Will a mind of great capacity be reduced to mediocrity by the ill choice
of a profession?
Parents are interested in the metaphysical discussion, whether there
really exists an inherent quality in the human intellect which imparts
to the individual an aptitude for one pursuit more than for another.
What Lord Shaftesbury calls not innate, but connatural qualities of the
human character, were, during the latter part of the last century,
entirely rejected; but of late there appears a tendency to return to the
notion which is consecrated by antiquity. Experience will often correct
modern hypothesis. The term "predisposition" may be objectionable, as
are all terms which pretend to describe the occult operations of
Nature--and at present we have no other.
Our children pass through the same public education, while they are
receiving little or none for their individual dispositions, should they
have sufficient strength of character to indicate any. The great secret
of education is to develope the faculties of the individual; for it may
happen that his real talent may lie hidden and buried under his
education. A profession is usually adventitious, made by chance views,
or by family arrangements. Should a choice be submitted to the youth
himself, he will often mistake slight and transient tastes for permanent
dispositions. A decided character, however, we may often observe, is
repugnant to a particular pursuit, delighting in another; talents,
languid and vacillating in one profession, we might find vigorous and
settled in another; an indifferent lawyer might become an admirable
architect! At present all our human bullion is sent to be melted down
in an university, to come out, as if thrown into a burning mould, a
bright physician, a bright lawyer, a bright divine--in other words, to
adapt themselves for a profession preconcerted by their parents. By this
means we may secure a titular profession for our son, but the true
genius of the avocation in the _bent of the mind_, as a man of great
original powers called it, is too often absent! Instead of finding fit
offices for fit men, we are perpetually discovering, on the stage of
society, actors out of character! Our most popular writer has happily
described this error.
"A laughing philosopher, the Democritus of our day, once compared human
life to a table pierced with a number of holes, each of which has a pin
made exactly to fit it, but which pins being stuck in hastily, and
without selection, chance leads inevitably to the most awkward mistakes.
For how often do we see," the orator pathetically concluded,--"how
often, I say, do we see the round man stuck into the three-cornered
hole!"
In looking over a manuscript life of Tobie Matthews, Archbishop of York
in James the First's reign, I found a curious anecdote of his grace's
disappointment in the dispositions of his sons. The cause, indeed, is
not uncommon, as was confirmed by another great man, to whom the
archbishop confessed it. The old Lord Thomas Fairfax one day finding the
archbishop very melancholy, inquired the reason of his grace's
pensiveness: "My lord," said the archbishop, "I have great reason of
sorrow with respect of my sons; one of whom has wit and no grace,
another grace but no wit, and the third neither grace nor wit." "Your
case," replied Lord Fairfax, "is not singular. I am also sadly
disappointed in my sons: one I sent into the Netherlands to train him up
a soldier, and he makes a tolerable country justice, but a mere coward
at fighting; my next I sent to Cambridge, and he proves a good lawyer,
but a mere dunce at divinity; and my youngest I sent to the inns of
court, and he is good at divinity, but nobody at the law." The relater
of this anecdote adds, "This I have often heard from the descendant of
that honourable family, who yet seems to mince the matter, because so
immediately related." The eldest son was the Lord Ferdinando
Fairfax--and the gunsmith to Thomas Lord Fairfax, the son of this Lord
Ferdinando, heard the old Lord Thomas call aloud to his grandson, "Tom!
Tom! mind thou the battle! Thy father's a good man, but a mere coward!
All the good I expect is from thee!" It is evident that the old Lord
Thomas Fairfax was a military character, and in his earnest desire of
continuing a line of heroes, had preconcerted to make his eldest son a
military man, who we discover turned out to be admirably fitted for a
worshipful justice of the quorum. This is a lesson for the parent who
consults his own inclinations and not those of natural disposition. In
the present case the same lord, though disappointed, appears still to
have persisted in the same wish of having a great military character in
his family: having missed one in his elder son, and settled his other
sons in different avocations, the grandfather persevered, and fixed his
hopes, and bestowed his encouragements, on his grandson, Sir Thomas
Fairfax, who makes so distinguished a figure in the civil wars.
The difficulty of discerning the aptitude of a youth for any particular
destination in life will, perhaps, even for the most skilful parent, be
always hazardous. Many will be inclined, in despair of anything better,
to throw dice with fortune; or adopt the determination of the father who
settled his sons by a whimsical analogy which he appears to have formed
of their dispositions or aptness for different pursuits. The boys were
standing under a hedge in the rain, and a neighbour reported to the
father the conversation he had overheard. John wished it would rain
books, for he wished to be a preacher; Bezaleel, wool, to be a clothier
like his father; Samuel, money, to be a merchant; and Edmund plums, to
be a grocer. The father took these wishes as a hint, and we are told in
the life of John Angier, the elder son, a puritan minister, that he
chose for them these different callings, in which it appears that they
settled successfully. "Whatever a young man at first applies himself to
is commonly his delight afterwards." This is an important principle
discovered by Hartley, but it will not supply the parent with any
determinate regulation how to distinguish a transient from a permanent
disposition; or how to get at what we may call the connatural qualities
of the mind. A particular opportunity afforded me some close observation
on the characters and habits of two youths, brothers in blood and
affection, and partners in all things, who even to their very dress
shared alike; who were never separated from each other; who were taught
by the same masters, lived under the same roof, and were accustomed to
the same uninterrupted habits; yet had nature created them totally
distinct in the qualities of their minds; and similar as their lives
had been, their abilities were adapted for very opposite pursuits;
either of them could not have been the other. And I observed how the
"predisposition" of the parties was distinctly marked from childhood:
the one slow, penetrating, and correct; the other quick, irritable, and
fanciful: the one persevering in examination; the other rapid in
results: the one exhausted by labour; the other impatient of whatever
did not relate to his own pursuit: the one logical, historical, and
critical; the other, having acquired nothing, decided on all things by
his own sensations. We would confidently consult in the one a great
legal character, and in the other an artist of genius. If nature had not
secretly placed a bias in their distinct minds, how could two similar
beings have been so dissimilar?
A story recorded of Cecco d'Ascoli and of Dante, on the subject of
natural and acquired genius, may illustrate the present topic. Cecco
maintained that nature was more potent than art, while Dante asserted
the contrary. To prove his principle, the great Italian bard referred to
his cat, which, by repeated practice, he had taught to hold a candle in
its paw while he supped or read. Cecco desired to witness the
experiment, and came not unprepared for his purpose; when Dante's cat
was performing its part, Cecco, lifting up the lid of a pot which he had
filled with mice, the creature of art instantly showed the weakness of a
talent merely acquired, and dropping the candle, flew on the mice with
all its instinctive propensity. Dante was himself disconcerted; and it
was adjudged that the advocate for the occult principle of native
faculties had gained his cause.
To tell stories, however, is not to lay down principles, yet principles
may sometimes be concealed in stories.[298]