the learning
to spell so many unconnected words, without any assistance from reason
or analogy, is nothing, compared with the difficulty of learning the
explanation of them by rote, and the still greater difficulty of
understanding the meaning of the explanation. When a child has got by
rote,
"Midnight, the _depth_ of night;"
"Metaphysics, the science which treats of immaterial
beings, and of forms in general abstracted from matter;"
has he acquired any distinct ideas, either of midnight or of
metaphysics? If a boy had eaten rice pudding, till he fancied himself
tolerably well acquainted with rice, would he find his knowledge much
improved, by learning from his spelling-book, the words
"Rice, a foreign esculent grain?"
Yet we are surprised to discover, that men have so few accurate ideas,
and that so many learned disputes originate in a confused or improper
use of words.
"All this is very true," says a candid schoolmaster; "we see the evil,
but we cannot new-model the language, or write a perfect philosophical
dictionary; and, in the mean time, we are bound to teach children to
spell, which we do with the less reluctance, because, though we allow
that it is an arduous task, we have found from experience, that it can
be accomplished, and that the understandings of many of our pupils,
survive all the perils to which you think them exposed during the
operation."
The understandings may, and do, survive the operation; but why should
they be put in unnecessary danger? and why should we early disgust
children with literature, by the pain and difficulty their first
lessons? We are convinced, that the business of learning to spell, is
made much more laborious to children than it need to be: it may be
useful to give them five or six words every day to learn by heart,
but more only loads their memory; and we should, at first, select
words of which they know the meaning, and which occur most frequently
in reading or conversation. The alphabetical list of words in a
spelling-book, contains many which are not in common use, and the
pupil forgets these as fast as he learns them. We have found it
entertaining to children, to ask them to spell any short sentence as
it has been accidentally spoken. "Put this book on that table." Ask a
child how he would spell these words, if he were obliged to write them
down, and you introduce into his mind the idea that he must learn to
spell, before he can make his words and thoughts understood in
writing. It is a good way to make children write down a few words of
their own selection every day, and correct the spelling; and also
after they have been reading, whilst the words are yet fresh in their
memory, we may ask them to spell some of the words which they have
just seen. By these means, and by repeating, at different times in the
day, those words which are most frequently wanted, his vocabulary will
be pretty well stocked without its having cost him many tears. We
should observe that children learn to spell more by the eye than by
the ear, and that the more they read and write, the more likely they
will be to remember the combination of letters in words which they
have continually before their eyes, or which they feel it necessary to
represent to others. When young people begin to write, they first feel
the use of spelling, and it is then that they will learn it with most
ease and precision. Then the greatest care should be taken to look
over their writing, and to make them correct every word in which they
have made a mistake; because, bad habits of spelling, once contracted,
can scarcely be cured: the understanding has nothing to do with the
business, and when the memory is puzzled between the rules of spelling
right, and the habits of spelling wrong, it becomes a misfortune to
the pupil to write even a common letter. The shame which is annexed to
bad spelling, excites young people's attention, as soon as they are
able to understand, that it is considered as a mark of ignorance and
ill breeding. We have often observed, that children listen with
anxiety to the remarks that are made upon this subject in their
presence, especially when the letters or notes of _grown up people_,
are criticised.
Some time ago, a lady, who was reading a newspaper, met with the story
of an ignorant magistrate, who gave for his toast, at a public dinner,
the two K's, for the King and Constitution. "How very much ashamed the
man must have felt, when all the people laughed at him for his
mistake! they must all have seen that he did not know how to spell;
and what a disgrace for a magistrate too!" said a boy who heard the
anecdote. It made a serious impression upon him. A few months
afterwards, he was employed by his father in an occupation which was
extremely agreeable to him, but in which he continually felt the
necessity of spelling correctly. He was employed to send messages by a
telegraph; these messages he was obliged to write down hastily, in
little journals kept for the purpose; and as these were seen by
several people, when the business of the day came to be reviewed, the
boy had a considerable motive for orthographical exactness. He became
extremely desirous to teach himself, and consequently his success was
from that moment certain. As to the rest, we refer to Lady Carlisle's
comprehensive maxim, "Spell well if you can."
It is undoubtedly of consequence, to teach the rudiments of literary
education early, to get over the first difficulties of reading,
writing, and spelling; but much of the anxiety and bustle, and labour
of teaching these things, may be advantageously spared. If more
attention were turned to the general cultivation of the understanding,
and if more pains were taken to make literature agreeable to
children, there would be found less difficulty to excite them to
mental exertion, or to induce the habits of persevering application.
When we speak of rendering literature agreeable to children, and of
the danger of associating pain with the sight of a book, or with the
sound of the word _task_, we should at the same time avoid the errour
of those who, in their first lessons, accustom their pupils to so much
amusement, that they cannot help afterwards feeling disgusted with the
sobriety of instruction. It has been the fashion of late to attempt
teaching every thing to children in play, and ingenious people have
contrived to insinuate much useful knowledge without betraying the
design to instruct; but this system cannot be pursued beyond certain
bounds without many inconveniences. The habit of being amused not only
increases the desire for amusement, but it lessens even the relish for
pleasure; so that the mind becomes passive and indolent, and a course
of perpetually increasing stimulus is necessary to awaken attention.
When dissipated habits are required, the pupil loses power over his
own mind, and, instead of vigorous voluntary exertion, which he should
be able to command, he shows that wayward imbecility, which can think
successfully only by fits and starts: this paralytic state of mind has
been found to be one of the greatest calamities attendant on what is
called genius; and injudicious education creates or increases this
disease. Let us not therefore humour children in this capricious
temper, especially if they have quick abilities: let us give rewards
proportioned to their exertions with uniform justice, but let us not
grant bounties in education, which, however they may appear to succeed
in effecting partial and temporary purposes, are not calculated to
ensure any consequences permanently beneficial. The truth is, that
useful knowledge cannot be obtained without labour; that attention
long continued is laborious, but that without this labour nothing
excellent can be accomplished. Excite a child to attend in earnest
for a short time, his mind will be less fatigued, and his
understanding more improved, than if he had exerted but half the
energy twice as long: the degree of pain which he may have felt will
be amply and properly compensated by his success; this will not be an
arbitrary, variable reward, but one within his own power, and that can
be ascertained by his own feelings. Here is no deceit practised, no
illusion; the same course of conduct may be regularly pursued through
the whole of his education, and his confidence in his tutor will
progressively increase. On the contrary, if, to entice him to enter
the paths of knowledge, we strew them with flowers, how will he feel
when he must force his way through thorns and briars!
There is a material difference between teaching children in play, and
making learning a task; in the one case we associate factitious
pleasure, in the other factitious pain, with the object: both produce
pernicious effects upon the temper, and retard the natural progress of
the understanding. The advocates in favour of "scholastic badinage"
have urged, that it excites an interest in the minds of children
similar to that which makes them endure a considerable degree of
labour in the pursuit of their amusements. Children, it is said, work
hard at play, therefore we should let them play at work. Would not
this produce effects the very reverse of what we desire? The whole
question must at last depend upon the meaning of the word play: if by
play be meant every thing that is not usually called a task, then
undoubtedly much may be learned at play: if, on the contrary, we mean
by the expression to describe that state of fidgeting idleness, or of
boisterous activity, in which the intellectual powers are torpid, or
stunned with unmeaning noise, the assertion contradicts itself. At
play so defined, children can learn nothing but bodily activity; it is
certainly true, that when children are interested about any thing,
whether it be about what we call a trifle, or a matter of consequence,
they will exert themselves in order to succeed; but from the moment
the attention is fixed, no matter on what, children are no longer at
idle play, they are at active work.
S----, a little boy of nine years old, was standing without any book
in his hand, and seemingly idle; he was amusing himself with looking
at what he called a rainbow upon the floor; he begged his sister
M----to look at it; then he said he wondered what could make it; how
it came there. The sun shone bright through the window; the boy moved
several things in the room, so as to place them sometimes between the
light and the colours which he saw upon the floor, and sometimes in a
corner of the room where the sun did not shine. As he moved the
things, he said, "This is not it;" "nor this;" "this has'n't any thing
to do with it." At last he found, that when he moved a tumbler of
water out of the place where it stood, his rainbow vanished. Some
violets were in the tumbler; S---- thought they might be the cause of
the colours which he saw upon the floor, or, as he expressed it,
"Perhaps these may be the thing." He took the violets out of the
water; the colours remained upon the floor. He then thought that "it
might be the water." He emptied the glass; the colours remained, but
they were fainter. S---- immediately observed, that it was the water
and glass together that made the rainbow. "But," said he, "there is no
glass in the sky, yet there is a rainbow, so that I think the water
alone would do, if we could but hold it together without the glass. Oh
I know how I can manage." He poured the water slowly out of the
tumbler into a basin, which he placed where the sun shone, and he saw
the colours on the floor twinkling behind the water as it fell: this
delighted him much; but he asked why it would not do when the sun did
not shine. The sun went behind a cloud whilst he was trying his
experiments: "There was light," said he, "though there was no
sunshine." He then said he thought that the different thickness of the
glass was the cause of the variety of colours: afterwards he said he
thought that the clearness or muddiness of the different drops of
water was the cause of the different colours.
A rigid preceptor, who thinks that every boy must be idle who has not
a Latin book constantly in his hand, would perhaps have reprimanded
S---- for wasting his time _at play_, and would have summoned him from
his rainbow to his _task_; but it is very obvious to any person free
from prejudices, that this child was not idle whilst he was meditating
upon the rainbow on the floor; his attention was fixed; he was
reasoning; he was trying experiments. We may call this _play_ if we
please, and we may say that Descartes was at play, when he first
verified Antonio de Dominis bishop of Spalatro's treatise of the
rainbow, by an experiment with a glass Globe:[8] and we may say that
Buffon was idle, when his pleased attention was first caught with a
landscape of green shadows, when one evening at sunset he first
observed that the shadows of trees, which fell upon a white wall, were
green. He was first delighted with the exact representation of a green
arbour, which seemed as if it had been newly painted on the wall.
Certainly the boy with his rainbow on the floor was as much amused as
the philosopher with his coloured shadows; and, however high sounding
the name of Antonio de Dominis, bishop of Spalatro, it does not alter
the business in the least; he could have exerted only his _utmost
attention_ upon the theory of the rainbow, and the child did the same.
We do not mean to compare the powers of reasoning, or the abilities of
the child and the philosopher; we would only show that the same
species of attention was exerted by both.
To fix the attention of children, or, in other words, to interest
them about those subjects to which we wish them to apply, must be our
first object in the early cultivation of the understanding. This we
shall not find a difficult undertaking if we have no false
associations, no painful recollections to contend with. We can connect
any species of knowledge with those occupations which are immediately
agreeable to young people: for instance, if a child is building a
house, we may take that opportunity to teach him how bricks are made,
how the arches over doors and windows are made, the nature of the
keystone and butments of an arch, the manner in which all the
different parts of the roof of a house are put together, &c.; whilst
he is learning all this he is eagerly and seriously attentive, and we
educate his understanding in the best possible method. But if,
mistaking the application of the principle, that literature should be
made agreeable to children, we should entice a child to learn his
letters by a promise of a gilt coach, or by telling him that he would
be the cleverest boy in the world if he could but learn the letter
_A_, we use false and foolish motives; we may possibly, by such means,
effect the immediate purpose, but we shall assuredly have reason to
repent of such imprudent deceit. If the child reasons at all, he will
be content after his first lesson with being "the cleverest boy in the
world," and he will not, on a future occasion, hazard his fame, having
much to lose, and nothing to gain; besides, he is now master of a gilt
coach, and some new and larger reward must be proffered to excite his
industry. Besides the disadvantage of early exhausting our stock of
incitements, it is dangerous in teaching to humour pupils with a
variety of objects by way of relieving their attention. The pleasure
of _thinking_, and much of the profit, must frequently depend upon our
preserving the greatest possible connection between our ideas. Those
who allow themselves to start from one object to another, acquire such
dissipated habits of mind, that they cannot, without extreme
difficulty and reluctance, follow any connected train of thought. You
cannot teach those who will not follow the chain of your reasons; upon
the connection of our ideas, useful memory and reasoning must depend.
We will give you an instance: arithmetic is one of the first things
that we attempt to teach children. In the following dialogue, which
passed between a boy of five years old and his father, we may observe
that, till the child followed his father's train of ideas, he could
not be taught.
_Father._ _S----_, how many can you take from one?
_S----._ None.
_Father._ None! Think; can you take nothing from one?
_S----._ None, except that one.
_Father._ Except! Then you can take one from one?
_S----._ Yes, _that one_.
_Father._ How many then can you take from one?
_S----._ One.
_Father._ Very true; but now, can you take two from one?
_S----._ Yes, if they were figures I could, with a rubber-out. (This
child had frequently sums written for him with a black lead pencil,
and he used to rub out his figures when they were wrong with Indian
rubber, which he had heard called _rubber-out_.)
_Father._ Yes, you could; but now we will not talk of figures, we will
talk of things. There may be one horse or two horses, or one man or
two men.
_S----._ Yes, or one coat or two coats.
_Father._ Yes, or one thing or two things, no matter what they are.
Now, could you take two things from one thing?
_S----._ Yes, if there were three things I could take away two things,
and leave one.
His Father took up a cake from the tea-table.
_Father._ Could I take two cakes from this one cake?
_S----._ You could take two pieces.
His Father divided the cake into halves, and held up each half so that
the child might distinctly see them.
_Father._ What would you call these two pieces?
_S----._ Two cakes.
_Father._ No, not two cakes.
_S----._ Two biscuits.
_Father._ Holding up a whole biscuit: What is this?
_S----._ A thing to eat.
_Father._ Yes, but what would you call it?
_S----._ A biscuit.
His Father broke it into halves, and showed one half.
_Father._ What would you call this?
_S----._ was silent, and his sister was applied to, who answered,
"Half a biscuit."
_Father._ Very well; that's all at present.
The father prudently stopped here, that he might not confuse his
pupil's understanding. Those only who have attempted to teach children
can conceive how extremely difficult it is to fix their attention, or
to make them seize the connection of ideas, which it appears to us
almost impossible to miss. Children are well occupied in examining
external objects, but they must also attend to words as well as
things. One of the great difficulties in early instruction arises from
the want of words: the pupil very often has acquired the necessary
ideas, but they are not associated in his mind with the words which
his tutor uses; these words are then to him mere sounds, which suggest
no correspondent thoughts. Words, as M. Condillac well observes,[9]
are essential to our acquisition of knowledge; they are the medium
through which one set of beings can convey the result of their
experiments and observations to another; they are, in all mental
processes, the algebraic signs which assist us in solving the most
difficult problems. What agony does a foreigner, knowing himself to be
a man of sense, appear to suffer, when, for want of language, he
cannot in conversation communicate his knowledge, explain his reasons,
enforce his arguments, or make his wit intelligible? In vain he has
recourse to the language of action. The language of action, or, as
Bacon calls it, of "transitory hieroglyphic," is expressive, but
inadequate. As new ideas are collected in the mind, new signs are
wanted, and the progress of the understanding would be early and
fatally impeded by the want of language. M. de la Condamine tells us
that there is a nation who have no sign to express the number three
but this word, _poellartarrorincourac_. These people having begun, as
Condillac observes, in such an incommodious manner, it is not
surprising that they have not advanced further in their knowledge of
arithmetic: they have got no further than the number three; their
knowledge of arithmetic stops for ever at _poellartarrorincourac_. But
even this cumbersome sign is better than none. Those who have the
misfortune to be born deaf and dumb, continue for ever in intellectual
imbecility. There is an account in the Memoires de l'Academie Royale,
p. xxii-xxiii, 1703, of a young man born deaf and dumb,[10] who
recovered his hearing at the age of four-and-twenty, and who, after
employing himself in repeating low to himself the words which he heard
others pronounce, at length broke silence in company, and declared
that he could talk. His conversation was but imperfect; he was
examined by several able theologians, who chiefly questioned him on
his ideas of God, the soul, and the morality or immorality of actions.
It appeared that he had not thought upon any of these subjects; he did
not distinctly know what was meant by death, and he never thought of
it. He seemed to pass a merely animal life, occupied with sensible,
present objects, and with the few ideas which he received by his sense
of sight; nor did he seem to have gained as much knowledge as he might
have done, by the comparison of these ideas; yet it is said that he
did not appear naturally deficient in understanding.
Peter, the wild boy, who is mentioned in Lord Monboddo's Origin of
Language,[11] had all his senses in remarkable perfection. He lived at
a farm house within half a mile of us in Hertfordshire for some years,
and we had frequent opportunities of trying experiments upon him. He
could articulate imperfectly a few words, in particular, _King
George_, which words he always accompanied with an imitation of the
bells, which rang at the coronation of George the Second; he could in
a rude manner imitate two or three common tunes, but without words.
Though his head, as Mr. Wedgewood and many others had remarked,
resembled that of Socrates, he was an idiot: he had acquired a few
automatic habits of rationality and industry, but he could never be
made to work at any continued occupation: he would shut the door of
the farm-yard five hundred times a day, but he would not reap or make
hay. Drawing water from a neighbouring river was the only domestic
business which he regularly pursued. In 1779 we visited him, and tried
the following experiment. He was attended to the river by a person who
emptied his buckets repeatedly after Peter had repeatedly filled them.
A shilling was put before his face into one of the buckets when it was
empty; he took no notice of it, but filled it with water and carried
it homeward: his buckets were taken from him before he reached the
house and emptied on the ground; the shilling, which had fallen out,
was again shown to him, and put into the bucket. Peter returned to the
river again, filled his bucket and went home; and when the bucket was
emptied by the maid at the house where he lived, he took the shilling
and laid it in a place where he was accustomed to deposit the presents
that were made to him by curious strangers, and whence the farmer's
wife collected the price of his daily exhibition. It appeared that
this savage could not be taught to reason for want of language.
Rousseau declaims with eloquence, and often with justice, against what
he calls a knowledge of words. Words without correspondent ideas, are
worse than useless; they are counterfeit coin, which imposes upon the
ignorant and unwary; but words, which really represent ideas, are not
only of current use, but of sterling value; they not only show our
present store, but they increase our wealth, by keeping it in
continual circulation; both the principal and the interest increase
together. The importance of signs and words, in our reasonings, has
been eloquently explained, since the time of Condillac, by Stewart. We
must use the ideas of these excellent writers, because they are just
and applicable to the art of education; but whilst we use, it is with
proper acknowledgments that we borrow, what we shall never be able to
return.
It is a nice and difficult thing in education, to proportion a child's
vocabulary exactly to his knowledge, dispositions, or conformation;
our management must vary; some will acquire words too quickly, others
too slowly. A child who has great facility in pronouncing sounds,
will, for that reason, quickly acquire a number of words, whilst those
whose organs of speech are not so happily formed, will from that cause
alone, be ready in forming a copious vocabulary. Children who have
many companions, or who live with people who converse a great deal,
have more motive, both from sympathy and emulation, to acquire a
variety of words, than those who live with silent people, and who have
few companions of their own age. All these circumstances should be
considered by parents, before they form their judgment of a child's
capacity from his volubility or his taciturnity. Volubility can easily
be checked by simply ceasing to attend to it, and taciturnity may be
vanquished by the encouragements of praise and affection: we should
neither be alarmed at one disposition nor at the other, but steadily
pursue the system of conduct which will be most advantageous to both.
When a prattling, vivacious child, pours forth a multiplicity of words
without understanding their meaning, we may sometimes beg to have an
explanation of a few of them, and the child will then be obliged to
think, which will prevent him from talking nonsense another time. When
a thoughtful boy, who is in the habit of observing every object he
sees, is at a loss for words to express his ideas, his countenance
usually shows to those who can read the countenance of children, that
he is not stupid; therefore, we need not urge him to talk, but assist
him judiciously with words "in his utmost need:" at the same time we
should observe carefully, whether he grows lazy when we assist him; if
his stock of words does not increase in proportion to the assistance
we give, we should then stimulate him to exertion, or else he will
become habitually indolent in expressing his ideas; though he may
_think_ in a language of his own, he will not be able to understand
our language when we attempt to teach him: this would be a source of
daily misery to both parties.
When children begin to read, they seem suddenly to acquire a great
variety of words: we should carefully examine whether they annex the
proper meaning to these which are so rapidly collected. Instead of
giving them lessons and tasks to get by rote, we should cautiously
watch over every new phrase and every new word which they learn from
books. There are but few books so written that young children can
comprehend a single sentence in them without much explanation. It is
tiresome to those who hear them read to explain every word; it is not
only tiresome, but difficult; besides, the progress of the pupil seems
to be retarded; the grand business of reading, of getting through the
book, is impeded; and the tutor, more impatient than his pupil, says,
"Read on, I cannot stop to explain _that_ to you now. You will
understand the meaning of the sentence if you will read to the end of
the page. You have not read three lines this half hour; we shall never
get on at this rate."
A certain dame at a country school, who had never been able to compass
the word Nebuchadnezzar, used to desire her pupils to "call it
Nazareth, and let it pass."
If they be obliged to pass over words without comprehending them in
books, they will probably do the same in conversation; and the
difficulty of teaching such pupils, and of understanding what they
say, will be equally increased. At the hazard of being tedious, we
must dwell a little longer upon this subject, because much of the
future capacity of children seems to depend upon the manner in which
they first acquire language. If their language be confused, so will be
their thoughts; and they will not be able to reason, to invent, or to
write, with more precision and accuracy than they speak. The first
words that children learn are the names of things; these are easily
associated with the objects themselves, and there is little danger of
mistake or confusion. We will not enter into the grammatical dispute
concerning the right of precedency, amongst pronoun substantives and
verbs; we do not know which came first into the mind of man; perhaps,
in different minds, and in different circumstances, the precedency
must have varied; but this seems to be of little consequence; children
see actions performed, and they act themselves; when they want to
express their remembrance of these actions, they make use of the sort
of words which we call verbs. Let these words be strictly associated
with the ideas which they mean to express, and no matter whether
children know any thing about the disputes of grammarians, they will
understand rational grammar in due time, simply by reflecting upon
their own minds. This we shall explain more fully when we speak
hereafter of grammar; we just mention the subject here, to warn
preceptors against puzzling their pupils too early with grammatical
subtleties.
If any person unused to mechanics was to read Dr. Desagulier's
description of the manner in which a man walks, the number of a-b-c's,
and the travels of the centre of gravity, it would so amaze and
confound him, that he would scarcely believe he could ever again
perform such a tremendous operation as that of walking. Children, if
they were early to hear grammarians talk of the parts of speech, and
of syntax, would conclude, that to speak must be one of the most
difficult arts in the world; but children, who are not usually so
unfortunate as to have grammarians for their preceptors, when they
first begin to speak, acquire language, without being aware of the
difficulties which would appear so formidable in theory. A child
points to, or touches, the table, and when the word table is repeated,
at the same instant he learns the name of the thing. The facility with
which a number of names are thus learned in infancy is surprising; but
we must not imagine that the child, in learning these names, has
acquired much knowledge; he has prepared himself to be taught, but he
has not yet learnt any thing accurately. When a child sees a guinea
and a shilling, and smiling says, "That's a guinea, mama! and that's a
shilling!" the mother is pleased and surprised by her son's
intelligence, and she gives him credit for more than he really
possesses. We have associated with the words guinea and shilling a
number of ideas, and when we hear the same words pronounced by a young
child, we perhaps have some confused belief that he has acquired the
same ideas that we have; hence we are pleased with the mere sound of
words of high import from infantine lips.
Children who are delighted in their turn by the expression of pleasure
in the countenance of others, repeat the things which they perceive
have pleased; and thus their education is begun by those who first
smile upon them, and listen to them when they attempt to speak. They
who applaud children for knowing the names of things, induce them
quickly to learn a number of names by rote; as long as they learn the
names of external objects only, which they can see, and smell, and
touch, all is well; the names will convey distinct ideas of certain
perceptions. A child who learns the name of a taste, or of a colour,
who learns that the taste of sugar is called sweet, and that the
colour of a red rose is called red, has learned distinct words to
express certain perceptions: and we can at any future time recall to
his mind the memory of those perceptions by means of their names, and
he understands us as well as the most learned philosopher. But,
suppose that a boy had learned only the name of gold; that when
different metals were shown to him, he could put his finger upon gold,
and say, "That is gold;" yet this boy does not know all the properties
of gold; he does not know in what it differs from other metals; to
what uses it is applied in arts, manufactures, and commerce; the name
of gold, in his mind, represents nothing more than a substance of a
bright yellow colour, upon which people, he does not precisely know
why, set a great value. Now, it is very possible, that a child might,
on the contrary, learn all the properties, and the various uses of
gold, without having learned its name; his ideas of this metal would
be perfectly distinct; but whenever he wished to speak of gold, he
would be obliged to use a vast deal of circumlocution to make himself
understood; and if he were to enumerate all the properties of the
metal every time he wanted to recal the general idea, his
conversation would be intolerably tedious to others, and to himself
this useless repetition must be extremely laborious. He would
certainly be glad to learn that single word _gold_, which would save
him so much trouble; his understanding would appear suddenly to have
improved, simply from his having acquired a proper sign to represent
his ideas. The boy who had learnt the name, without knowing any of the
properties of gold, would also appear comparatively ignorant, as soon
as it is discovered that he has few ideas annexed to the word. It is,
perhaps, for this reason, that some children seem suddenly to shine
out with knowledge, which no one suspected they possessed; whilst
others, who had appeared to be very quick and clever, come to a dead
stop in their education, and appear to be blighted by some unknown
cause. The children who suddenly shine out, are those who had acquired
a number of ideas, and who, the moment they acquire proper words, can
communicate their thoughts to others. Those children who suddenly seem
to lose their superiority, are those who had acquired a variety of
words, but who had not annexed ideas to them. When their ignorance is
detected, we not only despair of them, but they are apt to despair of
themselves; they see their companions get before them, and they do not
exactly perceive the cause of their sudden incapacity. Where we speak
of sensible, visible, tangible objects, we can easily detect and
remedy a child's ignorance. It is easy to discover whether he has or
has not a complete notion of such a substance as gold; we can
enumerate its properties, and readily point out in what his definition
is defective. The substance can be easily produced for examination;
most of its properties are obvious to the senses; we have nothing to
do but to show them to the child, and to associate with each property
its usual name; here there can be no danger of puzzling his
understanding; but when we come to the explanation of words which do
not represent external objects, we shall find the affair more
difficult. We can make children understand the meaning of those words
which are the names of simple feelings of the mind, such as surprise,
joy, grief, pity; because we can either put our pupils in situations
where they actually feel these sensations, and then we may associate
the name with the feelings; or we may, by the example of other people,
who actually suffer pain or enjoy pleasure, point out what we mean by
the words joy and grief. But how shall we explain to our young pupils,
a number of words which represent neither existing substances nor
simple feelings, when we can neither recur to experiment nor to
sympathy for assistance? How shall we explain, for instance, the words
virtue, justice, benevolence, beauty, taste, &c.? To analyze our own
ideas of these, is no easy task; to explain the process to a young
child, is scarcely possible. Call upon any man, who has read and
reflected, for a definition of virtue, the whole "theory of moral
sentiments" rises, perhaps, to his view at once, in all its elegance;
the paradoxical acumen of Mandeville, the perspicuous reasoning of
Hume, the accurate metaphysics of Condillac, the persuasive eloquence
of Stewart; all the various doctrines that have been supported
concerning the foundation of morals, such as the fitness of things,
the moral sense, the beauty of truth, utility, sympathy, common sense;
all that has been said by ancient and modern philosophers, is recalled
in transient perplexing succession to his memory. If such be the state
of mind of the man who is to define, what must be the condition of the
child who is to understand the definition? All that a prudent person
will attempt, is to give instances of different virtues; but even
these, it will be difficult properly to select for a child. General
terms, whether in morals or in natural philosophy, should, we
apprehend, be as much as possible avoided in early education. Some
people may imagine that children have improved in virtue and wisdom,
when they can talk fluently of justice, and charity, and humanity;
when they can read with a good emphasis any didactic compositions in
verse or prose. But let any person of sober, common sense, be allowed
to cross-examine these proficients, and the pretended extent of their
knowledge will shrink into a narrow compass; nor will their virtues,
which have never seen service, be ready for action.
General terms are, as it were, but the indorsements upon the bundles
of our ideas; they are useful to those who have collected a number of
ideas, but utterly useless to those who have no collections ready for
classification: nor should we be in a hurry to tie up the bundles,
till we are sure that the collection is tolerably complete; the
trouble, the difficulty, the shame of untying them late in life, is
felt even by superior minds. "Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "I don't like to
have any of my opinions attacked. I have made up my faggot, and if you
draw out one you weaken the whole bundle."
Preceptors sometimes explain general terms and abstract notions
vaguely to their pupils, simply because they are ashamed to make that
answer which every sensible person must frequently make to a child's
inquiries, "I don't know."[12] Surely it is much better to say at
once, "I cannot explain this to you," than to attempt an imperfect or
sophistical reply. Fortunately for us, children, if they are not
forced to attend to studies for which they have no taste, will not
trouble us much with moral and metaphysical questions; their attention
will be fully employed upon external objects; intent upon experiments,
they will not be very inquisitive about theories. Let us then take
care that their simple ideas be accurate, and when these are
compounded, their complex notions, their principles, opinions, and
tastes, will necessarily be just; their language will then be as
accurate as their ideas are distinct; and hence they will be enabled
to reason with precision, and to invent with facility. We may observe,
that the great difficulty in reasoning is to fix steadily upon our
terms; ideas can be readily compared, when the words by which we
express them are defined; as in arithmetic and algebra, we can easily
solve any problem, when we have precise signs for all the numbers and
quantities which are to be considered.
It is not from idleness, it is not from stupidity, it is not from
obstinacy, that children frequently show an indisposition to listen to
those who attempt to explain things to them. The exertion of
attention, which is frequently required from them, is too great for
the patience of childhood: the words that are used are so inaccurate
in their signification, that they convey to the mind sometimes one
idea and sometimes another; we might as well require of them to cast
up a sum right whilst we rubbed out and changed the figures every
instant, as expect that they should seize a combination of ideas
presented to them in variable words. Whoever expects to command the
attention of an intelligent child, must be extremely careful in the
use of words. If the pupil be paid for the labour of listening by the
pleasure of understanding what is said, he will attend, whether it be
to his playfellow, or to his tutor, to conversation, or to books. But
if he has by fatal experience discovered, that, let him listen ever so
intently, he cannot understand, he will spare himself the trouble of
fruitless exertion; and, though he may put on a face of attention, his
thoughts will wander far from his tutor and his tasks.
"It is impossible to fix the attention of children," exclaims the
tutor; "when this boy attends he can do any thing, but he will not
attend for a single instant."
Alas! it is in vain to say he _will not_ attend; he _cannot_.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Some of these lessons, and others by the authors, will shortly be
printed, and marked according to this method.
[8] See Priestley's History of Vision, vol. i. p. 51.
[9] "Art de Penser."
[10] See Condillac's Art de Penser. In the chapter "on the use of
signs," this young man is mentioned.
[11] Vol. II.
[12] Rousseau.