This being the state of the several classes into which Nature divides

every audience, it is of importance to trace the means which she employs

for the purpose of _advancing_ each, and of ultimately completing the

analysis; or, in other words, perfecting the knowledge of the narrative,

in each individual mind. This is equally beautiful, and equally simple.

It is, if we may be allowed the expression, by a regular system of

building. The foundation being laid, and the frame-work of the whole

being erected, in the knowledge of the great general outline, confusion

is ever after completely prevented. Every piece of information connected

with the history, which may be afterwards received, has a specific place

provided for it. It must belong to some one or other of the three great

divisions; and it is there inserted as a part of the general building.

It is now remembered in its connection, till all the circumstances,--the

whole of the information,--gradually, and perhaps distantly received,

complete the narrative.

To follow out this plan of Nature regularly, as in a school education,

the method must be exceedingly obvious; for if the first class, by once

hearing the chapters read, have received merely the outline,--the

frame-work of the narrative,--it must be obvious, that when this has by

reflection become familiar, a second reading would enable them to fill

up much of this outline, by which they would be on a par with the

second. Another reading would, in like manner, add to the second, and

form a third; and so forth of all the others. Each reading would add

more and more to the knowledge of the pupil; and yet, every idea

communicated would be nothing more than a fuller developement of the

original outline,--the frame-work,--the skeleton of the story which he

had acquired by the first reading. By successive readings, therefore,

the first class will take the place of the second, the second of the

third, and so on to the end. This is Nature's uniform method of

perfecting her pupils in any branch of _connected_ knowledge;--a method

which, therefore, it should be the object of the Educationist to

understand, and closely to imitate.

From the cases which we have in this chapter supposed as examples, there

are several important practical inferences to be derived, to which we

shall here very briefly advert.

In the first place, we are led to infer, from all the cases brought into

notice, that every kind of external force, or precipitation in

education, is abhorrent to Nature. In each of the cases supposed, we

have a remarkable exhibition of the calm serenity of Nature's operations

in the education of the young. For instance, in the last case supposed,

the children all listened,--they all heard the same words,--the mental

food was the same to each, however diversified their abilities might be;

and it was indiscriminately offered in the same form to all, although

all were not equally prepared to receive and digest it. The results

accordingly were, in fact, as various as the number of the persons

present. And yet, notwithstanding of all this, there was no hurry, no

confusion, no attempt to stretch the mind beyond its strength. Each

individual, according to his capacity, laid hold of as much as his mind

could receive, and silently abandoned the remainder.--But if there had

been any external urgency or force employed, to compel the child to

accomplish more than his mind was capable of, this serenity and

composure would have been destroyed; irritation, and confusion, and

mental weakness, would have been the consequence; and altogether,

matters would not have been made better, but worse, by the attempt.

Another inference, which we think may legitimately be drawn from the

above examples, is this, that although Nature prompts the child silently

to throw off or reject that which the mind at the time cannot receive,

yet it would be better for the child if no more had been pressed upon

him than he was capable of receiving. The very rejection of any portion

of the mental food presented for acceptance, must in some measure tend

to dissipate the mind, and exhaust its strength. This we think is

demonstrated by the fact, that the child had to listen for _an hour_,

and yet retained on his memory no more than experience shews us could

have been much more successfully communicated in _five minutes_.

This leads us to another remark, almost equally important; which is,

that the want of classification among the children, will not only hurt

them, but tend to waste the time, and unnecessarily to exhaust the

strength of the teacher. The teacher's success with any one child, is

not to be estimated by the pains he takes, or the extent of his labour,

but by the amount of knowledge actually retained by the child. To employ

an hour's labour, therefore, to communicate that knowledge which could

with much better effect be given in five minutes, is both unreasonable

and improper; and every one who will for a moment think on the subject

must see, that a lesson, which in that short space of time conveyed the

whole of the knowledge that the pupils had been able to pick up during

the hour's exercise, would leave the teacher eleven-twelfths of his time

to benefit the other classes. The nurseryman follows this plan with his

trees, and with evident success, both in saving time, and room, and

labour. When he sows his acorns, one square yard will contain more

plants than will ultimately occupy an acre. It is only as they increase

in growth, that they are thinned out and transplanted; and such should

be the case in communicating knowledge to children. To attempt to teach

the whole history at once, is like sowing the whole acre with acorns,

and thinning them out during a quarter of a century. The loss of seed in

this case is the least of the evils; for the ground would be robbed of

its strength, nine-tenths of it would be rendered unnecessarily useless

during a large portion of the time; and much of the anxiety, and care,

and labour of the nurseryman would be thrown away. Ultimately he would

find, that of the many thousands of oaks he had sowed, he had been able

to rear no more _than the acre could carry_. By following out this

principle in education, and giving the child as much as he can receive,

and no more, of the whole series of truths to be communicated, his mind,

at the close of the exercise, will be much more vigorous, the ideas

received will be much better understood, more firmly rivetted upon the

memory, and much more at the command of the will, while the quantity of

knowledge really communicated, is at least equal in amount.--The only

thing indeed that renders a contrary plan of procedure even tolerable to

a child, is the wise provision of Nature, by which she induces him to

throw off, with some degree of ease, the superfluous matter; but had the

reception and retention of the whole by each child been demanded by the

teacher, the very attempt to do so on the part of the pupil, would not

only have been irritating and burdensome, but it would have been

extremely hurtful to the mind, by stretching its powers beyond its

strength.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Note E.

CHAP. VIII.

_On Nature's Methods of Teaching her Pupils to make use of their

Knowledge._

We come now to another operation of Nature with the young, to which she

appears to attach more importance than she does to any of her previous

educational processes, and to which she obviously intends that a more

than ordinary attention should be paid on our parts. This is the

training of her pupils to make use of their knowledge, and to apply the

information they possess to guide them in the common affairs of life.

This is obviously the great end which she has all along had in view; and

to which the cultivation of the mind, and the acquisition of knowledge

are merely preparatives. We shall first direct attention to a few of the

indications of this principle as they actually appear in ordinary life;

and then we shall endeavour to point out some of the laws by which she

appears to regulate them.

In the early periods of infancy we can plainly distinguish between

certain actions which depend upon _instinct_, and which are performed by

the infant perfectly and at once, without experience, and without

teaching;--and others of which the infant at first appears to be

incapable, but which it gradually _acquires_ by experience, or more

correctly, which it _learns_ by an application of the knowledge which it

is daily realizing. Among the former, or instinctive class, we may rank

the acts of sucking, swallowing, and crying, which are purely acts of

instinct; while among the numerous class belonging to the latter, we

include all those actions which are progressively improved, and which

are really the result of experience, derived from the application of

their acquired knowledge. As an example of these, we may instance the

acts of winking with the eyelids on the approach of an object to the

eye; the avoiding of a blow; the rejection of what is bitter or

unpalatable; the efforts made to possess that which has been found

pleasant; and the shunning of those acts for which it has been reproved

or punished. All these, and thousands of similar acts, are really the

result of a _direct application of previous knowledge_, and which,

without the possession of that knowledge, never are, nor could be

performed.

Mankind in infancy being, in the intention of Nature, placed under the

care of tender and intelligent parents are not provided with many

instinctive faculties. Their physical welfare is at first left

altogether to the care of the nurse; but, from a very early period of

consciousness, they intellectually become the pupils of Nature. Almost

all their actions are the results of experience;--of knowledge acquired,

and knowledge applied. Their attainments at the beginning are no doubt

few;--but, from the first, they are well marked, and go on with

increasing rapidity. The acquisition of knowledge by them, and

especially the application of it, are evident to the most cursory

observer. For example, we see a child cling to its keeper, and refuse to

go to a stranger;--we see it when hungry stretch out its arms, and cry

to get to its nurse;--and when it has fallen in its efforts to walk, it

will not for some time attempt it again. These, and many more which will

occur to the reader, are the results of Nature's teaching;--her

suggestions to her pupil for the right application of its knowledge. The

child has been taught from experience that it is safe and comfortable

with its keeper, and it applies this knowledge by refusing to leave her.

It has learned how, and by whom, its hunger is to be satisfied; and it

applies this knowledge by seeking to be with its nurse. It has learned

by experience, that the attempt to walk is dangerous; and it applies

that knowledge by avoiding the danger. Here the child is wholly as yet

in the hands of Nature; and it is quite evident, that her design in

first enabling the pupil to acquire those portions of knowledge, was,

that she might induce him to apply them for his safety and comfort. No

doubt the mental powers of the child were cultivated and disciplined by

the acquisition of the knowledge, and still more by its application; but

this disciplining of the mind, and accumulation of knowledge, were

evidently a secondary object, and not the primary one. Health and

cheerfulness are gained by tilling the ground; yet the ground is not

tilled for the purpose of securing health and cheerfulness. It is for

the produce of the harvest. So, in like manner, the cultivation of the

child's mind, and the reception of the seeds of knowledge, are merely

means employed for a further end,--the harvest of comfort and usefulness

to be afterwards reaped. From all this we are directly led to the

conclusion, that it is the intention of Nature, that all the knowledge

acquired should be put to use; and therefore, that nothing should be

taught the young, in the first place at least, except that which is

really useful; while the proper use of all that they learn should be

diligently pointed out.

It may appear to some, that this truth is so plain and obvious, as to

require no further illustration or enforcement.--We sincerely wish that

it were so. But long experience justifies us in being sceptical on the

point. And as the establishment of this principle, and a thorough

knowledge of its working, are perhaps of more value than any other truth

in the whole range of educational science, we shall offer a few remarks

on its validity and importance, before proceeding to examine the means

by which Nature carries it into operation.

That knowledge, when once acquired, is intended by Nature to be put to

use, is proved negatively by the well known fact, that almost all our

_mental_ acquirements, when not used, are soon lost. They gradually fade

from the mind, and are at last blotted from the memory. Hence the

disappearance in after life of all the academical and collegiate

acquirements of those youths who move in a sphere where their use is not

required; and of those portions of the early attainments of even

professional men, which are not necessary for their particular pursuits.

By the universal operation of this principle, Nature gives fair warning

of the folly of useless learning; and plainly indicates, that whenever

the benefits which she confers are not put to use as she designed, they

will gradually, but most certainly, be withdrawn.

The same fact is also proved positively:--For we find, that the proper

use of any portion of our knowledge, is invariably rewarded by its

becoming still more familiar. The student who puts a principle in

chemistry to the test of experiment, will understand it better, remember

it longer, and be able to apply it to useful purposes, much more readily

than his companion who merely reflects upon it. And of two individuals,

who by a lecture have been taught the duty and the delights of mercy,

that one will learn it best, and remember it longest, who, immediately

on hearing it, is prompted to relieve a fellow creature from distress,

or to save a family from ruin.

This principle of making every thing conduce to the promotion of

practical good, seems to pervade all the works of God; and there is no

department in Nature, mineral, vegetable, or animal, that does not

afford proofs of its existence. Every thing that the Almighty has formed

is practically useful; and is arranged in such a manner as to give the

clearest indications, that it was designed to be turned to some useful

purpose by man. The annual and diurnal motions of the earth in its

orbit; the obliquity of its axis; the inequality of its surface, and the

disposition and disruption of its strata, all shew the most consummate

wisdom, and are severally a call to intelligent man to turn them to use.

On these, and on every other department of Nature's works, there is

written in legible characters, that it is the _use_ of knowledge, and

not the _possession_ of it merely, that is recommended. This she teaches

by every operation of her hand, both directly, and by analogy. For could

we suppose that the vegetable creation were capable of receiving

knowledge, we might conclude from various facts, that this principle was

not confined to the animal kingdom alone, but that it regulated the

operations of all organic existences. The living vegetable has at least

the appearance of acting under its influence; for, as if it knew that

light was necessary for its health and growth, it invariably turns

towards the light;--as if it knew that certain kinds of decayed matter

were better fitted for its nourishment than others, it pushes out new

fibrous roots in the direction of the spot where they are to be

found;--and even when isolated on a rock, or a wall, at a distance from

sufficient soil and moisture, it husbands its scanty means, and sends

down from its elevation an extra root to the ground, to collect

additional nourishment where it is to be had.

In every department of animal life, also, the principle appears to

exist, and exhibits itself in the conduct of all free agents, from the

insect to the elephant. The dog that has been kindly treated in a

particular house, seldom fails to visit it again; and when he is

violently driven from another, the same principle indisposes him to

return. It is upon record, that a surgeon who had bandaged the broken

leg of a dog, was afterwards visited by his patient, who brought

another, requiring a similar operation. The horse, in like manner, is

proverbially sagacious in the application of his knowledge.

Mismanagement in a groom in one instance, may create a "vice," which may

lessen his value during life. This "vice," which is confirmed by

practice, is nothing more than the repeated application of his

knowledge. Such a "vice," accordingly, is best cured by avoiding the

circumstances which originally gave rise to it, till it dies from his

memory. Many other instances of a similar kind in the lower animals will

readily occur to the reader, all of which lead directly to the

conclusion, that, even in the brute creation, Nature not only prompts

them to collect information from what happens around them, and to act in

correspondence to its indications; but that, in fact, all the knowledge

they receive, or are capable of acquiring above instinct, is retained or

lost, exactly in proportion as it is, or is not, put to use.

In the case of rational creatures, this great design of Nature is still

more distinctly marked,--is intended for more important purposes,--and

is carried on by a separate system of internal machinery, part of which

at least is peculiar to man. This system of mental machinery consists of

two kinds, one of which may, we think, with propriety get the popular

name of the "Animal, or Common Sense," and the other has already

received the appropriate name of "The Moral Sense," or conscience. To

Nature's method of using these principles, for prompting and directing

us in the use of our knowledge, we shall now shortly advert.

CHAP. IX.

_On Nature's Methods of Applying Knowledge by the Principle of the

Animal, or Common Sense._

When an infant, by laying hold of a hot tea-pot burns its hand, it

refuses to touch it again;--when a child has been frightened from a park

or field, he will not willingly enter it a second time;--and when any

thing is thrown in the direction of the head, we instantly stoop, or

bend to one side, to evade it. These are instances of the application of

knowledge, by the principle of "common sense," which do not belong to

instinct; and, in many cases at least, anticipate the exercise of

reason. Our object at present, however, is with the principle, and not

with its name.

When we analyze these operations, together with their causes, we find,

that there are certain portions of knowledge daily and hourly acquired

by the senses, which become so interwoven with our sentiments and

feelings, that they usually remain unobserved, till some special

occasion calls for their application. Now the principle we speak of, if

it indeed be a separate principle, is employed by Nature to apply this

latent knowledge, and to induce her pupil instantly, and without

waiting for the decisions of reason, to perform certain actions, or to

pursue a certain line of conduct, which we almost instinctively feel to

be useful and safe. No sane child, for example, will deliberately stand

in the way of a horse or a carriage at full speed,--or walk over a

precipice,--or take burning coals from the fire with his fingers; were

he to do so, we would not dignify the act so far as to say that it was

"unreasonable," for that would be too mild an epithet,--but we would

pronounce it at once to be "contrary to common sense."

In like manner, were an adult to bemire himself in crossing a ditch,

instead of making use of the stepping-stones placed there for the

purpose; or if he were to stand till he were drenched with a

thunder-shower, instead of taking shelter for the time in the

neighbouring shed, we would not say that it was "unreasonable," but that

it was "contrary to common sense." In short, whenever any thing is done

which universal experience shews to be hurtful _to ourselves_, (not to

others) it is invariably denominated an act "contrary to common sense;"

but whenever it involves hurt _to others_, it takes another character,

and becomes a breach of the "moral sense."

It is not our design, however, to come out of our way at present, to

adapt the name to the principle in Nature of which we are here speaking,

and far less shall we attempt to mould the principle into a form

suitable to the name. Our business is with the principle itself, as it

appears in ourselves and others; and we use the term "common sense,"

merely because at present we cannot find one more appropriate, or which

would suit our purpose so well. If this name shall be found proper for

it, it is well;--but if not, we leave it to others to provide a better.

We have said, that Nature prompts to the use of knowledge by means of

two distinct principles; the one, which may be denominated the "Animal,"

or "Common Sense," refers to actions of which _we ourselves_ are the

subjects; and the other, known by the term of the "Moral Sense," or

conscience, refers to actions of which _others_ are the subjects. It is

the former of these that we are at present to investigate.

We must all have observed the promptness with which we avoid any sudden

danger, or inconvenience, before we have time to reason about the

matter. As, for example, when we stumble, we instantly put forth the

proper foot to prevent our fall. This cannot be said to be an act of the

reasoning powers, because they have not had time to operate; and it is

equally clear that it is not an act of instinct, because infants, who

have only begun to walk have not the capacity of doing it. It is

evidently another principle which, availing itself of the knowledge

which the person has previously acquired by experience, now uses it

specially for the occasion.

That this application of our knowledge arises neither from instinct nor

from reason, will be obvious from many circumstances of ordinary

occurrence.--For example, when any object approaches the eye we

instantly shut it;--when any missile is thrown at us, we instantly turn

the head aside to evade it;--or when in walking something destroys our

equilibrium and we stumble, we instantly bend the body in the proper

direction, and to the precise point, necessary to restore our balance,

and to prevent our fall.--Now it is obvious, that all these

contingencies are provided for by one and the same principle, whatever

that principle may be; and that they are acts which do not depend upon

instinct, properly so called, is proved from the circumstance, that

infants, before they are taught by experience that the eye is so tender,

and even adults who have but newly acquired the use of their sight,

neither shut their eyes at the approach of objects, nor turn away their

heads when a missile is thrown at them.--And we think it is equally

clear, that it cannot be the result of reasoning, in the sense in which

we generally understand that term, because the mind has no time for

consideration, far less for reasoning, during the short moment that

occurs between the cause and the effect.

The object which we have chiefly in view at present is, to point out the

great end designed by Nature in all these actions, which is simply _the

application of knowledge_. There is the knowledge that objects entering

the eye will give pain, and that the shutting of the eye will defend it.

This we have shown is not an instinctive operation, but must have been

acquired by experience;--and it is this principle, into the nature of

which we are now enquiring, that prompted the child in the special case

to apply its knowledge by shutting the eye. In like manner, in the case

of the missile thrown at the head, there is a previous knowledge of the

effect which it will produce, and a knowledge also of the means by which

it is to be avoided,--and it is avoided;--and in the case of losing the

equilibrium, there is nothing more than the application of a latent

knowledge, now suddenly brought into use on the spur of the moment, that

by the movement of the foot the body will be supported. The principle,

whatever it be, which instigates children and adults to do all this, is

the subject of our present enquiry, and which for the present we have

denominated the "Animal," or "Common sense." We shall therefore a little

more particularly attend to its various indications.

The operation of this principle in the infant has already been pointed

out. When it has learned by experience that its nurse is kind, it

stretches forth its little hands, and desires to be with the

nurse;--when in its first attempt at walking it experiences a fall, it

applies this knowledge, by refusing again for some time to walk;--and

when it burns its finger at the flame of the candle, the application of

that knowledge induces it ever after to avoid both fire and flame.

In after life the same principle continues to operate both

independently of reason, and in conjunction with it. In encountering the

air of a cold night, we, without reasoning on the matter, wrap ourselves

closer in our cloak. When we turn a corner, and meet a sharp frosty

wind, we lower the head to protect the uncovered face. When we emerge

from the house, and perceive that the dulness of the day indicates rain,

we almost instinctively return for a cloak or an umbrella. And the

mariner at sunset, when he sees an opening in the sky indicating a

storm, immediately takes in sail, and makes all snug for the night. In

all these cases we perceive a principle within us, frequently operating

along with reason, but sometimes also without it, which prompts us to

apply our previous knowledge for our present comfort and advantage.[7]

The constant operation of such a principle in our nature, no matter by

what name it is called, leads us, as plainly as analogy and natural

phenomena can do, to conclude, that it ought to be carefully studied,

and assiduously cultivated in the young, during the period usually

assigned for their education.

When we carefully trace the operation of this principle in common life,

it appears that, in fact, the greater portion of our physical comforts

depends upon it. "Experience" is but another name for it. We find some

substances warmer, softer, harder, or more workable than others, and we

apply this knowledge by substituting one for another. The savage finds

the wigwam more convenient, or more easily come at, than a cave or a

crevice in a rock, and he builds a wigwam;--he finds a hut more durable

than a wigwam, and he substitutes a hut;--he at last finds a cottage

still more convenient, and he advances in his desires and his abilities

by his former experience, and he builds one.--In every advance, however,

it is the application of his previous knowledge that increases his

comforts, and tends to perpetuate them; and accordingly, as a proper

and a general application of the "moral sense," leads directly to

national _virtue_; so the proper and general application of this

principle of "common sense" goes to promote every kind of personal and

family _comfort_, as well as national _prosperity_. Its ramifications

pierce through every design and action of industry and genius. It is the

exercise of this principle alone which, in the worldly sense,

distinguishes the wise man from the fool; and which gives all the

superiority which is possessed by a civilized, over a savage community.

It is the chief guardian of our safety, and the parent of every personal

and domestic comfort. It is, in short, familiarity with its exercise

that imparts confidence to the philosopher, decision to the legislator,

dexterity to the artificer, and perfection to the artist. In each case

it is the accumulation of knowledge _put to use_, which makes the

distinction between one man and another; and it is by the aggregation of

such men that a nation becomes prosperous. It must never therefore be

forgotten, that it is not the possession of knowledge, but the use which

we make of it, that confers distinction. For no truism is more

incontrovertible than this, that knowledge which we cannot or do not

use, is really useless.

There is no wonder then that Nature should be at some pains in training

her pupils to an exercise on which so much of their happiness and safety

depends; and it is of corresponding importance, that we should

investigate the means, and the mode by which she usually accomplishes

her end. If we can successfully attain this knowledge, we may be enabled

to pursue a similar course in the training of the young, and with

decided advantage.

When we take any one of the numerous examples of the working of this

principle in the adult, and carefully analyze it, we can detect three

distinct stages in the operation, before the effect is produced. The

_first_ is the knowledge of some useful truth, present to the mind, and

at the command of the will;--there is, _secondly_, an inference drawn

from that truth, or portion of our knowledge, or the impression of an

inference which was formerly drawn from it, and which, as we have seen

in the infant, may remain long after the circumstance from which the

lesson was derived has been forgotten;--and there is, _thirdly_, a

special application of that inference or impression to our present

circumstances. For example, in the case of the person leaving the house,

and suddenly returning to provide himself with an umbrella, there is

first the knowledge of a fact, that "the sky is lowering;" then there is

an inference drawn from this fact, that "there will most probably be

rain;" but the comfort--the whole benefit arising from this knowledge,

and from this reasoning upon it,--depends on the third stage of the

operation, which is therefore the most important of all, namely, the

application of the inference, or lesson, to his present circumstances. A

mere knowledge of the fact that the sky lowered, would have remained a

barren and a useless truth in the mind, unless he had proceeded to draw

the proper inference from it; and the inference itself, after it was

drawn, would have done him no good, but must rather have added to his

uneasiness, had he not proceeded to the third step of the operation, and

applied the whole to the regulation of his conduct, in providing himself

with an umbrella or a cloak.

In like manner, in the supposed case of the mariner expecting a storm,

there was first the knowledge of the fact, that the "sky was in a

certain state." Now of this knowledge every person on board might have

been in possession as well as the master himself, without the slightest

benefit accruing to themselves or the ship, unless they had been

trained, or enabled to draw the proper inference or lesson from it. The

mere possession of the knowledge, therefore, would have been of no

advantage. But the practised eye, and the previous experience of the

master, enabled him to draw the inference, that "there will be a

storm." Even this, however, would not have saved the ship and crew,

without the third, and the most important step of all,--the application

of that inference or lesson to their present condition. It was that

which induced him to give the necessary orders to prepare for the storm,

and thus to secure the safety both of the ship and of all on board.

Again, in the case of the infant burning its finger, there appears to be

something like a similar process, which we can trace much better than

the child itself. The child puts its finger to the flame of the candle,

and it feels pain; from which it learns, for the first time, that flame

burns. This is the knowledge which it has acquired. But there is also an

inference drawn from that knowledge, not by reasoning, but by the

operation of the principle under consideration, an inference of which it

is probable the child itself at the time is unconscious, but the

existence of which is sufficiently proved by its uniform conduct

afterwards. By the operation of this principle in the child's mind,

before he can reason, he has inferred, that if he shall again touch

flame, he will again feel pain. He will very probably forget the

particular circumstance in which his finger was burned, but the

inference then drawn,--the impression made upon the mind, and which

corresponds to an inference,--still remains, and is made the chief

instrument which Nature employs in this most important part of all her

valuable educational processes. The child accordingly is found ever

after, not only preserving the particular finger that was burned, but

all its fingers and members, from a burning candle; and not from a

candle only, but from fire and flame of every kind.

This appears to be the natural order of that process of which we are

here speaking; and before leaving it, there are two or three

circumstances connected with it, that we ought not to omit noticing,

more particularly, because the whole of them appear to hold out

additional evidence of the little value which Nature attaches to

knowledge for its own sake, and of her decided approval of its

acquisition, only, or at least chiefly, when it is reduced to practice.

The first of these circumstances is, that Nature, in all cases, teaches

popularly--not philosophically; that is, she does not refuse to teach

one part of a connected series of phenomena, because the whole is not

yet perceived; nor does she neglect the use of the legitimate

application of an ascertained truth, because the principle or law by

which it acts remains as yet undiscovered. Her object evidently is, the

attainment of the most _useful_ part of the knowledge presented to her

pupil, and the _practical use_ of that part; leaving the investigation

of the other parts to the will or convenience of the person afterwards.

The infant accordingly made use of its knowledge, although it knew

nothing about the nature of flame; and the man and the mariner would

have done as they did, although they had known nothing at all about the

science of meteorology.

The second remark which we would here make is, that Nature, in most

cases, appears to put much more value on the inferences, or lessons,

drawn from the knowledge we have acquired, than she does upon the

knowledge itself. For example, in the case of the infant burning its

finger, the circumstance itself will soon be forgotten; but the

inference, or the impression acquired by its means, will remain. And

when at any subsequent period it avoids fire or flame, its mind is not

so much occupied by the abstract truth that flame will burn, as by the

lesson learned from that truth, that it should not meddle with it. This

inference it now practically applies to its present situation. That the

abstract truth,--the knowledge originally derived from the fact,--is

included in the lesson, may be quite true; but what we wish at present

more particularly to point out is, that _it is seldom adverted to by the

infant_. The inference,--the lesson which the truth suggested,--is all

that the child thought of. That alone is the fabric which Nature has

been employed in rearing; and the original truth has been used merely as

scaffolding for the purpose. The edifice itself, accordingly, having

been completed, the scaffolding is allowed to fall, as having answered

its design.

The same conclusion may be come to, by attending to the circumstances

connected with the operation of the principle in adults.--The person who

returned for his great-coat or umbrella after having drawn the inference

from the appearance of the sky, thought only of the coming shower; and

we could easily suppose a case, where the original indication of the sky

might be totally forgotten, while the full impression that it would rain

might still continue. In like manner, the mariner, in the bustle of

preparation, thinks only of the dreaded storm, while the original

circumstance,--the knowledge from which the inference was drawn,--is now

unheeded, or entirely forgotten.

The other circumstance to which we would here solicit attention, as

proving the same thing, is one to which we formerly alluded. It is the

remarkable fact, that knowledge, of whatever kind, when it is practised,

becomes more and more familiar and useful; while that which is not acted

upon, is soon blotted from the memory and lost. Writing, arithmetic, and

spelling, not to speak of grammar, geography, and history, when not

exercised in after life, are frequently found of no avail, even at times

when they are specially required.--Why is this? They were once known.

The knowledge was communicated at a time when the mind and memory were

best fitted for receiving and retaining them. But Nature in this, as in

every other instance, has been true to herself; and the knowledge which

is not used has been blighted, and at last removed from the memory and

lost.

From all these circumstances taken together, we are led to conclude,

that Nature never conveys knowledge without intending it to be

used;--that by a principle in our constitution, which we have

denominated "common sense," Nature prompts even infants to employ their

knowledge for their own special benefit;--that this principle continues

invariably to act, till it is assisted or superseded by reason;--and

that the process consists in drawing inferences, or lessons, from known

facts, and in practically applying them to present circumstances. All

which points the Educationist directly to the conclusion, that the

communication of knowledge is one of the _means_, but not the _end_, of

education;--that the lessons derived from the knowledge communicated,

are infinitely more valuable than the knowledge itself;--and that the

great design of education is, and ought to be, to train the young to

know how to use, and to put to use, not only the knowledge communicated

at school, but all the knowledge which they may acquire in their future

journey through life.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Note F.

CHAP. X.

_On Nature's Method of applying Knowledge by means of the Moral Sense,

or Conscience._

Nature enables her pupils to apply knowledge by means of the moral

sense, or conscience, as well as by the animal, or common sense. There

is however this great difference in the manner in which they

operate,--that whereas every infringement of the natural or physical

laws which regulate the application of knowledge by what we have called

the common sense, is invariably followed by its proper punishment,--the

consequences of infringing the laws which regulate the moral sense, are

neither so immediate, nor at the time so apparent. The child knows, that

by putting his finger to the candle, burning and pain will instantly

follow;--but the evil consequences of purloining sweet-meats, or telling

a lie to avoid punishment, are not so obvious. Does Nature then put less

value on moral integrity, than on worldly prudence? Certainly not. But

in the latter case she deals with man more as a physical and

intellectual being; and in the former, as a moral, a responsible, and an

immortal being. The lower animals to a great extent participate with us

in the benefits arising from attention to the laws which govern physical

enjoyments; but they know nothing of a moral sense, which is peculiar to

intelligent and accountable creatures. From this we may safely conclude,

that the application of knowledge by means of the moral sense, or

conscience, is of infinitely more importance to man than the application

of his knowledge by the animal, or common sense.

For the purpose of arriving at accurate conclusions on this subject, in

reference to education and the application of knowledge, we shall

endeavour to investigate a few of the phenomena connected with the moral

sense, as these are exhibited in the young and in adults; and shall, in

doing so, attempt to trace the laws by which these phenomena are

severally guided.

1. The first thing we would here remark, is, that the operations of the

moral sense appear to be resolvable into two classes, which may be

termed its _legislative_ and its _executive_ powers. When conscience

leads us merely to judge and to decide upon the character of a feeling

or an action, whether good or evil, it acts in its _legislative_

capacity; but when it reproves and punishes, or approves and rewards,

for actions done, it acts in its _executive_ capacity. These two

departments of the moral sense seem quite distinct in their nature and

operations; and, as we shall immediately see, they not only exist

separately, but they sometimes act independently of each other.

2. Another circumstance connected with conscience is, that her

_legislative_ powers do not develope themselves, nor appear to act, till

the reasoning powers of the person begin to expand. Then, and then only

does the pupil of Nature, who has not had the benefit of previous moral

instruction, begin to decide on the merit or demerit of actions.

Infants, and children who are left without instruction, appear to have

no distinct perception that certain actions are right, and others wrong.

In infancy, we frequently perceive the most rebellious outbreakings of

ungoverned passion, with tearing, and scratching, and beating the

parent, without any indication of compunction, either at the time, or

after it has taken place. Even in children of more advanced years, while

they remain without moral instruction, and before the reasoning powers

are developed, the injuries which they occasion to each other, or which

they inflict upon the old, the decrepit, or the helpless, are matters of

unmingled glee and gratification, without the slightest sign of

conscience interfering to prevent them, or of giving them any uneasiness

after the mischief is done. Instead of sorrow, such children are found

invariably delighted with the recollection of their tricks; and never

fail to recapitulate them to their companions afterwards, with triumph

and satisfaction.--But it is not so with the adult. As soon as the

reasoning powers are developed, the legislative functions of conscience

begin to act, enabling and impelling the person to decide at once on

actions, whether they are right or wrong, good or evil. Such a person,

therefore, could not strike nor abuse his parents, without knowing that

he was doing wrong; nor could he tantalize or injure the aged or the

helpless, without conscience putting him upon his guard, as well as

reproving and punishing the crime by compunctious feelings after it was

committed.

From this we perceive, that the legislative powers of conscience are

usually dormant in the child, and do not, when left to Nature, act till

the reasoning powers have exhibited themselves; from which we are led to

conclude, that it is by an _early education_,--by _moral instruction_

alone,--that the young are to be guarded against crime, and prepared and

furnished to good works.

3. This leads us to observe another remarkable circumstance,

corroborative also of the above remark, which is, that although the

legislative powers of conscience are but very imperfectly, if at all

developed in children, yet the _executive_ powers are never absent,

where moral instruction has previously been communicated.--A child of

very tender years, and even an infant, may be taught, that certain

actions are good and should be performed, while others are evil and must

be avoided. This is matter of daily experience; and a little attention

to the subject will shew, that moral instruction in the case of the

young, acts the same part that the legislative powers of conscience do

in the adult. But what we wish at present more particularly to remark

is, that whenever such moral instruction has been communicated, Nature

at once sanctions it, and is ever ready to use the executive powers of

the conscience for the purpose of rendering it effective. When therefore

good actions have been pointed out as praiseworthy and deserving of

approbation, there is a strong inducement to practise them, and a

delightful feeling of satisfaction and self-approval after they have

been performed. And when, on the contrary, certain other actions have

been denounced as wicked, and which, if indulged in, will be punished

either by their parents or by God, the child feels all the hesitation

and fear to commit them, that is observable in similar cases among older

persons; and, when committed he experiences the same remorse, and

terror, and self-reproach, which in the adult follow the perpetration of

an aggravated crime. This is a circumstance which must be obvious to

every reader; and it distinctly intimates, that the God of Nature

intends that the legislative powers of conscience should in all cases

be _anticipated_ by the parent and teacher. The moral instruction or the

young is to be the rule; the neglect of it, although in some measure

provided for, is to be the exception. The lesson is as plain as analogy

can teach us, that, while there is written on the heart of man such an

outline of the moral law as will leave him without excuse when called to

judgment, yet it is not the design of the Creator that, in a matter of

such vast importance as the moral perfection of a rational creature, we

should trust to that, and, like savages, leave our children to gather

information respecting moral good and evil solely from the slowly

developed and imperfect dictates of their own nature. The whole

phenomena of the natural conscience shew, that although God secures the

operation of the legislative powers of conscience to direct the actions

of the man when they are really required, yet he intends that they

should be anticipated by moral instruction given by the parent. And this

is proved by the remarkable fact, that when this instruction is

communicated, the executive powers of conscience immediately come into

operation, and homologate this instruction, by approving of it, adopting

it, and acting upon it.

4. This is still farther obvious from a fourth consideration, which is,

that wherever moral instruction has been communicated to the young, the

legislative powers of conscience are either altogether superseded, or

left dormant.--Every person who in youth has received a regular moral

and religious education, and who retains upon his mind the knowledge

then communicated, is found through life to act upon _that_ knowledge

chiefly, if not entirely. He seldom thinks of the dictates of his

natural conscience, and but rarely perceives them. In every decision to

which he comes as to what is right or wrong, reference is generally made

in his mind, either to the declarations of Scripture, or to the moral

instructions which he has formerly received; and upon these he

invariably falls back, when any action of a doubtful character is

presented for his approval or rejection. From this very remarkable

circumstance, we at once ascertain what are the intentions of Nature.

She very plainly requires the early moral instruction of the young, by

those into whose hands she has placed them; because she is here found to

encourage and acknowledge this instruction at the expense of her own

legislative powers, which not being now required, are allowed to lie

idle.

5. Another circumstance connected with this subject, is the well known

fact, that children are found capable of moral instruction long before

the time that Nature usually begins to develope the legislative powers

of the conscience.--A child, almost as soon as he can be made to know

that he has an earthly father, may be taught that he has another Father

in heaven; and when he can be induced to feel that a certain line of

conduct is necessary to secure the favour of the one, he may also be led

to comprehend that certain dispositions and actions will please the

other. Now, that a child can be taught and trained to do all this with

respect to his parents, is matter of daily experience. As soon as he can

understand any thing, and long before he can speak, he may be enabled to

distinguish between right and wrong, as well as to do that which is

good, and to avoid that which is evil; and in every case of this kind,

Nature sanctions the moral instruction communicated, by invariably

following it up with the practical operation of the executive powers of

conscience, which always approve that which the child thinks is good,

and reprove that which he supposes to be wrong. The triumphant gleam of

satisfaction which brightens the countenance of a child, and the

laughing look and pause for approval when he has done something that he

knows to be right, are abundant proofs of the truth of this observation;

while his cowering scowl, and fear of reproof or punishment, when he

has done that which is wrong, are equal indications of the same thing.

Nature, therefore, that has given the capacity of distinguishing between

good and evil when thus communicated, and that invariably approves of

the operation, and assists in it, has most certainly intended that it

should be exercised. This consideration, taken in connection with its

advantages to the family, to the child, to the future man, and to

society, plainly points out the value and the importance of early

religious instruction and moral training.

6. Another circumstance, in connection with the application of knowledge

by means of the conscience, should not be overlooked. It is the

remarkable fact, that Nature has implanted in the mind of the young a

principle, by which they unhesitatingly believe whatever they are

told.--A child who has not been abused by frequent deceptions, is a

perfect picture of docility. He never for a moment doubts either his

parent or his teacher when he tells him what is right and what is wrong.

If he be taught that it is a sin to eat flesh on Fridays, he never

questions the truth of it; and if told that he may kill spiders, but

should not hurl flies, he may wonder at the difference, but he never

doubts the correctness of the statement. This disposition in children is

applicable to every kind of instruction offered to them;--but the

superior importance of moral, to every other kind of truth, and the

beneficial effects of the principle when applied to moral and religious

training, shew that it is chiefly designed by Nature for aiding the

parent and teacher in this most important part of their labours.

7. Another circumstance connected with this subject is, that the

executive powers of conscience always act according to the belief of the

person, and not according to what would have been the dictates of

conscience in the exercise of her legislative functions.--This of itself

is a sufficient proof of the separate and independent agency of these

two principles. The legislative powers, as at first implanted in the

heart of man, there is reason to believe, would, if allowed to act

freely, never have been in error; and even still, they are generally a

witness for the purity of truth;--but the executive powers invariably

act, not according to what is really the truth, but according to what

the person himself believes to be right or wrong. The child who was told

that it was a sin to eat flesh on a Friday, would be reproved by his

conscience were he to indulge his appetite by doing so;--and the

conscience of the zealous Musselman, which would smite him for indulging

in a sip of wine, would commend and reward him by its approval, for

indulging in cruelty and injustice to the unbeliever in his faith. The

executive functions of conscience then act independently of the

legislative, and frequently in opposition to them. There must be a

feeling of wrong, before the executive powers will reprove; and there

must be a sense of merit, before they will commend;--but a mistake in

either case makes no apparent difference. This is another, and a

powerful argument for the early moral instruction of the young; and it

shews us also, the greater value which Nature puts upon the

_application_ and _use_ of knowledge, than upon its possession. She not

only encourages this application in all ordinary cases; but here we find

her, for the purpose of maintaining the general principle, lending her

assistance in the application and use of the knowledge received, even

when the knowledge itself is erroneous, and the application mischievous.

8. Another important circumstance which is worthy of especial notice,

is, that conscience is much more readily acted upon by _examples_, than

by _precepts_.--In communicating a knowledge of duty, this principle in

Nature has become proverbial; but it is not less true with respect to

the executive powers, in approving or reproving that which is right or

wrong. It is the prerogative of conscience to excite us to approve or

condemn the conduct of others, as well as our own; and this is

regulated, not by strict truth, but by our belief at the time, whether

that belief be correct or the contrary. Now the precept, "Thou shalt not

kill," would be sufficient to make the executive powers of conscience

watchful, in deterring the individual from the crime, or in reproving

and punishing him if he committed it. But the mere precept would have

but little effect in exhibiting to him the full atrocity of the sin, in

comparison with an anecdote or a story which detailed its commission.

But even this would not be so powerful as the effect produced by a

murder committed in a neighbouring street, and still more were it

perpetrated in his own presence. The necessary inference to be drawn

from this remarkable fact is, that moral truth is much more effectively

taught by example than by precept; and accordingly we find, that at

least four-fifths of scripture, which is altogether a moral instrument,

consist of narrative, and are given specially, "that the man of God may

be perfect, thoroughly furnished to every good work."

9. Another circumstance worthy of observation is, that the executive

powers of conscience appear to be exceedingly partial when exercised

upon actions done by _ourselves_, in comparison of its decisions upon

the same actions when they are committed by _others_.--When we ourselves

perform a good action, the approval of our conscience is more lively and

more extensive, than it would have been had the good action been that of

another. On the contrary, it would be more ready to perform its

functions, and more powerful in impressing upon our minds the demerit or

wickedness of an action committed by another, than if we ourselves had

committed it. The reason of this is obviously self-love, which partly

overbears the natural operations of this principle. Violence of passion

and strong desire, when we are tempted to commit a crime, are hostile

movements against the dictates of conscience; and they too frequently,

by their excess, stifle and drown the still small voice which does

speak out, but which, for the moment, is not heard within us.--But

nothing of this kind takes place when the crime is committed by others.

We are then much more impartial; and conscience is permitted to utter

her voice, and to make her impressions without opposition. This

impartial decision on the conduct of others, is found to be a great

means of preventing us from the future commission of a similar crime;

and this affords us another powerful argument in favour of early

instruction and moral training. By attending early to this duty, the

mind of the child is made up, and sentence has been pronounced on

certain acts, before selfishness or the passions have had an opportunity

of blinding the mind, or silencing the conscience. By proper moral

training the pupil is fortified and prepared for combating his evil

inclinations when temptations occur; but without this, he will have to

encounter sudden temptations at a great disadvantage.

10. Another circumstance connected with this subject is, that the moral

sentiments and feelings above all others, are improved and strengthened

by exercise; and are weakened, and often destroyed by disregard or

opposition.--Every instance of moral exercise or moral discipline,

invigorates the executive powers of conscience, and renders the moral

perceptions of the person more acute and tender. Every successful

struggle against a temptation, implants in the mind of a child a noble

consciousness of dignity, and confers a large amount of moral strength,

and a firmer determination to resist others. In this respect, the good

derived from the mere knowledge of a duty and its actual performance is

immense. A child who is merely told that a certain action is

praiseworthy, is by no means so sensible of the fact, or of its value,

as he is after he has actually performed it; and when, on the contrary,

he is told that a certain action is wrong, he is no doubt prepared to

avoid it; but it is not till he has been tempted to its commission, and

has successfully overcome the temptation, that he is fully aware of its

enormity. When he has successfully resisted the first temptation, he is

much better prepared than any exhortation or warning could make him for

resisting and repelling a second;--while every successive victory will

give strength to the executive powers of the conscience, and will render

future conflicts less hazardous, and resistance more easy. For the same

reason, an amiable action frequently performed does not pall by

repetition, but appears more and more amiable, till the doing of it

grows into a habit; and the approval of conscience becoming every day

more satisfactory, the person will be stimulated to its frequent and

regular observance.

But the opposite of this is equally true.--The continued habit of

suppressing the voice of conscience will greatly weaken, and will at

last destroy its executive powers. When a person knows that a certain

action is wrong, and is tempted to commit it,--conscience will speak

out, and for the first time at least it will be listened to. But if this

warning be neglected, and the sin be committed, the conscience will be

proportionally weakened, and the self-will of the individual will

acquire additional strength. When the temptation again presents itself,

it is with redoubled power, and it meets with less resistance. It will

invariably be found in such cases, that the person felt much more

difficulty in resisting the admonitions of conscience in the case of the

first temptation, than in that of the second; and he will also feel more

during the second than he will during the third. Frequent resistance

offered to the executive powers of conscience will at last lay them

asleep. The beginning of this downward career is always the most

difficult; but when once fairly begun, it grows every day more easy,

till the habit of sin becomes like a second nature.

11. There is yet another feature in the exhibition of the moral sense in

adults, which ought not to be overlooked by the Educationist in his

treatment of the young. We here allude to the remarkable fact, that the

conscience scarcely ever refers to consequences connected merely with

this world and time, but compels the man, in spite of himself, to fear,

that his actions will, in some way or other, have an influence upon his

happiness or his misery in another world, and through eternity.--The

mere uneasiness arising from the fear of detection and punishment by

men, is a perfectly different kind of feeling, and never is, and never

ought to be, dignified with the name of conscience. It is the

consequence of a mere animal calculation of chances;--similar to the

feelings which give rise to the cautious prowling of the hungry lion, or

the stealthy advances of the timorous fox. But the forebodings, as well

as the gnawings of conscience, extend much farther, and strike much

deeper, than these superficial and animal sensations. Conscience in man,

as long as it is permitted to act freely, has always a reference to God,

to a future judgment, and to eternity, and is but rarely affected by

worldly considerations. The valuable lesson to be drawn from this

circumstance obviously is, that the parent and teacher ought, in their

moral training of the young, to make use of the same principle. The

anticipated approbation or displeasure of their earthly parents or

teachers, or even the fear of the rod and correction, is not enough.

Children are capable of being restrained by much higher motives, and

stimulated to duty by nobler and more generous feelings. The greatness,

the holiness, the unwearied goodness, and the omnipresence of their

heavenly Father, present to the rational and tender affections of the

young, a constantly increasing stimulus to obedience and

self-controul;--while the fear of mere physical suffering will be found

daily to decrease, and may perhaps in some powerful minds at last

altogether disappear. The horse and the dog were intended to be trained

in the one way;--but rational and intelligent minds were obviously

intended to be trained in the other.

Of these facts, connected as they are with the application of knowledge

by means of the moral sense, the Educationist must make use for the

perfecting of his science. They are the most valuable, and therefore

they ought to form the most important branch of his investigations. All

the other parts of Nature's teaching were but means;--this is obviously

the great end she designed by using them, and therefore it ought to be

his also.

In regard to the practical working of this important part of Nature's

educational process, we need only remark here, that the application of

the pupil's knowledge connected with the moral sense, is precisely the

same in form, as in that connected with the common sense. There is

always here first, as in the former case, some fundamental truth,

generally derived from Scripture, or founded on some moral maxim, and

presented in the form of a precept, a promise, a threatening, or an

example;--there is next a lesson or inference drawn from this

truth;--and there is, lastly, a practical application of that lesson or

inference to present circumstances.

For the purpose of illustrating this, let us suppose that a boy who has

been trained in imitation of Nature, is tempted by some ungodly

acquaintances to join with them in absenting himself from public

worship, and in breaking the Sabbath. The moment that such a temptation

is suggested to him, a feeling arises in his mind, which will take

something like the following form:--"I ought not to absent myself from

public worship;"--"I ought not to break the Sabbath;"--"I ought not to

keep bad company." Here are three distinct lessons suited to the

occasion, obviously derived from his previous knowledge, and which he

has been trained either directly or indirectly to draw from "the only

rule of duty," the Bible. When, accordingly, the temptation is farther

pressed upon him, and the reasons of his refusal are regularly put into

form, they appear in something like the following shape and order:--"I

must not absent myself from public worship; for thus it is written,

'Forget not the assembling of yourselves together;' and, 'Jesus, _as his

custom was_, went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day.'"--"I must not

profane this holy day; for thus it is written, 'Remember the Sabbath day

to keep it holy,'"--And, "I must not go with these boys; for thus it is

written, 'Go not in the way of the ungodly;' and 'Evil communications

corrupt good manners.'"

Whoever will investigate the subject closely, will find, that the above

is a pretty correct picture of the mental process, wherever temptation

is opposed and overcome by means of religious principle;--but it is also

worthy of remark, that the form is still nearly the same by whomsoever a

temptation is resisted, and whether they do or do not take the

Scriptures for their text-book and directory. The only difference in

such a case is, that their lessons have been drawn from some _other_

source. For example, another boy exposed to the above temptation might

successfully resist it upon the following grounds. He might say, "I must

not absent myself from public worship; because I shall then lose the

promised reward for taking home the text;"--"I dare not profane the

Sabbath; because, if I did, my father would punish me;"--"I will not go

with these boys; because I would be ashamed to be seen in their

company." In this latter example, we have the same lessons, and the same

application, although these lessons have been derived from a more

questionable, and a much more variable source. In both cases, however,

it is the same operation of Nature, and which we ought always to imitate

therefore upon scriptural and solid grounds.

These examples might be multiplied in various forms, and yet they would

in every case be found substantially alike. The application of

knowledge, whether by the common or the moral sense, is carried forward

only in one way, in which the truth, the lesson, and the application,

follow each other in natural order, whether they be perceived or not. To

this process, therefore, every branch and portion of our knowledge ought

to be adapted, as it is obviously the great end designed by Nature in

all her previous endeavours. The parent, therefore, or the teacher, who

wilfully passes over, or but slightly attends to these plain

indications, is really betraying his trust, and deeply injuring the

future prospects of his immortal charge.

The several circumstances enumerated in the previous part of this

chapter, as connected with the moral sense, are capable of suggesting

many important hints for the establishment of education; but there are

one or two connected with the subject as a whole, to which we must very

shortly allude.

In the first place, from the foregoing facts we are powerfully led to

the conclusion, that all kinds of physical good, such as health,

strength, beauty, riches, and honours, and even the higher attainments

of intellectual sagacity and knowledge, are, in the estimation of

Nature, not once to be compared with the very lowest of the moral

acquirements. With respect to the former, man shares them, though in a

higher degree, with the brute creation;--but _morals_ are altogether

peculiar to higher intelligences. To man, in particular, the value of

moral discipline is beyond calculation:--For, however much the present

ignorance and grossness of men's minds may deceive them in weighing

their respective worth, yet it would be easy to shew, that the knowledge

and practice of but one additional truth in morals, are of more real

value to a child, than a whole lifetime of physical enjoyment. Nature

has accordingly implanted in his constitution, a complete system of

moral machinery, to assist the parent in this first and most important

part of his duty,--that of guiding his children in the paths of

religion and virtue. The executive powers of conscience are always alive

and active, stimulating or restraining both young and old, wherever the

action proposed partakes of the character of right or wrong. And, even

where the parental duties in this respect have been neglected, Nature

has, in part, graciously provided a remedy. In all such cases, during

the years of advancing manhood, the law is gradually and vividly written

upon the heart. Its dictates are generally, no doubt, dimmed and defaced

by the natural depravity and recklessness of the sinner; but even then,

they are sufficiently legible to leave him without excuse for his

neglect of their demands.

The preference which Nature gives to moral acquirements, is demonstrated

also by another feature in her different modes of applying knowledge by

the common and the moral senses. In the attainment of physical good,

Nature leaves men, as she does the lower animals, in a great measure to

themselves, under the guardianship of the common sense; but, in respect

to actions that are morally good or evil, she deals with them in a much

more solemn and dignified manner. A transgression of the laws of the

natural or common sense, is, without discrimination and without mercy,

visited with present and corresponding punishment; plainly indicating,

that with respect to these there is to be no future reckoning;--while

the trial and final judgment of moral acts are usually reserved for a

future, a more solemn, and a more comprehensive investigation.

Another inference which legitimately arises out of the above

considerations, as well as from the facts themselves, is, that religion

and morals are really intended to be the chief object of attention in

the education of the young. This is a circumstance so clearly and so

frequently pointed out to us, in our observation of Nature's educational

processes, that no person, we think, of a philosophic turn of mind, can

consistently refuse his assent to it. The facts are so numerous, and

the legitimate inferences to be drawn from them are so plain, that

pre-conceived opinions should never induce us either to blink them from

fear, or deny them from prejudice. These facts and inferences too, it

should be observed, present themselves to our notice in all their own

native power and simplicity, invulnerable in their own strength, and, in

one sense, altogether independent of revelation. They are, no doubt,

efficiently supported in every page of the Christian Record; but,

without revelation, they force themselves upon our conviction, and

cannot be consistently refuted. We state this fearlessly, from a

consideration of numerous facts, to a few of which, selected from among

many, we shall, before concluding, very shortly advert.

In the first place, it is obvious to the most cursory observer, that

moral attainments and moral greatness are more honoured by Nature, and

are, of course, more valuable to man, than the possession of either

intellectual or physical good.--Nature has, to the possessor, made

virtue its own reward, in that calm consciousness of dignity,

self-approval, and peace, which are its natural results; while, even

from the mere looker-on, she compels an approval. On the contrary, we

find, that the highest intellectual or physical attainments, when

coupled with vice, lead directly and invariably to corresponding depths

of degradation and misery. No one, we think, can deny this as a general

principle; and if it be admitted, the question is settled; for no person

acting rationally would seek the _lesser_ good for his child, at the

expense of the _greater_.

Another proof of the same fact is, that Nature has provided for the

physical and intellectual education of the young, by means of the animal

or "common sense;" while morals are, in a great measure, left to the

education of the parents. The principle of common sense, as we have

seen, begins its operations and discipline in early infancy, and

continues to act through life; but the culture of the moral sense,--by

far the most important of the two,--is left during infancy and childhood

very much to the affections of the natural guardians of the child, and

to the results of their education. Hence it is, that while Nature amply

provides for the _neglect_ of this duty, by the developement of the

legislative powers of conscience towards manhood, they are comparatively

feeble, and in ordinary cases are but little thought of or observed,

wherever this duty has timeously been attended to. From all these

circumstances we infer, that it is the intention of Nature, that the

establishment and culture of religion and morals should in every case

form the chief objects of education,--the main business of the family

and the school;--an intention which she has pointed out and guarded by

valuable rewards on the one hand, and severe penalties on the other.

When the duty is faithfully attended to, Nature lends her powerful

assistance, by the early developement of the executive powers of

conscience, and the virtue of the pupil is the appropriate reward to

both parties; but, when this is omitted, the growing depravity of the

child becomes at once the reproof and the punishment of the parents, for

this wilful violation of Nature's designs.

In conclusion, it may be necessary to remark, that from these latter

circumstances, another and a directly opposite inference may be drawn,

which we must not allow to pass without observation.--It may be said,

that the very postponement of the legislative powers of conscience till

the years of manhood, shews, that religion and morals are not designed

to be taught till that period arrive. Now, to this there are two

answers.--_First_, if it were correct, it would set aside, and render

useless almost all the other indications of Nature on this subject. In

accordance with the view taken of the circumstances as above, these

indications are perfectly harmonious and effective; but, in the view of

the case which this argument supposes, they are all inconsistent and

useless.--But, _secondly_, if this argument proves any thing, it proves

too much, and would infer the absurd proposition, that physical and

intellectual qualities are superior in value to moral attainments;--a

proposition that is contradicted, as we have shewn, by every operation

and circumstance in Nature and providence. It is in direct opposition

also to all the unsophisticated feelings of human Nature. No thinking

person will venture to affirm, that the beauty of the courtezan, the

strength of the robber, or the intelligence and sagacity of the

swindler, are more to be honoured than the generous qualities of a

Wilberforce or a Howard. And therefore it is, that from a calm and

dispassionate consideration of these facts, and independently altogether

of revelation, we cannot see how any impartial philosophic mind can

evade the conclusion, that the chief object to be attended to in the

education of the young, and to which every thing else should be strictly

subservient, is _their regular and early training in religion and

morals_.

CHAP. XI.

_On Nature's Method of Training her Pupils to Communicate their

Knowledge._

There is yet a _Fourth_ process in the educational system of Nature,

which may be termed supplementary, as it is not intended solely, nor

even chiefly, for the good of the pupil himself, but for the

community.--This process of Nature consists in the training of her pupil

to communicate, by language, not only his own wishes and wants, but

also, and perhaps chiefly, the knowledge and experience which he himself

has attained. The three previous processes of Nature were in a great

measure selfish,--referring to the pupil as an individual, and are of

use although he should be alone, and isolated from all others of his

species; but this is characteristically social, and to the monk and the

hermit is altogether useless.

That this ability to communicate our sentiments is intended by Nature,

not for the sole benefit of the individual, but chiefly as an instrument

of doing good to others, appears obvious from various circumstances. Its

importance in education, and in the training of the young, would of

itself, we think, be a sufficient proof of this; but it is rendered

unquestionable by the invariable decision of every unbiassed mind, in

judging of a person who is constantly speaking of and for himself; and

of another whose sole object in conversation, is to exalt and promote

the happiness of those around him. The one person, however meritorious

otherwise, is pitied or laughed at;--the other is admired and applauded

in spite of ourselves.

The benevolence of this arrangement in the educational process of Nature

is worthy of especial notice, as it leads us directly to the conclusion,

that learning, of whatever kind, is not intended to be a monkish and

personal thing, but is really designed by Nature for the benefit of the

community at large. Those connected with education, therefore, are here

taught, that the training of the young should be so conducted, that

while the attainments of the pupil shall in every instance benefit

himself, they shall at the same time be of such a kind, and shall be

communicated in such a way, as shall advantage the persons with whom he

is to mingle, and the community of which he is to form a part. Unless

this lesson, taught us by Nature, be attended to, her plan is obviously

left incomplete.

In entering upon the consideration of this part of our subject, we

cannot but remark the value and the importance which Nature has attached

to the higher acquisitions of this anti-selfish portion of her teaching.

Language is perverted and abused, when it is generally and chiefly

employed for the benefit of the individual himself; and the decision of

every candid and well-disposed mind confirms the truth of this

assertion. When, on the contrary, it is employed for the benefit of

others, or for the good of the public in general, it commands attention,

and compels approval. Eloquence, therefore, is obviously intended by

Nature for the benefit of communities; and accordingly, she has so

disposed matters in the constitution of men's minds, and of society,

that communities shall in every instance do it homage. In proof of this,

we find, in every age and nation, wherever Nature is not totally debased

by art or crime, that the most powerful orator, has almost always been

found to be the most influential man. Every other qualification in

society has been made to bend to this, and even reason itself is often

for the moment obscured, by means of its fascinations. Learning and

intellect, riches, popularity, and power, have frequently been made to

quail before it; and even virtue itself has for a time been deprived of

its influence, when assailed by eloquence. Nay, even in more artificial

communities, where Nature has been constrained and moulded anew to suit

the tastes and caprices of selfish men, eloquence has still maintained

its reputation, and has generally guided the possessor to honour and to

power. Amongst the lower and unsophisticated classes of society its

influence is almost universal; and in most polished communities, it is

still acknowledged as a high attainment, and one of the best indications

that has yet been afforded of superior mental culture.

That this is not an erroneous estimate of the mental powers of a

finished debater, will be evident from a slight analysis of what he has

to achieve in the exercise of his art. He has, while his adversary is

speaking, to receive and retain upon his mind, the whole of his

argument,--separate its weak and strong points,--and call forth and

arrange those views and illustrations which are calculated to overthrow

and demolish it. This itself, even when performed in silence, is a

prodigious effort of mental strength; but when he commences to speak,

and to manage these, with other equally important operations of his own

mind at the same moment, the difficulty of succeeding is greatly

increased. When he begins to pour forth his refutation in an

uninterrupted flow of luminous eloquence;--meeting, combating, and

setting aside his opponent's statements and reasonings;--carefully

marking, as he goes along, the effect produced upon his hearers, and

adapting his arguments to the varying emotions and circumstances of the

audience;--withholding, transposing, or abridging the materials he had

previously prepared, or seizing new illustrations suggested by passing

incidents;--and all this not only without hesitation, and without

confusion, but with the most perfect composure and self-controul;--such

a man gives evidence of an energy, a grasp, a quickness of thought,

which, as an exhibition of godlike power in a creature, has scarcely a

parallel in the whole range of Nature's efforts. All kinds and degrees

of physical glory, in comparison with this, sink into insignificance.

It is but rare indeed that any country or age produces a Demosthenes, a

Pitt, a Thomson, or a Brougham; and such persons have hitherto been

considered as gifts of Nature, rather than the legitimate production of

educational exercises. But this we conceive to be a mistake. They may

perhaps have been self-taught, and self-exercised, as Demosthenes

confessedly was; but that teaching, and especially mental and oral

exercise, are necessary for the production of one of Nature's chief

ornaments, both analogy and experience abundantly shew.[8] Fluency in

the use of words is not enough,--copiousness of thought, such as may be

of use in the study, is not enough;--for Nature's work, of which we are

at present speaking, consists chiefly in the faculty of forming one

train of thoughts in the mind, at the same time that the individual is

giving expression to another. Every child, accordingly, who holds

conversation with his companion, is practising on a limited scale the

very exercise which, if carried out by regular gradations, would

ultimately lead to that excellence which we have above described. In

every case of free unconstrained conversation, the operation of this

principle of Nature is apparent; for the idea is present to the mind

some time before the tongue gives it utterance, and the person is

preparing a second idea, at the moment he is communicating the first.

Upon this simple principle the whole art of eloquence, when analyzed,

appears to depend. We shall therefore endeavour to trace its operation,

and the methods which Nature adopts for the purpose of perfecting it.

That this ability is altogether acquired, and depends wholly upon

exercise for its cultivation, is obvious in every stage of its progress,

but especially towards its commencement. When Nature first begins to

suggest to an infant the use of language, we perceive that it cannot

think and speak at the same moment. Long after it has acquired the

knowledge of words and names, and even the power of articulating them,

it utters but one syllable, or one word at a time. Its language, for a

while after it has acquired a pretty extensive acquaintance with nouns

and adjectives, is made up of single, or at most double words, with an

observable pause between each, as if, after uttering one, it had to

collect its thoughts and again prepare for a new effort, before it was

able to pronounce the next. This is the child's first step, or rather

the child's first attempt, in this important exercise; and it is

conspicuous chiefly by the want, even in the least degree, of that power

of which we have spoken. By and bye, however, the child is able to put

two syllables, or two words together, without the pause;--but not three.

That is a work of time, and that again has to become familiar, before

four, or more words be attempted. These, however, are at last mastered;

and he slowly acquires by practice the ability to utter a short

sentence, composed chiefly of nouns, adjectives, and verbs, without

interruption, and at last without difficulty.

In the process here described, we perceive the commencement of Nature's

exercises in training her pupil to the acquisition of this valuable

faculty. It consists chiefly, as we have said, in enabling the child by

regular practice to arrive at such a command of the mental faculties,

and the powers of articulation, as qualifies him to exercise both

apparently at the same moment. His mind is employed in preparing one set

of ideas, while the organs of speech are engaged in giving utterance to

another. He thinks that which he is about to speak, at the moment he is

speaking that which he previously thought; and if, as is generally

admitted, the mind cannot be engaged upon two things at the same moment,

there is here an instance of such a rapid and successive transition from

one to another, as obviously to elude perception.

The various means which Nature employs in working out this great end in

the young are very remarkable. We have seen that a child at first does

not possess the power of uttering even a word, while his thoughts are

engaged on any thing else. The powers of the mind must as it were be

concentrated upon that one word, till by long practice he can at last

think on one and utter another. The same difficulty of speaking and

thinking on different things is observable in his amusements; and Nature

appears to employ the powerful auxiliary of his play to assist him in

overcoming it. When a young child is engaged in any amusement which

requires thought, the inability of the mind to do double duty is very

evident. He cannot hear a question, nor speak a single sentence, and go

on with his play at the same time. If a question be asked, he stops,

looks up, hears, answers, and then perhaps collects his thoughts, and

again proceeds with his game as before; but for a long time he cannot

even hear, far less speak, and play at the same moment. When a child is

able to do this, it is a good sign of his having acquired considerable

mental powers.

The excitement of play, we have said, is one chief means which Nature

employs for the cultivation of this faculty, and it is peculiarly worthy

of attention by the Educationist. Every one must have observed the

strong desire which children have, during their more exhilarating games,

to exercise their lungs by shouting, and calling out, and giving

direction, encouragement, or reproof, to their companions. In all these

instances, the impetus of their play is not apparently stopt while they

speak, and every time that this takes place, they are promoting their

mental, as well as their physical health and well-being. The accuracy of

this remark is perhaps more conspicuous, although not more real, in the

less boisterous and more placid employment of the young. The lively

prattle of the girl, while constructing her baby-house; her playful

arrogation of authority and command over her playmates, and her

serio-comic administering of commendation or reproof in the assumed

character of "mistress" or "mother," are all instances of a similar

kind. A little attention to the matter will convince any one, that every

sentence uttered by a child while dressing a doll, or rigging a ship, or

cutting a stick, is really intended and employed by Nature in advancing

this great object. And we cannot help remarking, that the irksome

silence so frequently enjoined upon children during their play, or

during any species of active employment, is not only harsh and

unnecessary, but is positively hurtful. It is in direct opposition both

to the design and the practice of Nature. It is obstructing, or at least

neglecting the cultivation and the developement of powers, which are

destined to be a chief ornament of life; a source of honour and

enjoyment to the pupil himself, and ultimately a great benefit to

society.

The cultivation of this faculty in adults, after they have emancipated

themselves from the discipline of Nature, is advanced or retarded by the

use or neglect of similar means. Accordingly we find, that in every

instance where the powers of the mind are actively, (not mechanically)

employed, while the individual is at the same time called on to exercise

his powers of speech and hearing on something else, this faculty of

extemporaneous speaking is cultivated, and rendered more easy and

fluent. Whereas, on the contrary, the most extensive acquaintance with

words, even when combined with much knowledge, has but little influence

in making a ready speaker. Many of the most voluble of our species

have but a very scanty vocabulary, and still less knowledge; while men

of extensive and profound learning, whose habits have been formed in the

study, are often defective even in common conversation, and utterly

unable to undertake with success the task of public extemporaneous

speaking. From this cause it is, that some of our ablest men, and our

greatest scholars, are necessitated to read that which they dare not

trust themselves to speak; while others, by a different practice, and

perhaps with fewer real attainments, feel no difficulty in arranging

their ideas, and delivering them at the same time with ease and fluency.

Hence it is also, that travelling, frequent intercourse with strangers,

debating societies, and above all, forensic pleadings, sharpen the

faculties, and give an ease and accuracy in thinking and speaking, which

are but rarely acquired in the same degree in any other way.

There is one particular feature in this department of Nature's teaching,

which is of so much importance both to the young and to adults, that it

ought not to be passed over without notice. It is the important fact,

that the highest attainments in this valuable accomplishment are within

the reach of almost every individual pupil, by a very moderate diligence

in the use of the proper means. The counterpart of this is equally true;

for without culture, either regular or accidental, no portion of it can

ever be acquired. This is abundantly proved both by experience and

analogy. Experience has shewn, that in every case, perseverance alone,

often without system, has made great and powerful speakers; and the

analogy between the expression of our feelings by _words_ and by

_music_, shews what proper training may do in both cases. Every one will

admit that it is easier to give expression to our feelings by the

natural organs of speech, than by the mechanical use of a musical

instrument; and if by making use of the proper means, and with a

moderate degree of diligence and perseverance, every man can be trained

to play dexterously on the violin, or the organ, and at the same moment

maintain a perfect command over the operations of his mind,--we may

reasonably conclude, from analogy, that with an equal, or even a smaller

degree of diligence, when the means have been equally systematized, the

most humble individual may be trained to manage the operations of his

mind, while he is otherwise making use of his _tongue_, as the other is

of his _fingers_.

But the opposite of this, as we have stated above, is equally true. For,

although a man may, by diligence and perseverance, attain a high degree

of perfection in the exercise of this faculty; yet, even the lowest must

be procured by the use of means. The art of thinking and speaking

different ideas at the same time, as we have proved, is not an

instinctive, but is wholly an acquired faculty, and must be attained by

exercise wherever it is possessed. We have instanced as examples the

case of the girl having at first to stop while dressing her doll, and

the boy while rigging his ship; but what we wish to notice here is, that

the principle is not peculiar to children, whose ideas are few, and

whose language is imperfect, but applies equally to adults, even of

superior attainments, and well cultivated minds. We have in part proved

this by the frequent defects of even learned men in conversation; but

there is good reason to conclude, that even these defects would have

been greater, if the few opportunities they have improved had been less

numerous. In short, it appears, that the successful uttering of but two

consecutive words, while the mind is otherwise engaged, must be acquired

even in the adult, by education or by discipline. This important fact in

education, might be demonstrated by numerous proofs, deduced from acts

which are commonly understood to depend altogether on habit, and where

the mind is obviously but little engaged. We shall take the case already

supposed, that of the fingering of musical instruments. The rapidity

with which the fingers in this exercise perform their office, would lead

us to pronounce it to be purely mechanical, and to suppose that the mind

was at perfect liberty to attend to any of the other functions of the

body, during the performance. But this is not the case; for although by

long practice, the operator has acquired the art of _thinking_ upon

various other subjects while playing, he finds upon a first trial, that

he is then totally unable to articulate two words in succession. Here

then is a case exactly parallel with that of the children who had to

stop to speak during their play; proving that it does not arise from the

lack of ideas, or a deficiency in words, but purely from want of

discipline and practice; because many musicians by practice, and by

practice alone, overcome the difficulty, and become able both to speak

and to play at the same time.

There is another circumstance connected with this part of our subject,

which is worthy of remark. A person who is playing on an instrument, and

who is desirous to speak, finds himself, without long practice, totally

unable to do so; but he may, if he pleases, sing what he has to say,

provided only that he modulate his voice to the tune he is playing. The

reason of this appears to be two-fold; first, that the mind, by

following the tune in the articulation of the words, is relieved in a

great measure from doing double duty; and secondly, and chiefly, because

the person has already acquired, by more or less practice, the faculty

of singing and playing at the same time. From this illustration, we

perceive the necessity that exists in education, of cultivating in the

young, by direct means and special exercises, this important faculty of

managing the thoughts and giving expression to them at the same moment.

It must be acquired by a course of mental discipline, which brings all

the elements of the principle into operation; the collecting and

managing of ideas, the chusing and arranging of words, and the giving of

them utterance, at the same time. That direct exercises of this kind are

necessary for the purpose, is obvious from the illustrations here given;

where we find, that although a person, while playing on an instrument,

may sing his words, he is yet unable to make the slightest deviation

from singing to speaking, without a long and laborious practice.

Here then we have been enabled to trace this supplementary process of

Nature in the education of her pupils, and to detect the great leading

principle or law, by which it is governed. The attainment itself is the

ready and fluent communication of our ideas to others; and the mode

employed by nature for arriving at it, appears to be the training of her

pupils to exercise their minds upon one set of ideas, while they are

giving expression to another. That the mind is actually engaged in two

different ways, at the same moment of time, it is not necessary for us

to suppose. It is sufficient for our purpose, that the operations so

rapidly succeed each other, as to appear to do so. The ability to

accomplish this, we have proved to be in every case an acquired habit,

and is never possessed, even in the smallest degree, without effort. It

is, in fact, the invariable result of exercise and education. The most

gifted of our species are frequently destitute of it; while very feeble

minds have been found to possess it, when by chance or design they have

employed the proper means for its attainment. What is wanted by the

Educationist therefore, is an exercise, or series of exercises, which

will enable him to imitate Nature, by causing his pupil to employ his

mind in preparing one set of ideas, while he is giving expression to

another. Such an exercise, upon whatever subject, will always produce,

in a greater or less degree, the effect which Nature by this

supplementary process intends to accomplish; that of giving the pupil

ease and fluency in conversation, and a ready faculty of delivering his

sentiments; while we have seen, by numerous illustrations, that it is at

least highly improbable that it ever can be acquired in any other way.

We have also demonstrated the impropriety of all unnecessary artificial

restrictions upon children while at their play, and of preventing their

speaking, calling out, and giving orders, encouragement, or commendation

to their companions during it. These illustrations and examples have

also pointed out to us the importance of encouraging the young to speak

or converse with their teachers or one another, while they are actively

employed at work, in their amusements, or in any other way in which the

mind is but partially engaged. Exercises of this kind in the domestic

circle, where they could be more frequently resorted to, would be of

great value in forwarding the mental capacities of the young, and might

be at least equally and extensively useful, as similar exercises

employed in the school. The consideration of suitable exercises for

advancing these ends, by which Nature may be successfully imitated in

this important part of her process, belongs to another department of

this Treatise, to which accordingly we must refer.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Note G.

CHAP. XII.

_Recapitulation of the Philosophical Principles developed in the

previous Chapters._

Before proceeding to the third and more practical part of this Treatise,

it will be of advantage here, shortly to review the progress we have

made in establishing the several educational principles, exhibited in

the operations of Nature, as it is upon these that the following

practical recommendations are to be entirely founded. In doing this, we

would wish to press upon the attention of the reader the important

consideration, that however much we may fail in what is to _follow_, the

principles which we have _already ascertained_, must still remain as

stationary landmarks in education, at which all future advances, by

whomsoever made, must infallibly set out. The previous chapters,

therefore, in so far as they have given a correct exposition of Nature's

modes of teaching, must constitute something like the model upon which

all her future imitators in education will have to work. There may be a

change of _order_, and a change of _names_, but the principles

themselves, in so far as they have been discovered, will for ever remain

unchanged and unchangeable.--It is very different, however, with what is

to _follow_, in which we are to make some attempts at imitation. The

principles which regulate the rapid movements of fish through water is

one thing; and the attempt to imitate these principles by the

ship-builder is quite another thing. The first, when correctly

ascertained, remain the unalterable standard for every future naval

architect; but the attempts at imitation will change and improve, as

long as the minds of men are directed to the perfecting of

ship-building. In like manner, the various facts in the educational

processes of Nature, in so far as they have been correctly ascertained

in the previous part of this Treatise, must form the unalterable basis

for every future improvement in education. These facts, or principles,

will very probably be found to form only a part of her operations;--but

as they do really form _a part_, they will become a nucleus, round which

all the remaining principles when discovered will necessarily

congregate. We shall here therefore endeavour very shortly to

recapitulate the several principles or laws employed by Nature in her

academy, so far as we have been able to detect them; as it must be upon

these that not only we, but all our successors in the improvement of

education, must hereafter proceed.

We have seen in a former chapter, that the educational processes of

Nature divide themselves distinctly into four different kinds. _First_,

the cultivation of the powers of the mind:--_Second_, the acquisition of

knowledge:--_Third_, the uses or application of that knowledge to the

daily varying circumstances of the pupil:--and _Fourth_, the ability to

communicate this knowledge and experience to others.

The _first_ department of Nature's teaching, that of cultivating the

powers of her pupil's mind, we found to depend chiefly, if not entirely,

upon one simple mental operation, that of "reiterating ideas;" and from

numerous examples and experiments it has been shewn, that wherever this

act of the mind takes place, there is, and there must be, mental

culture; while, on the contrary, wherever it does not take place, there

is not, so far as we can yet perceive, the slightest indication that the

mind has either been exercised or benefited.

The _second_ department of Nature's teaching, we have seen, consists in

inducing and assisting her pupils to acquire knowledge.--This object we

found her accomplishing by means of four distinct principles, which she

brings into operation in regular order, according to the age and mental

capacity of the pupil. These we have named the principle of "Perception

and Reiteration," which is the same as that employed in her first

process;--the principle which we have named "Individuation," which

always precedes and prepares for the two following;--there is then the

principle of "Association," or "Grouping," by which the imagination is

cultivated, and the memory is assisted;--and there is, lastly, the

principle of "Classification," or "Analysis," by which all knowledge

when received is regularly classified according to its nature; by which

means the memory is relieved, the whole is kept in due order, and

remains constantly at the command of the will.--These four principles,

so far as we have yet been able to investigate the processes of Nature,

are the chief, if not the only, means which she employs in assisting and

inducing the pupil to acquire knowledge; and which of course ought to be

employed in a similar way, and in the same order, by the teacher in the

management of his classes.

The _third_, and by far the most important series of exercises in

Nature's academy, we have ascertained, by extensive evidence, to be the

training of her pupils to a constant practical application of their

knowledge to the ordinary affairs of life.--These exercises she has

separated into two distinct classes; the one connected with the physical

and intellectual phenomena of our nature, and which is regulated by what

we have termed the "animal, or common sense;" and the other connected

with our moral nature, and regulated by our "moral sense," or

conscience. In both of these departments, however, the methods which

Nature employs in guiding to the practical application of the pupil's

knowledge are precisely the same, consisting of a regular gradation of

three distinct steps, or stages. These steps we have found to follow

each other in the following order. There is always first, some

fundamental truth, or idea--some definite part of our knowledge of which

use is to be made;--there is next an inference, or lesson, drawn from

that idea, or truth;--and there is, lastly, a practical application of

that lesson, or inference, to the present circumstances of the

individual. This part of Nature's educational process,--this

application, or use of knowledge, we have ascertained and proved to be

the great object which Nature designs by _all her previous efforts_.

This part of her work, when completed, forms in fact the great Temple of

Education,--all the others were but the scaffolding by which it was to

be reared.--This is the end; those were but means employed for attaining

it. In proof of this important fact we have seen, that when this object

is successfully gained, all the previous steps have been homologated and

confirmed; whereas, whenever this crowning operation is awanting, all

the preceding labour of the pupil becomes useless and vain, his

knowledge gradually melts from the memory, and is ultimately lost.

The _fourth_, or supplementary process in this educational course as

conducted by Nature, we found to consist in the training of her pupils

to an ability to communicate with ease and fluency to others the

knowledge and experience which they themselves had acquired.--This

ability, as we have shewn, is not instinctive, but is in every instance

the result of education. It is not always the accompaniment of great

mental capacity; nor is it always at the command of those who have

acquired extensive knowledge. Persons highly gifted in both respects,

are often greatly deficient in readiness of utterance, and freedom of

speech. On careful investigation we have seen, that it is attained only

by practice, and by one simple exercise of the mental powers, in which

the thoughts are engaged with one set of ideas, at the same moment that

the voice is giving expression to others. This faculty has been found to

be eminently social and benevolent, and intended, not so much for the

benefit of the individual himself as for the benefit of society. Nature,

accordingly, constrains mankind to do homage to eloquence when it is

employed for others, or for the public;--but strongly induces them to

look with pity or contempt on the person who is always speaking of or

for himself. These facts accordingly have led us to the important

conclusion, that learning and the possession of knowledge are not

intended merely for the person himself, but for the good of society; and

therefore, that education in every community ought to be conducted in

such a manner, that the attainments of each individual in it, shall

either directly or indirectly benefit the whole.

In these several departments of our mental constitution, and in the

principles or laws by which they are carried on, we have the great

thoroughfare,--the highway of education,--marked out, inclosed, and

levelled by Nature herself. Hitherto, in our examination of the several

processes in which we find her engaged, we have endeavoured strictly to

confine ourselves to the great general principles which she exhibits in

forwarding and perfecting them. We have not touched as yet on the

methods by which, in our schools, they may be successfully imitated; nor

have we made any enquiry into the particular truths or subjects which

ought there to be taught. These matters belong to another part of this

Treatise, and will be considered by themselves. And it is only necessary

here to observe, that as it is the _use_ of knowledge chiefly which

Nature labours to attain, it is therefore _useful knowledge_ which she

requires to be taught. This is a principle so prominently held forth by

Nature, and so repeatedly indicated and enforced, that in the school it

ought never for an hour to be lost sight of. The whole business of the

seminary must be practical; and the knowledge communicated must be

useful, and such as can be put to use. If this rule be attended to, the

knowledge communicated will be valuable and permanent;--but if it be

neglected, the pretended communications will soon melt from the memory,

and the previous labours of both teacher and pupil will be in a great

measure lost.

The existence of these several principles in education has been

ascertained by long experience and slow degrees;--and the accuracy of

the views which we have taken of them, has been rigorously and

repeatedly tested. No pains has been spared in projecting and conducting

such experiments as appeared necessary for the purpose; and it has been

by experience and experiment alone that their efficiency has been

established. Many of these experiments were conducted in public,--some

of them have for years been in circulation,--and the decisiveness of

their results has never been questioned. The several principles in

education which it was the object of these experiments to ascertain, are

here for the first time, collected and exhibited in their natural order;

and they are now presented to the friends of education with some degree

of confidence. Judging historically, however, from the experience of

others in breaking up new ground in the sciences, there is good reason

to believe, that the present Treatise goes but a short way in

establishing the science of education. There is yet much to be done; and

others, no doubt, will follow to complete it. But if confidence is to be

placed in history, it appears evident, that they must follow in the same

course, if ever they are to succeed. Nature is our only instructress;

and however much she may have hitherto been neglected, it is only by

following her leadings with a child-like docility, that improvement is

ever to be expected. By so following, however, success is certain. The

prospects of the science at the present moment, both as to its spread

and its improvement, are exceedingly cheering. The field, which is now

being opened up for the labours of the Educationist, is extensive and

inviting; and the anticipations of the philanthropist become the more

delightful, on account of the improvements likely to ensue for carrying

on the work. The errors and failings of former attempts will warn, while

every new discovery will direct in the labour. The virgin soil has even

yet in a great measure to be broken up; and if we shall be wise enough

to employ the implements provided for us by Nature herself, the present

generation may yet witness a rapid and abundant ingathering of blessings

for the world. This is neither a hasty nor a groundless speculation.

There are already abundant proofs to warrant us in cherishing it.

Numerous patches of ground have again and again, under serious

disadvantages, been partially cultivated; and each and all have

invariably succeeded, and produced the first fruits of a ripe, a rich,

and an increasing harvest.