of doing, what it need not do, and what it cannot do, I might go on to
trace out in detail what it is that it really might and will encourage and
create. But, as such an investigation would neither be difficult to
pursue, nor easy to terminate, I prefer to leave the subject at the
preliminary point to which I have brought it.
Lecture IV.
Elementary Studies.
It has often been observed that, when the eyes of the infant first open
upon the world, the reflected rays of light which strike them from the
myriad of surrounding objects present to him no image, but a medley of
colours and shadows. They do not form into a whole; they do not rise into
foregrounds and melt into distances; they do not divide into groups; they
do not coalesce into unities; they do not combine into persons; but each
particular hue and tint stands by itself, wedged in amid a thousand others
upon the vast and flat mosaic, having no intelligence, and conveying no
story, any more than the wrong side of some rich tapestry. The little babe
stretches out his arms and fingers, as if to grasp or to fathom the
many-coloured vision; and thus he gradually learns the connexion of part
with part, separates what moves from what is stationary, watches the
coming and going of figures, masters the idea of shape and of perspective,
calls in the information conveyed through the other senses to assist him
in his mental process, and thus gradually converts a calidoscope into a
picture. The first view was the more splendid, the second the more real;
the former more poetical, the latter more philosophical. Alas! what are we
doing all through life, both as a necessity and as a duty, but unlearning
the world’s poetry, and attaining to its prose! This is our education, as
boys and as men, in the action of life, and in the closet or library; in
our affections, in our aims, in our hopes, and in our memories. And in
like manner it is the education of our intellect; I say, that one main
portion of intellectual education, of the labours of both school and
university, is to remove the original dimness of the mind’s eye; to
strengthen and perfect its vision; to enable it to look out into the world
right forward, steadily and truly; to give the mind clearness, accuracy,
precision; to enable it to use words aright, to understand what it says,
to conceive justly what it thinks about, to abstract, compare, analyze,
divide, define, and reason, correctly. There is a particular science which
takes these matters in hand, and it is called logic; but it is not by
logic, certainly not by logic alone, that the faculty I speak of is
acquired. The infant does not learn to spell and read the hues upon his
retina by any scientific rule; nor does the student learn accuracy of
thought by any manual or treatise. The instruction given him, of whatever
kind, if it be really instruction, is mainly, or at least pre-eminently,
this,—a discipline in accuracy of mind.
Boys are always more or less inaccurate, and too many, or rather the
majority, remain boys all their lives. When, for instance, I hear speakers
at public meetings declaiming about “large and enlightened views,” or
about “freedom of conscience,” or about “the Gospel,” or any other popular
subject of the day, I am far from denying that some among them know what
they are talking about; but it would be satisfactory, in a particular
case, to be sure of the fact; for it seems to me that those household
words may stand in a man’s mind for a something or other, very glorious
indeed, but very misty, pretty much like the idea of “civilization” which
floats before the mental vision of a Turk,—that is, if, when he interrupts
his smoking to utter the word, he condescends to reflect whether it has
any meaning at all. Again, a critic in a periodical dashes off, perhaps,
his praises of a new work, as “talented, original, replete with intense
interest, irresistible in argument, and, in the best sense of the word, a
very readable book;”—can we really believe that he cares to attach any
definite sense to the words of which he is so lavish? nay, that, if he had
a habit of attaching sense to them, he could ever bring himself to so
prodigal and wholesale an expenditure of them?
To a short-sighted person, colours run together and intermix, outlines
disappear, blues and reds and yellows become russets or browns, the lamps
or candles of an illumination spread into an unmeaning glare, or dissolve
into a milky way. He takes up an eye-glass, and the mist clears up; every
image stands out distinct, and the rays of light fall back upon their
centres. It is this haziness of intellectual vision which is the malady of
all classes of men by nature, of those who read and write and compose,
quite as well as of those who cannot,—of all who have not had a really
good education. Those who cannot either read or write may, nevertheless,
be in the number of those who have remedied and got rid of it; those who
can, are too often still under its power. It is an acquisition quite
separate from miscellaneous information, or knowledge of books. This is a
large subject, which might be pursued at great length, and of which here I
shall but attempt one or two illustrations.
§ 1.
Grammar.
1.
One of the subjects especially interesting to all persons who, from any
point of view, as officials or as students, are regarding a University
course, is that of the Entrance Examination. Now a principal subject
introduced into this examination will be “the elements of Latin and Greek
Grammar.” “Grammar” in the middle ages was often used as almost synonymous
with “literature,” and a Grammarian was a “Professor literarum.” This is
the sense of the word in which a youth of an inaccurate mind delights. He
rejoices to profess all the classics, and to learn none of them. On the
other hand, by “Grammar” is now more commonly meant, as Johnson defines
it, “the art of using _words_ properly,” and it “comprises four
parts—Orthography, Etymology, Syntax, and Prosody.” Grammar, in this
sense, is the scientific analysis of language, and to be conversant with
it, as regards a particular language, is to be able to understand the
meaning and force of that language when thrown into sentences and
paragraphs.
Thus the word is used when the “elements of Latin and Greek Grammar” are
spoken of as subjects of our Entrance Examination; not, that is, the
elements of Latin and Greek literature, as if a youth were intended to
have a smattering of the classical writers in general, and were to be able
to give an opinion about the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero, the
value of Livy, or the existence of Homer; or need have read half a dozen
Greek and Latin authors, and portions of a dozen others:—though of course
it would be much to his credit if he had done so; only, such proficiency
is not to be expected, and cannot be required, of him:—but we mean the
structure and characteristics of the Latin and Greek languages, or an
examination of his scholarship. That is, an examination in order to
ascertain whether he knows Etymology and Syntax, the two principal
departments of the science of language,—whether he understands how the
separate portions of a sentence hang together, how they form a whole, how
each has its own place in the government of it, what are the peculiarities
of construction or the idiomatic expressions in it proper to the language
in which it is written, what is the precise meaning of its terms, and what
the history of their formation.
All this will be best arrived at by trying how far he can frame a
possible, or analyze a given sentence. To translate an English sentence
into Latin is to _frame_ a sentence, and is the best test whether or not a
student knows the difference of Latin from English construction; to
construe and parse is to _analyze_ a sentence, and is an evidence of the
easier attainment of knowing what Latin construction is in itself. And
this is the sense of the word “Grammar” which our inaccurate student
detests, and this is the sense of the word which every sensible tutor will
maintain. His maxim is, “a little, but well;” that is, really know what
you say you know: know what you know and what you do not know; get one
thing well before you go on to a second; try to ascertain what your words
mean; when you read a sentence, picture it before your mind as a whole,
take in the truth or information contained in it, express it in your own
words, and, if it be important, commit it to the faithful memory. Again,
compare one idea with another; adjust truths and facts; form them into one
whole, or notice the obstacles which occur in doing so. This is the way to
make progress; this is the way to arrive at results; not to swallow
knowledge, but (according to the figure sometimes used) to masticate and
digest it.
2.
To illustrate what I mean, I proceed to take an instance. I will draw the
sketch of a candidate for entrance, deficient to a great extent. I shall
put him below _par_, and not such as it is likely that a respectable
school would turn out, with a view of clearly bringing before the reader,
by the contrast, what a student ought _not_ to be, or what is meant by
_inaccuracy_. And, in order to simplify the case to the utmost, I shall
take, as he will perceive as I proceed, one _single word_ as a sort of
text, and show how that one word, even by itself, affords matter for a
sufficient examination of a youth in grammar, history, and geography. I
set off thus:—
_Tutor._ Mr. Brown, I believe? sit down. _Candidate._ Yes.
_T._ What are the Latin and Greek books you propose to be examined in?
_C._ Homer, Lucian, Demosthenes, Xenophon, Virgil, Horace, Statius,
Juvenal, Cicero, Analecta, and Matthiæ.
_T._ No; I mean what are the books I am to examine you in? _C. is silent._
_T._ The two books, one Latin and one Greek: don’t flurry yourself. _C._
Oh, … Xenophon and Virgil.
_T._ Xenophon and Virgil. Very well; what part of Xenophon? _C. is
silent._
_T._ What work of Xenophon? _C._ Xenophon.
_T._ Xenophon wrote many works. Do you know the names of any of them? _C._
I … Xenophon … Xenophon.
_T._ Is it the _Anabasis_ you take up? _C._ (_with surprise_) O yes; the
Anabasis.
_T._ Well, Xenophon’s Anabasis; now what is the meaning of the word
_anabasis_? _C. is silent._
_T._ You know very well; take your time, and don’t be alarmed. Anabasis
means … _C._ An ascent.
_T._ Very right; it means an ascent. Now how comes it to mean an ascent?
What is it derived from? _C._ It comes from … (_a pause_). _Anabasis_ … it
_is_ the nominative.
_T._ Quite right: but what part of speech is it? _C._ A noun,—a noun
substantive.
_T._ Very well; a noun substantive, now what is the verb that _anabasis_
is derived from? _C. is silent._
_T._ From the verb ἀναβαίνω, isn’t it? from ἀναβαίνω. _C._ Yes.
_T._ Just so. Now, what does ἀναβαίνω mean? _C._ To go up, to ascend.
_T._ Very well; and which part of the word means _to go_, and which part
_up_? _C._ ἀνά is _up_, and βαίνω _go_.
_T._ βαίνω to go, yes; now, βάσις? What does βάσις mean? _C._ A going.
_T._ That is right; and ἀνά-βασις? _C._ A going up.
_T._ Now what is a going _down_? _C. is silent_.
_T._ What is down? … Κατά … don’t you recollect? Κατά. _C._ Κατά.
_T._ Well, then, what is a going _down_? Cat .. cat … _C._ Cat.…
_T._ Cata … _C._ Cata.…
_T._ Catabasis. _C._ Oh, of course, catabasis.
_T._ Now tell me what is the future of βαίνω? _C._ (_thinks_) βανῶ.
_T._ No, no; think again; you know better than that. _C._ (_objects_)
Φαίνω, Φανῶ?
_T._ Certainly, Φανῶ is the future of Φαίνω; but βαίνω is, you know, an
irregular verb. _C._ Oh, I recollect, βήσω.
_T._ Well, that is much better; but you are not quite right yet; βήσομαι.
_C._ Oh, of course,.
_T._ βήσομαι. Now do you mean to say that βήσομαι _comes from_ βαίνω? _C.
is silent._
_T._ For instance: τύψω comes from τύπτω by a change of letters; does
βήσομαιin any similar way come from βαίνω? _C._ It is an irregular verb.
_T._ What do you mean by an irregular verb? does it form tenses anyhow and
by caprice? _C._ It does not go according to the paradigm.
_T._ Yes, but how do you account for this? _C. is silent_.
_T._ Are its tenses formed from several roots? _C. is silent. T. is
silent; then he changes the subject._
_T._ Well, now you say _Anabasis_ means an _ascent_. _Who_ ascended? _C._
The Greeks, Xenophon.
_T._ Very well: Xenophon and the Greeks; the Greeks ascended. To what did
they ascend? _C._ Against the Persian king: they ascended to fight the
Persian king.
_T._ That is right … an ascent; but I thought we called it a _de_scent
when a foreign army carried war into a country? _C. is silent._
_T._ Don’t we talk of a descent of barbarians? _C._ Yes.
_T._ Why then are the Greeks said to go _up_? _C._ They went up to fight
the Persian king.
_T._ Yes; but why _up_ … why not _down_? _C._ They came down afterwards,
when they retreated back to Greece.
_T._ Perfectly right; they did … but could you give no reason why they are
said to go _up_ to Persia, not _down_? _C._ They went _up_ to Persia.
_T._ Why do you not say they went _down? C. pauses, then_ … They went
_down_ to Persia.
_T._ You have misunderstood me.
_A silence._
_T._ _Why_ do you not say _down_? _C._ I do … _down_.
_T._ You have got confused; you know very well. _C._ I understood you to
ask why I did not say “they went _down_.”
_A silence on both sides._
_T._ Have you come up to Dublin or down? _C._I came up.
_T._ Why do you call it coming _up_? _C. thinks, then smiles, then_ … We
_always_ call it coming up to Dublin.
_T._ Well, but you always have a _reason_ for what you do … what is your
reason here? _C. is silent._
_T._ Come, come, Mr. Brown, I won’t believe you don’t know; I am sure you
have a very good reason for saying you go up to Dublin, not _down_. _C.
thinks, then_ … It is the capital.
_T._ Very well; now was Persia the capital? _C._ Yes.
_T._ Well … no … not exactly … explain yourself; was Persia a city? _C._ A
country.
_T._ That is right; well, but did you ever hear of Susa? _Now_, why did
they speak of going _up_ to Persia? _C. is silent._
_T._ Because it was the seat of government; that was one reason. Persia
was the seat of government; they went up because it was the seat of
government. _C._ Because it was the seat of government.
_T._ Now where did they go up from? _C._ From Greece.
_T._ But where did this army assemble? whence did it set out? _C. is
silent._
_T._ It is mentioned in the first book; where did the troops _rendezvous_?
_C. is silent._
_T._ Open your book; now turn to Book I., chapter ii.; now tell me. _C._
Oh, at Sardis.
_T._ Very right: at Sardis; now where was Sardis? _C._ In Asia Minor?… no
… it’s an island … _a pause, then_ … Sardinia.
_T._ In Asia Minor; the army set out from Asia Minor, and went on towards
Persia; and therefore it is said to go _up_—because … _C. is silent._
_T._ Because … Persia … _C._ Because Persia …
_T._ Of course; because Persia held a sovereignty over Asia Minor. _C._
Yes.
_T._ Now do you know how and when Persia came to conquer and gain
possession of Asia Minor? _C. is silent._
_T._ Was Persia in possession of many countries? _C. is silent._
_T._ Was Persia at the head of an empire? _C. is silent._
_T._ Who was Xerxes? _C._ Oh, Xerxes … yes … Xerxes; he invaded Greece; he
flogged the sea.
_T._ Right; he flogged the sea: what sea? _C. is silent_.
_T._ Have you read any history of Persia?… what history? _C._ Grote, and
Mitford.
_T._ Well, now, Mr. Brown, you can name some other reason why the Greeks
spoke of going up to Persia? Do we talk of going _up_ or _down_ from the
sea-coast? _C._ Up.
_T._ That is right; well, going from Asia Minor, would you go from the
sea, or towards it? _C._ From.
_T._ What countries would you pass, going from the coast of Asia Minor to
Persia? … mention any of them. _C. is silent._
_T._ What do you mean by Asia _Minor_?… why called Minor?… how does it
lie? _C. is silent._
Etc., etc.
3.
I have drawn out this specimen at the risk of wearying the reader; but I
have wished to bring out clearly what it really is which an Entrance
Examination should aim at and require in its students. This young man had
read the Anabasis, and had some general idea what the word meant; but he
had no accurate knowledge how the word came to have its meaning, or of the
history and geography implied in it. This being the case, it was useless,
or rather hurtful, for a boy like him to amuse himself with running
through Grote’s many volumes, or to cast his eye over Matthiæ’s minute
criticisms. Indeed, this seems to have been Mr. Brown’s stumbling-block;
he began by saying that he had read Demosthenes, Virgil, Juvenal, and I do
not know how many other authors. Nothing is more common in an age like
this, when books abound, than to fancy that the gratification of a love of
reading is real study. Of course there are youths who shrink even from
story books, and cannot be coaxed into getting through a tale of romance.
Such Mr. Brown was not; but there are others, and I suppose he was in
their number, who certainly have a taste for reading, but in whom it is
little more than the result of mental restlessness and curiosity. Such
minds cannot fix their gaze on one object for two seconds together; the
very impulse which leads them to read at all, leads them to read on, and
never to stay or hang over any one idea. The pleasurable excitement of
reading what is new is their motive principle; and the imagination that
they are doing something, and the boyish vanity which accompanies it, are
their reward. Such youths often profess to like poetry, or to like history
or biography; they are fond of lectures on certain of the physical
sciences; or they may possibly have a real and true taste for natural
history or other cognate subjects;—and so far they may be regarded with
satisfaction; but on the other hand they profess that they do not like
logic, they do not like algebra, they have no taste for mathematics; which
only means that they do not like application, they do not like attention,
they shrink from the effort and labour of thinking, and the process of
true intellectual gymnastics. The consequence will be that, when they grow
up, they may, if it so happen, be agreeable in conversation, they may be
well informed in this or that department of knowledge, they may be what is
called literary; but they will have no consistency, steadiness, or
perseverance; they will not be able to make a telling speech, or to write
a good letter, or to fling in debate a smart antagonist, unless so far as,
now and then, mother-wit supplies a sudden capacity, which cannot be
ordinarily counted on. They cannot state an argument or a question, or
take a clear survey of a whole transaction, or give sensible and
appropriate advice under difficulties, or do any of those things which
inspire confidence and gain influence, which raise a man in life, and make
him useful to his religion or his country.
* * * * *
And now, having instanced what I mean by the _want_ of accuracy, and
stated the results in which I think it issues, I proceed to sketch, by way
of contrast, an examination which displays a student, who, whatever may be
his proficiency, at least knows what he is about, and has tried to master
what he has read. I am far from saying that every candidate for admission
must come up to its standard:—
_T._ I think you have named Cicero’s Letters ad Familiares, Mr. Black?
Open, if you please, at Book xi., Epistle 29, and begin reading.
_C. reads._ Cicero Appio salutem. Dubitanti mihi (quod scit Atticus
noster), de hoc toto consilio profectionis, quod in utramque partem in
mentem multa veniebant, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam dubitationem,
judicium et consilium tuum. Nam et scripsisti aperte, quid tibi videretur;
et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit. Semper judicavi, in te, et in
capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dando fidem; maximeque sum
expertus, cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissem quid mihi
faciendum esse censeres; eundumne ad Pompeium an manendum in Italiâ.
_T._ Very well, stop there; Now construe. _C._ Cicero Appio salutem.…
_Cicero greets Appius._
_T. __“__Greets Appius.__”_ True; but it sounds stiff in English, doesn’t
it? What is the real English of it? _C._ “My _dear_ Appius?”…
_T._ That will do; go on. _C._ Dubitanti mihi, quod scit Atticus noster,
_While I was hesitating, as our friend Atticus knows_.…
_T._ That is right. _C._ De hoc toto consilio profectionis, _about the
whole plan … entire project_ … de hoc toto consilio profectionis … _on the
subject of my proposed journey … on my proposed journey altogether_.
_T._ Never mind; go on; any of them will do. _C._ Quod in utramque partem
in mentem multa veniebant, _inasmuch as many considerations both for and
against it came into my mind_, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam
dubitationem, _it came with great force to remove my hesitation_.
_T._ What do you mean by “accessit”? _C._ It means _it contributed to turn
the scale_; accessit, _it was an addition to one side_.
_T._ Well, it may mean so, but the words run, ad tollendam dubitationem.
_C._ It was a great … it was a powerful help towards removing my
hesitation … no … _this was a powerful help, viz., your judgment and
advice_.
_T._ Well, what is the construction of “pondus” and “judicium”? _C. Your
advice came as a great weight_.
_T._ Very well, go on. _C._ Nam et scripsisti aperte quid tibi videretur;
_for you distinctly wrote your opinion_.
_T._ Now, what is the force of “nam”? _C. pauses; then_, It refers to
“accessit” … it is an explanation of the fact, that Appius’s opinion was a
help.
_T._ “Et”; you omitted “et” … “et scripsisti.” _C._ It is one of two
“ets”; et scripsisti, et Atticus.
_T._ Well, but why don’t you construe it? _C._ Et scripsisti, _you both
distinctly_.…
_T._ No; tell me, _why_ did you leave it out? had you a reason? _C._ I
thought it was only the Latin style, to dress the sentence, to make it
antithetical; and was not English.
_T._ Very good, still, you can express it; try. _C. Also_, with the second
clause?
_T._ That is right, go on. _C._ Nam et, _for you distinctly stated in
writing your opinion_, et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit, _and
Aticus too sent me word of what you said,… of what you said to him in
conversation_.
_T._ “Pertulit.” _C._ It means that Atticus conveyed on to Cicero the
conversation he had with Appius.
_T. Who_ was Atticus? _C. is silent._
_T._ Who was Atticus? _C._ I didn’t think it came into the examination.…
_T._ Well, I didn’t say it did: but still you can tell me who Atticus was.
_C._ A great friend of Cicero’s.
_T._ Did he take much part in politics? _C._ No.
_T._ What were his opinions? _C._ He was an Epicurean.
_T._ What was an Epicurean? _C. is silent, then_, Epicureans lived for
themselves.
_T._ You are answering very well, sir; proceed. _C._ Semper judicavi, _I
have ever considered_, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summam
esse, et in dando fidem; _that your wisdom was of the highest order_ …
_that you had the greatest wisdom … that nothing could exceed the wisdom
of your resolves, or the honesty of your advice_.
_T._ “Fidem.” _C._ It means _faithfulness to the person asking_ …
maximeque sum expertus, _and I had a great proof of it_.…
_T._ _Great_; why don’t you say _greatest_? “maxime” is superlative. _C._
The Latins use the superlative, when they only mean the positive.
_T._ You mean, when English uses the positive; can you give me an instance
of what you mean? _C._ Cicero always speaks of others as amplissimi,
optimi, doctissimi, clarissimi.
_T._ Do they ever use the comparative for the positive? _C. thinks, then_,
Certior factus sum.
_T._ Well, perhaps; however, here, “maxime” may mean _special_, may it
not? _C. And I had a special proof of it_, cùm, initio civilis belli, per
literas te consuluissem, _when, on the commencement of the civil war, I
had written to ask your advice_, quid mihi faciendum esse censeres, _what
you thought I ought to do_, eundumne ad Pompeium, an manendum in Italiâ,
_to go to Pompey, or to remain in Italy_.
_T._ Very well, now stop. Dubitanti mini, quod scit Atticus noster. You
construed quod, _as_. _C._ I meant the relative _as_.
_T._ Is _as_ a relative? _C. As_ is used in English for the relative, as
when we say _such as_ for _those who_.
_T._ Well, but why do you use it here? What is the antecedent to “quod”?
_C._ The sentence Dubitanti mihi, etc.