fables, or the substance of other reading lessons, in their own words.
They may also write descriptions of things with which they are familiar,
or any event which has recently happened, such as a country excursion.
Every one feels the necessity, on grounds of practical utility at all
events, of boys being taught to express their thoughts neatly on paper,
in good English and with correct spelling. Yet this is a point rarely
reached before the age of fifteen or sixteen, often never reached at
all. The reason is, that written exercises must be carefully looked over
by the master, or they are done in a slovenly manner. Anyone who has
never taught in a school will say, “Then let the master carefully look
them over.” But the expenditure of time and trouble this involves on the
master is so great, that in the end he is pretty sure either to have few
exercises written, or to neglect to look them over. The only remedy is
for the master not to have many boys to teach, and not to be many hours
in school. Even then, unless he set apart a special time every day for
correcting exercises, he is likely to find them “increase upon him.”
§ 16. The course of reading-books, accompanied by large illustrations,
may go on to many other things which the children see around them, such
as trees and plants, and so lead up to instruction in natural history and
physiology. But in imparting all knowledge of this kind, we should aim,
not at getting the children to remember a number of facts, but at opening
their eyes, and extending the range of their interests.
§ 17. I should suggest, then, for children, three books to be used
concurrently, viz., a reading book about animals and things, a poetry
book, and a prose narrative or Æsop’s Fables. With the first commences a
series culminating in works of science; with the second, a series that
should lead up to Milton and Shakespeare; the third should be succeeded
by some of our best writers in prose.
§ 18. But many schoolmasters will shudder at the thought of a child’s
spending a year or two at school without ever hearing of the Heptarchy
or Magna Charta, and without knowing the names of the great towns in
any country of Europe. I confess I regard this ignorance with great
equanimity. If the child, or the youth even, takes no interest in the
Heptarchy and Magna Charta, and knows nothing of the towns but their
names, I think him quite as well off without this knowledge as with
it—perhaps better, as such knowledge turns the lad into a “wind-bag,” as
Carlyle might say, and gives him the appearance of being well-informed
without the reality. But I neither despise a knowledge of history and
geography; nor do I think that these studies should be neglected for
foreign languages or science: and it is because I should wish a pupil
of mine to become, in the end, thoroughly conversant in history and
geography, that I should, if possible, conceal from him the existence of
the numerous school manuals on these subjects.
We will suppose that a parent meets with a book which he thinks will
be both instructive and entertaining to his children. But the book is
a large one, and would take a long time to get through; so instead of
reading any part of it to them or letting them read it for themselves, he
makes them _learn by heart the table of contents_. The children do _not_
find it entertaining; they get a horror of the book, which prevents their
ever looking at it afterwards, and they forget what they have learnt
as soon as they possibly can. Just such is the sagacious plan adopted
in teaching history and geography in schools, and such are the natural
consequences. Every student knows that the use of an epitome is to
_systematise_ knowledge, not to communicate it, and yet, in teaching, we
give the epitome first, and allow it to precede, or rather to supplant,
the knowledge epitomised. The children are disgusted, and no wonder. The
subjects, indeed, are interesting, but not so the epitomes. I suppose if
we could see the skeletons of the Gunnings, we should not find them more
fascinating than any other skeletons.[203]
§ 19. The first thing to be aimed at, then, is to excite the children’s
interest. Even if we thought of nothing but the acquiring of information,
this is clearly the true method. What are the facts which we remember?
Those in which we feel an interest. If we are told that So-and-so has met
with an accident, or failed in business, we forget it directly, unless we
know the person spoken of. Similarly, if I read anything about Addison
or Goldsmith, it interests me, and I remember it because they are, so
to speak, friends of mine; but the same information about Sir Richard
Blackmore or Cumberland would not stay in my head for four-and-twenty
hours. So, again, we naturally retain anything we learn about a foreign
country in which a relation has settled, but it would require some little
trouble to commit to memory the same facts about a place in which we
had no concern. All this proceeds from two causes. First, that the mind
retains that in which it takes an interest; and, secondly, that one of
the principal helps to memory is the association of ideas. These were,
no doubt, the ground reasons which influenced Dr. Arnold in framing his
plan of a child’s first history book. This book, he says, should be
a picture-book of the memorable deeds which would best appeal to the
child’s imagination. They should be arranged in order of time, but with
no other connection. The letter-press should simply, but fully, tell
the _story_ of the action depicted. These would form starting-points
of interest. The child would be curious to know more about the great
men whose acquaintance he had made, and would associate with them the
scenes of their exploits; and thus we might actually find our children
anxious to learn history and geography! I am sorry that even the great
authority of Dr. Arnold has not availed to bring this method into use.
Such a book would, of course, be dear. Bad pictures are worse than none
at all: and Goethe tells us that his appreciation of Homer was for years
destroyed by his having been shown, when a child, absurd pictures of the
Homeric heroes. The book would, therefore, cost six or eight shillings at
least; and who would give this sum for an account of single actions of
a few great men, when he might buy the lives of all great men, together
with ancient and modern history, the names of the planets, and a great
amount of miscellaneous information, all for a shilling in “Mangnall’s
Questions”?
However, if the saving of a few shillings is more to be thought of than
the best method of instruction, the subject hardly deserves our serious
consideration.
§ 20. It is much to be regretted that books for the young are so seldom
written by distinguished authors. I suppose that of the three things
which the author seeks, money, reputation, influence, the first is not
often despised, nor the last considered the least valuable. And yet both
money and influence are more certainly gained by a good book for the
young than by any other. The influence of “Tom Brown,” however different
in kind, is probably not smaller in amount than that of “Sartor Resartus.”
§ 21. What we want is a Macaulay for boys, who shall handle historical
subjects with that wonderful art displayed in the “Essays,”—the art of
elaborating all the more telling portions of the subject, outlining the
rest, and suppressing everything that does not conduce to heighten the
general effect. Some of these essays, such as the “Hastings” and “Clive,”
will be read with avidity by the elder boys; but Macaulay did not write
for children, and he abounds in words to them unintelligible. Had he been
a married man, we might perhaps have had such a volume of historical
sketches for boys as now we must wish for in vain. But there are good
story-tellers left among us, and we might soon expect such books as we
desiderate, if it were clearly understood what is the right sort of book,
and if men of literary ability and experience would condescend to write
them.
§ 22. If, in these latter days, “the individual withers, and the world
is more and more,” we must not expect our children to enter into this.
Their sympathy and their imagination can be aroused, not for nations,
but for individuals; and this is the reason why some biographies of
great men should precede any history. These should be written after
Macaulay’s method. There should be no attempt at completeness, but what
is most important and interesting about the man should be narrated in
detail, and the rest lightly sketched, or omitted altogether. Painters
understand this principle, and, in taking a portrait, very often depict a
man’s features minutely without telling all the truth about the buttons
on his waistcoat. But, because in a literary picture each touch takes up
additional space, writers seem to fear that the picture will be distorted
unless every particular is expanded or condensed in the same ratio.
§ 23. At the risk of wearisome repetition, I must again say that I
care as little about driving “useful knowledge” into a boy as the most
ultra Cambridge man could wish; but I want to get the boy to have wide
sympathies, and to teach himself; and I should therefore select the great
men from very different periods and countries, that his net of interest
(so to speak) may be spread in all waters.
§ 24. When we have thus got our boys to form the acquaintance of great
men, they will have certain associations connected with many towns and
countries. Constant reference should be made to the map, and the boys’
knowledge and interest will thus make settlements in different parts of
the globe. These may be extended by a good book of travels, especially
of voyages of discovery. There are now many such books suitable for the
purpose, but I am still partial to a book which has been a delight to
me and to my own children from our earliest years:—Miss Hack’s “Winter
Evenings; or, Tales of Travelers”; or, as Routledge now calls a part of
it, “Travels in Hot and Cold Lands.” In studying such travels, the map
should, of course, be always in sight; and outline maps may be filled
up by the boys as they learn about the places in the traveller’s route.
Anyone who has had the management of a school library knows how popular
“voyage and venture” is with the boys who have passed the stage in which
the picture-books of animals were the main attraction. Captain Cook,
Mungo Park, and Admiral Byron are heroes without whom boyhood would
be incomplete; but as boys are engrossed by the adventures, and never
trouble themselves about the map, they often remember the incidents
without knowing where they happened.
Of course, school geographies never mention such people as celebrated
travellers; if they did, it would be impossible to give all the principal
geographical names in the world within the compass of 200 pages.
§ 25. What might we fairly expect from such a course of teaching as I
have here suggested?
At the end of a year and a half, or two years, from the age, say, of
nine, the boy would read to himself intelligently; he would write fairly;
he would spell all common English words correctly; he would be thoroughly
familiar with the relations of all common numbers, that is, of all
numbers below 100; he would have had his interest aroused, or, to speak
more accurately, not stifled but increased in common objects, such as
animals, trees, and plants; he would have made the acquaintance of some
great men, and traced the voyages of some great travellers; he would be
able to say by heart and to write from memory some of the best simple
English poetry, and his ear would be familiar with the sound of good
English prose. So much, at least, on the positive side. On the negative
there might also be results of considerable value. He would _not_ have
learned to look upon books and school-time as the torment of his life,
nor have fallen into the habit of giving them as little of his attention
as he could reconcile with immunity from the cane. The benefit of the
negative result might outweigh a very glib knowledge of “tables” and
Latin Grammar.
XXI.
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S MORAL AND RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE.
§ 1. All who are acquainted with the standard treatises on the theory of
education, and also with the management of schools, will have observed
that moral and religious training occupies a larger and more prominent
space in theory than in practice. On consideration, we shall find perhaps
that this might naturally be expected. Of course we are all agreed that
morality is more important than learning, and masters who are many of
them clergymen, will hardly be accused of under-estimating the value
of religion. Why then, does not moral and religious training receive a
larger share of the master’s attention? The reason I take to be this.
Experience shows that it depends directly on the master whether a boy
acquires knowledge, but only indirectly, and in a much less degree,
whether he grows up a good and religious man. The aim which engrosses
most of our time is likely to absorb an equal share of our interest; and
thus it happens that masters, especially those who never associate on
terms of intimacy with their pupils out of school, throw energy enough
into making boys _learn_, but seldom think at all of the development
of their character, or about their thoughts and feelings in matters of
religion. This statement may indeed be exaggerated, but no one who
has the means of judging will assert that it is altogether without
foundation. And yet, although a master can be more certain of sending
out his pupils well-taught than well-principled, his influence on their
character is much greater than it might appear to a superficial observer.
I am not speaking of formal religious instruction. I refer now to the
teacher’s indirect influence. The results of his formal teaching vary
as its amount, but he can apply no such gauge to his informal teaching.
A few words of earnest advice or remonstrance, which a boy hears at the
right time from a man whom he respects, may affect that boy’s character
for life. Here everything depends, not on the words used, but on the
feeling with which they are spoken, and on the way in which the speaker
is regarded by the hearer. In such matters the master has a much more
delicate and difficult task than in mere instruction. The words, indeed,
are soon spoken, but that which gives them their influence is not soon
or easily acquired. Here, as in so many other instances, we may in a
few minutes throw down what it has cost us days—perhaps years—to build
up. An unkind word will destroy the effects of long-continued kindness.
Boys always form their opinion of a man from the worst they know of him.
Experience has not yet taught them that good people have their failings,
and bad people their virtues. If the scholars find the master at times
harsh and testy, they cannot believe in his kindness of heart and care
for their welfare. They do not see that he may have an ideal before him
to which he is partly, though not wholly true. They judge him by his
demeanour in his least guarded moments—at times when he is jaded and
dissatisfied with the result of his labours. At such times he is no
longer “in touch” with his pupils. He is conscious only of his own power
and mental superiority. Feeling almost a contempt for the boys’ weakness,
he does not care for their opinion of him or think for an instant what
impression he is making by his words and conduct. He gives full play to
his _arbitrium_, and says or does something which seems to the boys to
reveal him in his true character, and which causes them ever after to
distrust his kindness.
§ 2. When we consider the way in which masters endeavour to gain
influence, we shall find that they may be divided roughly into two
parties, whom I will call the open and the reserved. A teacher of the
_open_ party endeavours to appear to his pupils precisely as he is.
He will hear of no restraint except that of decorum. He believes that
if he is as much the superior of his pupils as he ought to be, his
authority will take care of itself without his casting round it a wall
of artificial reserve. “Be natural,” he says; “get rid of affectations
and shams of all kinds; and then, if there is any good in you, it will
tell on those around you. Whatever is bad, would be felt just as surely
in disguise; and the disguise would only be an additional source of
mischief.” The _reserved_, on the other hand, wish their pupils to think
of them as they ought to be rather than as they are. Against the other
party they urge that our words and actions cannot always be in harmony
with our thoughts and feelings, however much we may desire to make them
so. We must, therefore, they say, reconcile ourselves to this; and since
our words and actions are more under our control than our thoughts and
feelings, we must make them as nearly as possible what they should be,
instead of debasing them to involuntary thoughts and feelings which are
not worthy of us. Then again, a teacher who is an idealist may say,
“The young require some one to look up to. In my better moments I am not
altogether unworthy of their respect; but if they knew all my weaknesses,
they would naturally, and perhaps justly, despise me. For their sakes,
therefore, I must keep my weaknesses out of sight, and the effort to do
this demands a certain reserve in all our intercourse.”
§ 3. I suppose an excess in either direction might lead to mischievous
results. The “open” man might be wanting in self-restraint, and might say
and do things which, though not wrong in themselves, might have a bad
effect on the young. Then, again, the lower and more worldly side of his
character might show itself in too strong relief; and his pupils seeing
this mainly, and supposing that they understood him entirely, might
disbelieve in his higher motives and religious feeling. On the other
hand, those who set up for being better than they really are, are, as it
were, walking on stilts. They gain no real influence by their separation
from their pupils, and they are always liable to an accident which may
expose them to their ridicule.[204]
§ 4. I am, therefore, though with some limitation, in favour of the
_open_ school. I am well aware, however, what an immense demand this
system makes on the master who desires to exercise a good influence on
the moral and religious character of his pupils. If he would have his
pupils know him as he is, if he would have them think as he thinks,
feel as he feels, and believe as he believes, he must be, at least in
heart and aim, worthy of their imitation. He must (with reverence be
it spoken) enter, in his humble way, into the spirit of the perfect
Teacher, who said, “For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they also
may be sanctified in truth.” Are we prepared to look upon our calling in
this light? I believe that the school-teachers of this country need not
fear comparison with any other body of men, in point of morality, and
religious earnestness; but I dare say many have found, as I have, that
the occupation is a very _narrowing_ one, that the teacher soon gets to
work in a groove, and from having his thoughts so much occupied with
routine work, especially with small fault-findings and small corrections,
he is apt to settle down insensibly into a kind of moral and intellectual
stagnation—Philistinism, as Matthew Arnold has taught us to call it—in
which he cares as little for high aims and general principles as his
most commonplace pupil. Thus it happens sometimes that a man who set
out with the notion of developing all the powers of his pupils’ minds,
thinks in the end of nothing but getting them to work out equations and
do Latin exercises without false concords; and the clergyman even, who
began with a strong sense of his responsibility and a confident hope of
influencing the boys’ belief and character, at length is quite content if
they conform to discipline and give him no trouble out of school-hours.
We may say of a really good teacher what Wordsworth says of the poet; in
his work he must neither
lack that first great gift, the vital soul,
Nor general truths, which are themselves a sort
Of elements and agents, under-powers,
Subordinate helpers of the living mind.—_Prelude_, i. 9.
But the “vital soul” is too often crushed by excessive routine labour,
and then when general truths, both moral and intellectual, have ceased
to interest us, our own education stops, and we become incapable of
fulfilling the highest and most important part of our duty in educating
others.
§ 5. It is, then, the duty of the teacher to resist gravitating into this
state, no less for his pupils’ sake than for his own. The ways and means
of doing this I am by no means competent to point out; so I will merely
insist on the importance of teachers not being overworked—a matter which
has not, I think, hitherto received due attention.
We cannot expect intellectual activity of men whose minds are compelled
“with pack-horse constancy to keep the road” hour after hour, till they
are too jaded for exertion of any kind. The man himself suffers, and
his work, even his easiest work, suffers also. It may be laid down as a
general rule, that no one can teach long and teach well. All satisfactory
teaching and management of boys absolutely requires that the master
should be _in good spirits_. When the “genial spirits fail,” as they must
from an overdose of monotonous work, everything goes wrong directly. The
master has no longer the power of keeping the boys’ attention, and has to
resort to punishments even to preserve order. His gloom quenches their
interest and mental activity, just as fire goes out before carbonic acid;
and in the end teacher and taught acquire, not without cause, a feeling
of mutual aversion.
§ 6. And another reason why the master should not spend the greater
part of his time in formal teaching is this—his doing so compels him to
neglect the informal but very important teaching he may both give and
receive by making his pupils his companions.
§ 7. I fear I shall be met here by an objection which has only too much
force in it. Most Englishmen are at a loss how to make any use of
leisure. If a man has no turn for thinking, no fondness for reading, and
is without a hobby, what good shall his leisure do him? he will only pass
it in insipid gossip, from which any easy work would be a relief. That
this is so in many cases, is a proof to my mind of the utter failure of
our ordinary education: and perhaps an improved education may some day
alter what now seems a national peculiarity. Meantime the mind, even of
Englishmen, is more than a “succedaneum for salt;”[205] and its tendency
to bury its sight, ostrich-fashion, under a heap of routine work must be
strenuously resisted, if it is to escape its deadly enemies, stupidity
and ignorance.
§ 8. I have elsewhere expressed what I believe is the common conviction
of those who have seen something both of large schools and of small,
viz., that the moral atmosphere of the former is, as a rule, by far the
more wholesome;[206] and also that each boy is more influenced by his
companions than by his master. More than this, I believe that in many,
perhaps in most, schools, one or two boys affect the tone of the whole
body more than any master.[207] What are called Preparatory Schools
labour under this immense disadvantage, that their ruling spirits are
mere children without reflection or sense of responsibility.[208] But
where the leading boys are virtually young men, these may be made a
medium through which the mind of the master may act upon the whole
school. They can enter into the thoughts, feelings, and aims of the
master on the one hand, and they know what is said and done among the
boys on the other. The master must, therefore, know the elder boys
intimately, and they must know him. This consummation, however, will
not be arrived at without great tact and self-denial on the part of the
master. The youth who is “neither man nor boy” is apt to be shy and
awkward, and is not by any means so easy to entertain as the lad who
chatters freely of the school’s cricket or football, past, present, and
to come. But the master who feels how all-important is the _tone_ of the
school, will not grudge any pains to influence those on whom it chiefly
depends.
§ 9. But, allowing the value of all these indirect influences, can we
afford to neglect direct formal religious instruction? We have most of us
the greatest horror of what we call a secular education, meaning thereby
an education without formal religious teaching. But this horror seems to
affect our theory more than our practice. Few parents ever enquire what
religious instruction their sons get at Eton, Harrow, or Westminster. At
Harrow when I was in the Fourth Form there (nearly fifty years ago by the
way) we had no religious instruction except a weekly lesson in Watts’s
Scripture History; and when I was a master some twenty years ago my form
had only a Sunday lesson in a portion of the Old Testament, and a lesson
in French Testament at “First School” on Monday. Even in some “Voluntary
Schools” we do not find “religious instruction” made so much of as the
arithmetic.