school from day to day, and sat with his fellows in rigid rectangular
rows, gazing on bare whitewashed walls adorned with a broad stripe of
blackboard; where he did interminable "sums" on a smeary little slate,
and spelled in sing-song chorus "Baker! Baker! b, a, bay; k, e, r,
ker,--Baker!" He came to a new-fashioned city, where the most
important business on earth--the training of children--was
appreciated. The small boy did not know this. He saw that the city was
clean and bright and full of wide spaces of grass and trees; and he
liked it. It pleased him, as a child: it was the kind of place that
looked as if it had been planned with some thought of pleasing
children. Soon he came to a great open gate, with shady walks and
sunny lawns inside, buildings here and there in the distance, and,
just at hand, some strange figures among the bushes.
A pleasant-looking lady sat reading in the shade, with a few children
lying in the grass near by, reading, too. Our small boy stood
irresolute; but the lady looked up, and said: "Come in, if you like.
Look around all you want to." Still he felt shy; but one of the
reading little boys rose up, and went to him. "Come on," he said
cheerfully. "I'll show you. There's lots o' things you'll like. Oh,
come on!" So he entered with uncertain steps, and made for one of the
queer figures he had seen in the shrubbery. "It's an Indian!" he said.
"Like a cigar store!" But the resident little boy resented his
comparison. "'Tisn't, either!" cried he. "It's ever so much nicer!
Look at his moccasins and his arrows, and see the scalps in his belt!
See the way he's painted? That shows he's a Sioux. They are great. One
of the best kinds. They live up in the North-west,--Minnesota and
round there; and they fight splendid! That one over there is a Yuma
Indian. Look at the difference!"
And he took the visitor about, and showed him an interesting
collection of samples of American tribes, giving off rivers of
information with evident delight. From Indians their attention was
taken by a peculiarly handsome butterfly that fluttered near them,
pursued hotly by an eager little girl with a net.
"That must be a--well, I forget the name," said the resident little
boy. "Do you like bugs?"
"What kind o' bugs?" inquired the visitor, rather suspiciously.
"Oh, tumble bugs and burying beetles and walking-sticks, and all
kinds."
"Walking-sticks! What's that got to do with bugs?"
"Didn't you ever see the walking-stick one? Oh, come on in! I'll show
you! It's this way." And off they run to a big rambling building among
the shady elms. The visitor hangs back, somewhat awed by the size and
splendour of the place, and seeing grown people about; but his young
guide goes in unchecked, merely whispering, "Got to keep still in
here," and leads him down several passages into a large, quiet hall,
lined with glass cases.
Such a wealth of "bugs" as were here exhibited had never before been
seen by the astonished visitor; but, when the walking-stick insect was
pointed out to him, he stoutly denied that it was a "bug" at all. A
whispered altercation resulted in appeal to the curator, a studious
youth, who was taking notes at a large table bestrewn with specimens.
Instantly dropping his work, he took the object under discussion from
its case, focussed a magnifying glass upon it, and proceeded to
exhibit various features of insect anatomy, and talk about them most
interestingly. But, as soon as he detected the first signs of
inattention and weariness, he changed the subject,--suggested that
there was some good target practice going on in the West Field; and
the two boys, after a pleasant walk, joined a number of others who
were shooting with bows and arrows, under careful coaching and
management. "I can't shoot except Saturdays," said the guide, "because
I haven't joined a team and practised. But, if you want to, you just
put your name down; and by and by you can hit anything. There's all
kinds of old-fashioned weapons--and the new ones, too."
"What do you call this, anyhow?" demands the visitor.
"Call what? This is the West Field: they do all kinds of shooting
here. You see that long bank and wall stops everything."
"Yes,--but the whole place,--is it a park?"
"Oh, yes, kind of. It's Weybourne Garden. And that was the museum we
went to,--one of 'em."
"Is it open always?"
"Yes."
"And you don't have to pay for anything?"
"No. This part is for children. We learn how to do all sorts of
things. Do you know how to build with bricks? I learned that last. I
built a piece of a real wall. It's not here. It was one that was
broken on the other side, and I built a good piece in!"
A big clock struck somewhere. "Now I must go to dinner with mother,"
said the guide. "The gate you came in at is on my way. Come on!" And
he showed the wondering visitor out, and left him at his own door.
The young stranger did not know where he had been. He did not faintly
imagine it. Neither, for that matter, did the other children, who went
there every day, and with whom he presently found himself enrolled.
They went to certain places at certain hours, because they were only
"open" then with the persons present who showed them how to do
desirable things.
There were many parks in the city, with different buildings and
departments; and in them, day by day, without ever knowing it, the
children of that city "went to school."
The progressive education of a child should be, as far as possible,
unconscious. From his first eager interest in almost everything, up
along the gradually narrowing lines of personal specialisation, each
child should be led with the least possible waste of time and nervous
energy. There would be difficulties enough, as there are difficulties
in learning even desirable games; but the child would meet the
difficulties because he wanted to know the thing, and gain strength
without losing interest. So soon as a child-house is built and
education seen to begin in earliest babyhood, so soon as we begin to
plan a beautiful and delicately adjusted environment for our children,
in which line and colour and sound and touch are all made avenues of
easy unconscious learning, we shall find that there is no sharp break
between "home" and "school." In the baby-garden the baby will learn
many things, and never know it. In the kindergarten the little child
will learn many things, and never know it. He will be glad and proud
of his new powers, coming back to share the astonishing new
information or exhibit the new skill to papa and mamma; but he will
not be conscious of any task in all the time, or of special credit for
his performance. Then, as he grows, the garden grows, too; and he
finds himself a little wiser, a little stronger, a little more skilful
every day--or would if he stopped to measure. But he does not measure.
His private home is happy and easy, with a father and mother
interested in all his progress; and his larger home--the child-world
he grows up in--is so dominated by wise, subtle educational influences
that he goes on learning always, studying a good deal, yet never
"going to school."
In the wise treatment of his babyhood, all his natural faculties are
allowed to develope in order and to their full extent, so that he
comes to a larger range of experiment and more difficult examples with
a smooth-working, well-developed young mind, unwearied and unafraid.
The legitimate theories of the kindergarten carefully worked out
helped him on through the next years in the same orderly progression;
and, as a child of five or six, he was able to walk, open-eyed and
observant, into wider fields of knowledge. Always courteous and
intelligent specialists around him, his mental processes watched and
trained as wisely as his sturdy little body, and a careful record
kept, by these experienced observers, of his relative capacity and
rate of development.
So he gradually learns that common stock of human knowledge which it
is well for us all to share,--the story of the building of the earth,
the budding of the plant, the birth of the animal, the beautiful
unfolding of the human race, from savagery toward civilisation. He
learns the rudiments of the five great handicrafts, and can work a
little in wood, in metal, in clay, in cloth, and in stone. He learns
the beginnings of the sciences, with experiment and story, and finds
new wonders to lead him on, no matter how far he goes,--an unending
fascination.
For his sciences he goes to the museum, the laboratory, and the field,
groups of children having about the same degree of information falling
together under the same teacher. For the necessary work with pen and
pencil there are quiet rooms provided. He has looked forward to some
of these from babyhood, seeing the older ones go there.
Each child has been under careful observation and record from the very
first. His special interests, his preferred methods, his powers and
weaknesses, are watched and worked with carefully as he grows. If
power of attention was weak at first, he is given special work to
develope it. If observation was loose and inaccurate, that was
laboured with. If the reasoning faculty worked with difficulty, it was
exercised more carefully. He has been under such training from
babyhood to twelve or fifteen years old as to give a full and
co-ordinate development of his faculties,--all of them; and such a
general grasp of the main lines of knowledge as to make possible clear
choice of the lines of study for which he is best adapted. With such a
childhood the youth will have much more power of learning, and a deep
and growing interest--an unbroken interest--in his work.
The natural desire of mankind to know, and also to teach, and the
steadily enlarging field of knowledge open to us, should make
education the most delightful of processes. With our present methods
the place of teacher is usually sought merely for its meagre salary,
by women who "have to work," instead of being eagerly aspired to as
the noblest of professions, and only open to those best fitted. The
children are so overtaxed and mishandled that only the best
intellects come out with any further desire to learn anything.
Humanity's progress is made through brain-improvement, by brain-power.
We need such schooling as shall give us better brains and uninjured
bodies. Fortunately for us, the value of education is widely felt
to-day, and new and improved methods are rapidly coming in. Our
school-houses are more beautiful, our teachers better trained and more
ambitious, and the beneficent influences of the kindergarten and of
the manual training system are felt everywhere.
But, while much is being done, much more remains for us. With such
honour and such pay as show our respect for the office of teacher, and
such required training and natural capacity as shall allow of no
incapables, we could surround our children from birth with the steady
influence of the wisest and best people. More and more to-day is the
school opening out. It connects with the public library, with art and
industry, with the open fields; and this will go on till the time is
reached when the child does not know that he is at school,--he is
always there, and yet never knows it.
Where residence was permanent, the teachers of different grades could
constantly compare their growing records, and the child's unfolding be
watched steadily, and noted with a view to still further improvement
in method. Travelling parties of children are not unknown to us. These
will become more common, until every child shall know his earth face
to face,--mountain, river, lake, and sea,--and gain some idea of
political division as well.
Two main objections to all this will arise at once: one, that of
expense; the other, that a child so trained would not have learned to
"apply himself,"--to force himself to do what he did not like,--that
it was all too easy.
The ground of too much expense cannot be held. Nothing is too
expensive that really improves education; for such improvement cuts
off all the waste product of society,--the defective and degenerate,
the cripple, thief, and fool, and saves millions upon millions now
spent in maintaining or restraining these injurious classes. Not only
that, but it as steadily developes the working value of humanity,
turning out more and more vigorous and original thinkers and doers to
multiply our wealth and pleasure. Grant the usefulness of improved
methods in education, and they can never be expensive. Even to-day the
school-children become far better class of citizens than the street
Arabs who do not go to school; and such school advantages as we have
lower our expense in handling crime and disease. When we provide for
every child the very best education,--real education of body, brain,
and soul,--with the trained hand and eye to do what the trained will
and judgment command, it is difficult to see where the "criminal
class" is to come from.
As to its being too easy, and not developing sufficiently stern stuff
in our youngsters, that has two answers. In the first place, this
proposed line of advance is not without its difficulties. Whether a
child is learning to sew or to shoot or to lay bricks, to solve
examples in fractions or to play chess, there are always difficulties.
To learn what you don't know is always a step up.
But why need we add to this the difficulty of making the child
dislike the work? "Because it is necessary in this world to do what
you don't like!" is the triumphant rejoinder.
This is an enormous mistake. It is necessary in this world to like
what you do, if you are to do anything worth while. One of the biggest
of all our troubles is that so many of us are patiently and wearily
doing what we do not like. It is a constant injury to the individual,
draining his nervous strength and leaving him more easily affected by
disease or temptation; and it is a constant injury to society, because
the work we do not like to do is not as good as it would be if we
liked it.
The kind of forcing we use in our educational processes, the
"attention" paid to what does not interest, the following of required
lines of study irrespective of inclination,--these act to blunt and
lower our natural inclinations, and leave us with this mischievous
capacity for doing what we do not like.
A healthy child, rightly surrounded with attractive opportunities, the
stimulus of association, and natural (not forced) competition, will
want to learn the things most generally necessary, just as he wants to
learn the principal games his comrades play. He has his favourite
games, and does best in them, and will have his favourite studies and
do best in them, which is no injury to any one.
In this unconscious method the child learns with personal interest and
pleasure, and not under pressure of class competition, reward, or
punishment. He knows, of course, that he is learning, as he knows when
he has learned to swim or to play golf; but he is not laboriously
"going to school" and "studying" against his will. The benefit of such
a process is that it will supply the world with young citizens of
unimpaired mental vigour, original powers and tastes, and strong
special interests, thus multiplying the value and distinction of our
products, and maintaining the health and happiness of the producer.
As a matter of practical introduction, we are already moving in this
direction, with the "laboratory method," the natural sciences now
taught so widely, and all the new impetus through the study of
pedagogy.
But those most capable and most interested, those who see the value of
this trend and are doing all they can to promote it, are most keenly
conscious of the difficulties which still confront them. These
difficulties are not far to seek. They lie in the indifference, the
criminal indifference, of our citizens, notably the women. Sunk in the
constant contemplation of their own families, our female citizens let
the days and years pass by, utterly ignoring their civic duties. While
women are supported by men, they have more time to spare for such
broad interests than men have; and one would naturally think that even
the lowest sense of honour would lead them to some form of public
usefulness in return for this immunity. As the English nobleman--the
conscientious one--sees in his wealth and leisure, his opportunities
for study and cultivation, only a heavy obligation to serve the State
which so well serves him, so should our women of leisure--the
thousands of them--feel in their free and sheltered lives a glorious
compulsion to serve the best interests of that society which maintains
them.
The care of children is certainly the duty of women. The best care of
children means the best education. The woman who has not done her best
to improve the educational advantages of her city, State and
country,--of the world,--has not done her duty as a citizen or as a
woman. And, as education comes through every impression received by
the child, we must improve home and street and city and all the
people, to make a clean, safe, beautiful world, in which our children
may receive the unconscious schooling to which they have a right.
VIII.
PRESUMPTUOUS AGE.
The ineffable presumption of aged persons is an affliction too long
endured. Much is told us of the becoming modesty of youth. Is no
modesty becoming a period of life when experience has given some
measure to merit?
Why should youth be modest? Youth believes it can do all things, and
has had no proof to the contrary. But age,--age which has tried many
times and been met by failure; age, which has learned its limitation
by repeated blows, and become content with hard-worn compromise,--why
should age be so proud?
In itself it is no distinction, being but the common lot of man. Those
who do not attain to it are by general consent of superior merit.
"Whom the gods love die young."
Age is not desired and striven for,--not won by honourable effort. It
comes gradually upon us all, falling like rain upon the just and the
unjust. Taken simply in itself, it proves no more than that the aged
individual, if a man, has had sufficient strength and ingenuity to
keep himself alive; and, if a woman, that she has been sufficiently
pleasing and well-behaved to be kept alive by others.
In very early times, when the world was young and life more exciting
and precarious than now, perhaps the above qualities were a sufficient
distinction. The constitution which survived the rigours of a crude
and uncertain diet and of an undiluted climate was a thing to be proud
of; and the visible proof that one had survived one's enemies did
indicate some superiority.
But in a civilisation which takes special care of the infirm,--where
green young cripples grow to a ripe old age, and a bed-ridden pauper
may outlive many muscular labourers,--mere prolongation of existence
is no self-evident proof of either power or wisdom. Of two men born in
the same year, the more valuable man, doing more valuable work, is
quite as likely to die as an innocuous, futile, low-grade person,
paddling feebly with the tide. Of two women, one may smilingly repeat
herself by the dozen, and drift sweetly on from amiable juvenility to
as amiable senility; while another, working strenuously and
effectively, dies in her earnest youth or middle age.
Survival is no longer a fair test of value. The wisdom of the ancients
is not the standard of our time. We do not think that a previous
century knows more than ours, but rather less; and, if Methuselah were
with us yet,--and retained his faculties,--he would be too much
confused between the things he used to believe and what he was
learning now to be a valuable authority. When learning was but
accumulated tradition, the old had an advantage over the young, and
improved it. Now that learning is discovery, the young have an
advantage over the old.
If wisdom consisted merely in the accumulation of facts, the long-time
observer would assuredly have more of them than the new-comer. But the
wisdom that consists in a free and unbiassed judgment--a new
perception of the relation of things--comes better from a fresher
brain. This is not to say that age may not coexist with superiority,
but that age, _per se_, is not superiority.
There are many aged persons in the work-house who are quite visibly
inferior to many young persons in the House of Commons. This suggests
a painful antithesis which is better omitted. Granting the origin of
this arrogance of the aged to have had some basis in primitive time,
it is easy to see how it has descended to us by the same principle
that maintains the fag system.
Humanity has always its overlapping generations; and the child who is
crushed by the incontrovertible statement, "I am older than you are!"
waits to recoup himself on children yet to be. In his subordinate
position in youth he has no chance to escape from this injustice or to
retaliate; and he strikes a balance with fate by assuming the same
superiority over the new-comer. It is probable that we should never
outgrow the assumption until we have a generation of children taught
to respect conduct for its merits, not for simple duration, holding a
wise, strong, good person, however young, to be superior to an
ignorant or vicious one, however old. When the sense of justice and
the sense of logic of the child are not outraged in youth, we shall
find more modesty as well as more wisdom in old age.
It is always interesting to see our psychic development following the
laws of nature, like any other growth. Under the law of inertia the
human mind, starting under a given concept, continues to enlarge in
that direction, unless arrested or diverted in some other force. So
this conception of age as essential superiority, naturally enough
begun, has been followed to strange and injurious extremes. And under
the law of conservation of energy--following the line of least
resistance--the aged naturally encroached upon the young, who were
able to make no resistance whatever.
The respect and care for aged persons, which is so distinguishing a
mark of advanced civilisation, is due to two things: first, the
prolonged serviceability of parents; and, second, the social relation
which allows of usefulness to even the very old. In an early savage
tribe the elderly parent is of no special value to the newly matured
young, and the tribal service has more use for juvenile warriors than
for the ancient ones: wherefore the old folk are of small account, and
do not meet much encouragement to prolonged living. But with us,
though the child is grown quite sufficiently to hunt and fight and
reproduce his kind, he is not yet properly equipped for the social
service. He needs more years yet of parental assistance while he
accumulates knowledge in his profession or skill in his trade.
Therefore, parentage is a longer and more elaborate operation with us
than with lower races, animal or human, and the parent consequently
more appreciated. This position is fondly taken advantage of by the
designing aged, oft-times with a pious belief in their righteous
ground which is most convincing.
Because the human parent is of far more service to the young than
earlier parents, therefore our elders calmly assume that it is the
duty of the young to provide for and serve them,--not only to render
them natural assistance when real incapacity comes, but to alter the
course of their young and useful lives to suit the wishes of the old.
Among poor and degraded classes we see children early set to work for
the parents instead of parents working for the children,--a position
as unnatural as for a hen to eat eggs. Life is not a short circle, a
patent self-feeder. The business of the hen is to hatch the egg, and
of the egg to grow to another and different hen,--not to turn round
and sacrificially nourish the previous fowl.
The duty of the parent is a deep-seated, natural law. Without the
parent's care of the child, no race, no life. The duty of the child to
the parent was largely invented by parents, from motives of natural
self-interest, and has been so long sanctioned and practised that we
look on without a shudder and see a healthy middle-aged mother calmly
swallowing the life of her growing daughter. A girl is twenty-one. She
has been properly reared by her mother, whom we will suppose to be a
widow. Being twenty-one, the girl is old enough to begin to live her
own life, and naturally wishes to. I do not speak of marrying,--that
is generally allowed,--but of so studying and working as to develope
a wide, useful life of her own in case she does not marry.
"Not so," says her mother. "Your duty is to stay with me. I need you."