It has
been truly remarked that, in order of time, decoration precedes dress. Among
people who submit to great physical suffering that they may have themselves
handsomely tattooed, extremes of temperature are borne with but little attempt
at mitigation. Humboldt tells us that an Orinoco Indian, though quite
regardless of bodily comfort, will yet labour for a fortnight to purchase
pigment wherewith to make himself admired; and that the same woman who would
not hesitate to leave her hut without a fragment of clothing on, would not dare
to commit such a breach of decorum as to go out unpainted. Voyagers find that
coloured beads and trinkets are much more prized by wild tribes than are
calicoes or broadcloths. And the anecdotes we have of the ways in which, when
shirts and coats are given, savages turn them to some ludicrous display, show
how completely the idea of ornament predominates over that of use. Nay, there
are still more extreme illustrations: witness the fact narrated by Capt. Speke
of his African attendants, who strutted about in their goat-skin mantles when
the weather was fine, but when it was wet, took them off, folded them up, and
went about naked, shivering in the rain! Indeed, the facts of aboriginal life
seem to indicate that dress is developed out of decorations. And when we
remember that even among ourselves most think more about the fineness of the
fabric than its warmth, and more about the cut than the convenience—when we see
that the function is still in great measure subordinated to the appearance—we
have further reason for inferring such an origin.
It is curious that the like relations hold with the mind. Among
mental as among bodily acquisitions, the ornamental comes before the useful.
Not only in times past, but almost as much in our own era, that knowledge which conduces to
personal well-being has been postponed to that which brings applause. In the
Greek schools, music, poetry, rhetoric, and a philosophy which, until Socrates
taught, had but little bearing upon action, were the dominant subjects; while
knowledge aiding the arts of life had a very subordinate place. And in our own
universities and schools at the present moment, the like antithesis holds. We
are guilty of something like a platitude when we say that throughout his
after-career, a boy, in nine cases out of ten, applies his Latin and Greek to
no practical purposes. The remark is trite that in his shop, or his office, in
managing his estate or his family, in playing his part as director of a bank or
a railway, he is very little aided by this knowledge he took so many years to
acquire—so little, that generally the greater part of it drops out of his
memory; and if he occasionally vents a Latin quotation, or alludes to some
Greek myth, it is less to throw light on the topic in hand than for the sake of
effect. If we inquire what is the real motive for giving boys a classical
education, we find it to be simply conformity to public opinion. Men dress
their children's minds as they do their bodies, in the prevailing fashion. As
the Orinoco Indian puts on paint before leaving his hut, not with a view to any
direct benefit, but because he would be ashamed to be seen without it; so, a
boy's drilling in Latin and Greek is insisted on, not because of their
intrinsic value, but that he may not be disgraced by being found ignorant of
them—that he may have "the education of a gentleman"—the badge
marking a certain social position, and bringing a consequent respect.
This parallel is still more clearly displayed in the case of the
other sex. In the treatment of both mind and body, the decorative element has
continued to predominate in a greater degree among women than among men.
Originally, personal adornment occupied the attention of both sexes equally. In
these latter days of civilisation, however, we see that in the dress of men the
regard for appearance has in a considerable degree yielded to the regard for
comfort; while in their education the useful has of late been trenching on the
ornamental. In neither direction has this change gone so far with women. The
wearing of earrings, finger-rings, bracelets; the elaborate dressings of the
hair; the still occasional use of paint; the immense labour bestowed in making
habiliments sufficiently attractive; and the great discomfort that will be
submitted to for the sake of conformity; show how greatly, in the attiring of women, the
desire of approbation overrides the desire for warmth and convenience. And
similarly in their education, the immense preponderance of
"accomplishments" proves how here, too, use is subordinated to
display. Dancing, deportment, the piano, singing, drawing—what a large space do
these occupy! If you ask why Italian and German are learnt, you will find that,
under all the sham reasons given, the real reason is, that a knowledge of those
tongues is thought ladylike. It is not that the books written in them may be
utilised, which they scarcely ever are; but that Italian and German songs may
be sung, and that the extent of attainment may bring whispered admiration. The
births, deaths, and marriages of kings, and other like historic trivialities,
are committed to memory, not because of any direct benefits that can possibly
result from knowing them: but because society considers them parts of a good
education—because the absence of such knowledge may bring the contempt of
others. When we have named reading, writing, spelling, grammar, arithmetic, and
sewing, we have named about all the things a girl is taught with a view to
their actual uses in life; and even some of these have more reference to the
good opinion of others than to immediate personal welfare.
Thoroughly to realise the truth that with the mind as with the
body the ornamental precedes the useful, it is requisite to glance at its
rationale. This lies in the fact that, from the far past down even to the
present, social needs have subordinated individual needs, and that the chief
social need has been the control of individuals. It is not, as we commonly
suppose, that there are no governments but those of monarchs, and parliaments, and
constituted authorities. These acknowledged governments are supplemented by
other unacknowledged ones, that grow up in all circles, in which every man or
woman strives to be king or queen or lesser dignitary. To get above some and be
reverenced by them, and to propitiate those who are above us, is the universal
struggle in which the chief energies of life are expended. By the accumulation
of wealth, by style of living, by beauty of dress, by display of knowledge or
intellect, each tries to subjugate others; and so aids in weaving that ramified
network of restraints by which society is kept in order. It is not the savage
chief only, who, in formidable war-paint, with scalps at his belt, aims to
strike awe into his inferiors; it is not only the belle who, by elaborate
toilet, polished manners, and numerous accomplishments, strives to "make
conquests;" but the scholar, the historian, the philosopher, use their
acquirements to the same end. We are none of us content with quietly unfolding
our own individualities to the full in all directions; but have a restless
craving to impress our individualities upon others, and in some way subordinate
them. And this it is which determines the character of our education. Not what
knowledge is of most real worth, is the consideration; but what will bring most
applause, honour, respect—what will most conduce to social position and
influence—what will be most imposing. As, throughout life, not what we are, but
what we shall be thought, is the question; so in education, the question is,
not the intrinsic value of knowledge, so much as its extrinsic effects on
others. And this being our dominant idea, direct utility is scarcely more
regarded than by the barbarian when filing his teeth and staining his nails.
If there requires further evidence of the rude, undeveloped
character of our education, we have it in the fact that the comparative worths
of different kinds of knowledge have been as yet scarcely even discussed—much
less discussed in a methodic way with definite results. Not only is it that no
standard of relative values has yet been agreed upon; but the existence of any
such standard has not been conceived in a clear manner. And not only is it that
the existence of such a standard has not been clearly conceived; but the need for
it seems to have been scarcely even felt. Men read books on this topic, and
attend lectures on that; decide that their children shall be instructed in
these branches of knowledge, and shall not be instructed in those; and all
under the guidance of mere custom, or liking, or prejudice; without ever
considering the enormous importance of determining in some rational way what
things are really most worth learning. It is true that in all circles we hear
occasional remarks on the importance of this or the other order of information.
But whether the degree of its importance justifies the expenditure of the time
needed to acquire it; and whether there are not things of more importance to
which such time might be better devoted; are queries which, if raised at all,
are disposed of quite summarily, according to personal predilections. It is
true also, that now and then, we hear revived the standing controversy
respecting the comparative merits of classics and mathematics. This
controversy, however, is carried on in an empirical manner, with no reference
to an ascertained criterion; and the question at issue is insignificant when
compared with the
general question of which it is part. To suppose that deciding whether a
mathematical or a classical education is the best is deciding what is the
proper curriculum, is much
the same thing as to suppose that the whole of dietetics lies in ascertaining
whether or not bread is more nutritive than potatoes!
The question which we contend is of such transcendent moment, is,
not whether such or such knowledge is of worth but what is its relative worth? When they have named certain
advantages which a given course of study has secured them, persons are apt to
assume that they have justified themselves; quite forgetting that the adequateness
of the advantages is the point to be judged. There is, perhaps, not a subject
to which men devote attention that has not some value. A year diligently spent in
getting up heraldry, would very possibly give a little further insight into
ancient manners and morals. Any one who should learn the distances between all
the towns in England , might, in the course of his life, find
one or two of the thousand facts he had acquired of some slight service when
arranging a journey. Gathering together all the small gossip of a county,
profitless occupation as it would be, might yet occasionally help to establish
some useful fact—say, a good example of hereditary transmission. But in these
cases, every one would admit that there was no proportion between the required
labour and the probable benefit. No one would tolerate the proposal to devote
some years of a boy's time to getting such information, at the cost of much
more valuable information which he might else have got. And if here the test of
relative value is appealed to and held conclusive, then should it be appealed
to and held conclusive throughout. Had we time to master all subjects we need
not be particular. To quote the old song:—
Could a man be secure
That his day would endure
As of old, for a thousand long years,
What things might he know!
What deeds might he do!
And all without hurry or care.
That his day would endure
As of old, for a thousand long years,
What things might he know!
What deeds might he do!
And all without hurry or care.
"But we that have but span-long lives" must ever bear in
mind our limited time for acquisition. And remembering how narrowly this time
is limited, not only by the shortness of life, but also still more by the
business of life, we ought to be especially solicitous to employ what time we
have to the greatest advantage. Before devoting years to some subject whichfashion or fancy suggests, it is surely wise to weigh with
great care the worth of the results, as compared with the worth of various
alternative results which the same years might bring if otherwise applied.
In education, then, this is the question of questions, which it is
high time we discussed in some methodic way. The first in importance, though
the last to be considered, is the problem—how to decide among the conflicting
claims of various subjects on our attention. Before there can be a rational curriculum, we must settle
which things it most concerns us to know; or, to use a word of Bacon's, now
unfortunately obsolete—we must determine the relative values of knowledges.
To this end, a measure of value is the first requisite. And
happily, respecting the true measure of value, as expressed in general terms, there
can be no dispute. Every one in contending for the worth of any particular
order of information, does so by showing its bearing upon some part of life. In
reply to the question—"Of what use is it?" the mathematician,
linguist, naturalist, or philosopher, explains the way in which his learning
beneficially influences action—saves from evil or secures good—conduces to
happiness. When the teacher of writing has pointed out how great an aid writing
is to success in business—that is, to the obtainment of sustenance—that is, to
satisfactory living; he is held to have proved his case. And when the collector
of dead facts (say a numismatist) fails to make clear any appreciable effects
which these facts can produce on human welfare, he is obliged to admit that they
are comparatively valueless. All then, either directly or by implication,
appeal to this as the ultimate test.
How to live?—that is the essential question for us. Not how to
live in the mere material sense only, but in the widest sense. The general problem
which comprehends every special problem is—the right ruling of conduct in all
directions under all circumstances. In what way to treat the body; in what way
to treat the mind; in what way to manage our affairs; in what way to bring up a
family; in what way to behave as a citizen; in what way to utilise those
sources of happiness which nature supplies—how to use all our faculties to the
greatest advantage of ourselves and others—how to live completely? And this
being the great thing needful for us to learn, is, by consequence, the great
thing which education has to teach. To prepare us for complete living is the
function which education has to discharge; and the only
rational mode of judging of an educational course is, to judge in what degree
it discharges such function.
This test, never used in its entirety, but rarely even partially
used, and used then in a vague, half conscious way, has to be applied
consciously, methodically, and throughout all cases. It behoves us to set
before ourselves, and ever to keep clearly in view, complete living as the end
to be achieved; so that in bringing up our children we may choose subjects and
methods of instruction, with deliberate reference to this end. Not only ought
we to cease from the mere unthinking adoption of the current fashion in
education, which has no better warrant than any other fashion; but we must also
rise above that rude, empirical style of judging displayed by those more
intelligent people who do bestow some care in overseeing the cultivation of their
children's minds. It must not suffice simply to think that such or such information will be
useful in after life, or that this kind of knowledge is of more practical value
than that; but we must seek out some process of estimating their respective
values, so that as far as possible we may positively know which are most deserving of attention.
Doubtless the task is difficult—perhaps never to be more than
approximately achieved. But, considering the vastness of the interests at
stake, its difficulty is no reason for pusillanimously passing it by; but
rather for devoting every energy to its mastery. And if we only proceed
systematically, we may very soon get at results of no small moment.
Our first step must obviously be to classify, in the order of
their importance, the leading kinds of activity which constitute human life.
They may be naturally arranged into:—1. those activities which directly
minister to self-preservation; 2. those activities which, by securing the
necessaries of life, indirectly minister to self-preservation; 3. those
activities which have for their end the rearing and discipline of offspring; 4.
those activities which are involved in the maintenance of proper social and
political relations; 5. those miscellaneous activities which fill up the
leisure part of life, devoted to the gratification of the tastes and feelings.
That these stand in something like their true order of
subordination, it needs no long consideration to show. The actions and
precautions by which, from moment to moment, we secure personal safety, must
clearly take precedence of all others. Could there be a man, ignorant as an
infant of surrounding objects and movements, or how to guide himself among
them, he
would pretty certainly lose his life the first time he went into the street;
notwithstanding any amount of learning he might have on other matters. And as
entire ignorance in all other directions would be less promptly fatal than
entire ignorance in this direction, it must be admitted that knowledge
immediately conducive to self-preservation is of primary importance.
That next after direct self-preservation comes the indirect
self-preservation which consists in acquiring the means of living, none will
question. That a man's industrial functions must be considered before his
parental ones, is manifest from the fact that, speaking generally, the
discharge of the parental functions is made possible only by the previous
discharge of the industrial ones. The power of self-maintenance necessarily
preceding the power of maintaining offspring, it follows that knowledge needful
for self-maintenance has stronger claims than knowledge needful for family
welfare—is second in value to none save knowledge needful for immediate
self-preservation.
As the family comes before the State in order of time—as the
bringing up of children is possible before the State exists, or when it has
ceased to be, whereas the State is rendered possible only by the bringing up of
children; it follows that the duties of the parent demand closer attention than
those of the citizen. Or, to use a further argument—since the goodness of a
society ultimately depends on the nature of its citizens; and since the nature
of its citizens is more modifiable by early training than by anything else; we
must conclude that the welfare of the family underlies the welfare of society.
And hence knowledge directly conducing to the first, must take precedence of
knowledge directly conducing to the last.
Those various forms of pleasurable occupation which fill up the
leisure left by graver occupations—the enjoyments of music, poetry, painting,
etc.—manifestly imply a pre-existing society. Not only is a considerable
development of them impossible without a long-established social union; but
their very subject-matter consists in great part of social sentiments and
sympathies. Not only does society supply the conditions to their growth; but
also the ideas and sentiments they express. And, consequently, that part of
human conduct which constitutes good citizenship, is of more moment than that
which goes out in accomplishments or exercise of the tastes; and, in education,
preparation for the one must rank before preparation for the other.
Such then, we repeat, is something like the rational order of subordination:—That
education which prepares for direct self-preservation; that which prepares for
indirect self-preservation; that which prepares for parenthood; that which
prepares for citizenship; that which prepares for the miscellaneous refinements
of life. We do not mean to say that these divisions are definitely separable.
We do not deny that they are intricately entangled with each other, in such way
that there can be no training for any that is not in some measure a training
for all. Nor do we question that of each division there are portions more
important than certain portions of the preceding divisions: that, for instance,
a man of much skill in business but little other faculty, may fall further
below the standard of complete living than one of but moderate ability in
money-getting but great judgment as a parent; or that exhaustive information
bearing on right social action, joined with entire want of general culture in
literature and the fine arts, is less desirable than a more moderate share of
the one joined with some of the other. But, after making due qualifications,
there still remain these broadly-marked divisions; and it still continues
substantially true that these divisions subordinate one another in the
foregoing order, because the corresponding divisions of life make one another possible in that order.
Of course the ideal of education is—complete preparation in all these
divisions. But failing this ideal, as in our phase of civilisation every one
must do more or less, the aim should be to maintain a due proportion between the degrees of preparation in
each. Not exhaustive cultivation in any one, supremely important though it may
be—not even an exclusive attention to the two, three, or four divisions of
greatest importance; but an attention to all:—greatest where the value is
greatest; less where the value is less; least where the value is least. For the
average man (not to forget the cases in which peculiar aptitude for some one
department of knowledge, rightly makes pursuit of that one the bread-winning
occupation)—for the average man, we say, the desideratum is, a training that
approaches nearest to perfection in the things which most subserve complete
living, and falls more and more below perfection in the things that have more
and more remote bearings on complete living.
In regulating education by this standard, there are some general
considerations that should be ever present to us. The worth of any kind of
culture, as aiding complete living, may be either necessary or more or less
contingent. There is knowledge of intrinsic value; knowledge of quasi-intrinsic value; and
knowledge of conventional value. Such facts as that sensations of numbness and
tingling commonly precede paralysis, that the resistance of water to a body
moving through it varies as the square of the velocity, that chlorine is a
disinfectant,—these, and the truths of Science in general, are of intrinsic
value: they will bear on human conduct ten thousand years hence as they do now.
The extra knowledge of our own language, which is given by an acquaintance with
Latin and Greek, may be considered to have a value that is quasi-intrinsic: it
must exist for us and for other races whose languages owe much to these
sources; but will last only as long as our languages last. While that kind of
information which, in our schools, usurps the name History—the mere tissue of
names and dates and dead unmeaning events—has a conventional value only: it has
not the remotest bearing on any of our actions; and is of use only for the
avoidance of those unpleasant criticisms which current opinion passes upon its
absence. Of course, as those facts which concern all mankind throughout all
time must be held of greater moment than those which concern only a portion of
them during a limited era, and of far greater moment than those which concern
only a portion of them during the continuance of a fashion; it follows that in
a rational estimate, knowledge of intrinsic worth must, other things equal,
take precedence of knowledge that is of quasi-intrinsic or conventional worth.
One further preliminary. Acquirement of every kind has two
values—value as knowledge and value as discipline. Besides its use for
guiding conduct, the acquisition of each order of facts has also its use as
mental exercise; and its effects as a preparative for complete living have to
be considered under both these heads.
These, then, are the general ideas with which we must set out in
discussing a curriculum:—Life
as divided into several kinds of activity of successively decreasing
importance; the worth of each order of facts as regulating these several kinds
of activity, intrinsically, quasi-intrinsically, and conventionally; and their
regulative influences estimated both as knowledge and discipline.
Happily, that all-important part of education which goes to secure
direct self-preservation, is in great part already provided for. Too momentous
to be left to our blundering, Nature takes it into her own hands. While yet in its nurse's arms, the
infant, by hiding its face and crying at the sight of a stranger, shows the
dawning instinct to attain safety by flying from that which is unknown and may
be dangerous; and when it can walk, the terror it manifests if an unfamiliar
dog comes near, or the screams with which it runs to its mother after any
startling sight or sound, shows this instinct further developed. Moreover,
knowledge subserving direct self-preservation is that which it is chiefly
busied in acquiring from hour to hour. How to balance its body; how to control
its movements so as to avoid collisions; what objects are hard, and will hurt
if struck; what objects are heavy, and injure if they fall on the limbs; which
things will bear the weight of the body, and which not; the pains inflicted by
fire, by missiles, by sharp instruments—these, and various other pieces of
information needful for the avoidance of death or accident, it is ever
learning. And when, a few years later, the energies go out in running,
climbing, and jumping, in games of strength and games of skill, we see in all
these actions by which the muscles are developed, the perceptions sharpened,
and the judgment quickened, a preparation for the safe conduct of the body
among surrounding objects and movements; and for meeting those greater dangers
that occasionally occur in the lives of all. Being thus, as we say, so well
cared for by Nature, this fundamental education needs comparatively little care
from us. What we are chiefly called upon to see, is, that there shall be free
scope for gaining this experience and receiving this discipline—that there shall
be no such thwarting of Nature as that by which stupid schoolmistresses
commonly prevent the girls in their charge from the spontaneous physical
activities they would indulge in; and so render them comparatively incapable of
taking care of themselves in circumstances of peril.
This, however, is by no means all that is comprehended in the
education that prepares for direct self-preservation. Besides guarding the body
against mechanical damage or destruction, it has to be guarded against injury
from other causes—against the disease and death that follow breaches of
physiologic law. For complete living it is necessary, not only that sudden
annihilations of life shall be warded off; but also that there shall be escaped
the incapacities and the slow annihilation which unwise habits entail. As,
without health and energy, the industrial, the parental, the social, and all
other activities become more or less impossible; it is clear that this
secondary kind of direct self-preservation is only less important than the
primary kind; and
that knowledge tending to secure it should rank very high.
It is true that here, too, guidance is in some measure ready
supplied. By our various physical sensations and desires, Nature has insured a
tolerable conformity to the chief requirements. Fortunately for us, want of
food, great heat, extreme cold, produce promptings too peremptory to be
disregarded. And would men habitually obey these and all like promptings when
less strong, comparatively few evils would arise. If fatigue of body or brain
were in every case followed by desistance; if the oppression produced by a
close atmosphere always led to ventilation; if there were no eating without
hunger, or drinking without thirst; then would the system be but seldom out of
working order. But so profound an ignorance is there of the laws of life, that
men do not even know that their sensations are their natural guides, and (when
not rendered morbid by long—continued disobedience) their trustworthy guides.
So that though, to speak teleologically, Nature has provided efficient
safeguards to health, lack of knowledge makes them in a great measure useless.
If any one doubts the importance of an acquaintance with the
principles of physiology, as a means to complete living, let him look around and
see how many men and women he can find in middle or later life who are
thoroughly well. Only occasionally do we meet with an example of vigorous
health continued to old age; hourly do we meet with examples of acute disorder,
chronic ailment, general debility, premature decrepitude. Scarcely is there one
to whom you put the question, who has not, in the course of his life, brought
upon himself illnesses which a little information would have saved him from.
Here is a case of heart-disease consequent on a rheumatic fever that followed
reckless exposure. There is a case of eyes spoiled for life by over-study.
Yesterday the account was of one whose long-enduring lameness was brought on by
continuing, spite of the pain, to use a knee after it had been slightly
injured. And to-day we are told of another who has had to lie by for years,
because he did not know that the palpitation he suffered under resulted from
overtaxed brain. Now we hear of an irremediable injury which followed some
silly feat of strength; and, again, of a constitution that has never recovered
from the effects of excessive work needlessly undertaken. While on every side
we see the perpetual minor ailments which accompany feebleness. Not to dwell on
the pain, the weariness, the gloom, the waste of time and money thus entailed, only consider
how greatly ill-health hinders the discharge of all duties—makes business often
impossible, and always more difficult; produces an irritability fatal to the
right management of children; puts the functions of citizenship out of the
question; and makes amusement a bore. Is it not clear that the physical
sins—partly our forefathers' and partly our own—which produce this ill-health,
deduct more from complete living than anything else? and to a great extent make
life a failure and a burden instead of a benefaction and a pleasure?
Nor is this all. Life, besides being thus immensely deteriorated,
is also cut short. It is not true, as we commonly suppose, that after a
disorder or disease from which we have recovered, we are as before. No
disturbance of the normal course of the functions can pass away and leave
things exactly as they were. A permanent damage is done—not immediately
appreciable, it may be, but still there; and along with other such items which
Nature in her strict account-keeping never drops, it will tell against us to
the inevitable shortening of our days. Through the accumulation of small
injuries it is that constitutions are commonly undermined, and break down, long
before their time. And if we call to mind how far the average duration of life
falls below the possible duration, we see how immense is the loss. When, to the
numerous partial deductions which bad health entails, we add this great final
deduction, it results that ordinarily one-half of life is thrown away.
Hence, knowledge which subserves direct self-preservation by
preventing this loss of health, is of primary importance. We do not contend
that possession of such knowledge would by any means wholly remedy the evil. It
is clear that in our present phase of civilisation, men's necessities often
compel them to transgress. And it is further clear that, even in the absence of
such compulsion, their inclinations would frequently lead them, spite of their
convictions, to sacrifice future good to present gratification. But we do contend that the right knowledge
impressed in the right way would effect much; and we further contend that as
the laws of health must be recognised before they can be fully conformed to,
the imparting of such knowledge must precede a more rational living—come when
that may. We infer that as vigorous health and its accompanying high spirits
are larger elements of happiness than any other things whatever, the teaching
how to maintain them is a teaching that yields in moment to no other whatever. And therefore
we assert that such a course of physiology as is needful for the comprehension
of its general truths, and their bearings on daily conduct, is an all-essential
part of a rational education.
Strange that the assertion should need making! Stranger still that
it should need defending! Yet are there not a few by whom such a proposition
will be received with something approaching to derision. Men who would blush if
caught saying Iphigénia instead of Iphigenía, or would resent as an insult any
imputation of ignorance respecting the fabled labours of a fabled demi-god,
show not the slightest shame in confessing that they do not know where the
Eustachian tubes are, what are the actions of the spinal cord, what is the
normal rate of pulsation, or how the lungs are inflated. While anxious that
their sons should be well up in the superstitions of two thousand years ago,
they care not that they should be taught anything about the structure and
functions of their own bodies—nay, even wish them not to be so taught. So
overwhelming is the influence of established routine! So terribly in our
education does the ornamental over-ride the useful!
We need not insist on the value of that knowledge which aids
indirect self-preservation by facilitating the gaining of a livelihood. This is
admitted by all; and, indeed, by the mass is perhaps too exclusively regarded
as the end of education. But while every one is ready to endorse the abstract
proposition that instruction fitting youths for the business of life is of high
importance, or even to consider it of supreme importance; yet scarcely any
inquire what instruction will so fit them. It is true that reading, writing,
and arithmetic are taught with an intelligent appreciation of their uses. But
when we have said this we have said nearly all. While the great bulk of what
else is acquired has no bearing on the industrial activities, an immensity of
information that has a direct bearing on the industrial activities is entirely
passed over.
For, leaving out only some very small classes, what are all men
employed in? They are employed in the production, preparation, and distribution
of commodities. And on what does efficiency in the production, preparation, and
distribution of commodities depend? It depends on the use of methods fitted to
the respective natures of these commodities; it depends on an adequate
acquaintance with their physical, chemical, or vital properties, as the case
may be; that is, it depends on Science. This order of knowledge which is in great part
ignored in our school-courses, is the order of knowledge underlying the right
performance of those processes by which civilised life is made possible.
Undeniable as is this truth, there seems to be no living consciousness of it:
its very familiarity makes it unregarded. To give due weight to our argument,
we must, therefore, realise this truth to the reader by a rapid review of the
facts.
Passing over the most abstract science, Logic, on the due guidance
by which, however, the large producer or distributor depends, knowingly or
unknowingly, for success in his business-forecasts, we come first to
Mathematics. Of this, the most general division, dealing with number, guides
all industrial activities; be they those by which processes are adjusted, or estimates
framed, or commodities bought and sold, or accounts kept. No one needs to have
the value of this division of abstract science insisted upon.
For the higher arts of construction, some acquaintance with the
more special division of Mathematics is indispensable. The village carpenter,
who lays out his work by empirical rules, equally with the builder of a
Britannia Bridge, makes hourly reference to the laws of space-relations. The
surveyor who measures the land purchased; the architect in designing a mansion
to be built on it; the builder when laying out the foundations; the masons in
cutting the stones; and the various artizans who put up the fittings; are all
guided by geometrical truths. Railway-making is regulated from beginning to end
by geometry: alike in the preparation of plans and sections; in staking out the
line; in the mensuration of cuttings and embankments; in the designing and
building of bridges, culverts, viaducts, tunnels, stations. Similarly with the
harbours, docks, piers, and various engineering and architectural works that
fringe the coasts and overspread the country, as well as the mines that run
underneath it. And now-a-days, even the farmer, for the correct laying-out of
his drains, has recourse to the level—that is, to geometrical principles.
Turn next to the Abstract-Concrete sciences. On the application of
the simplest of these, Mechanics, depends the success of modern manufactures.
The properties of the lever, the wheel-and-axle, etc., are recognised in every
machine, and to machinery in these times we owe all production. Trace the
history of the breakfast-roll. The soil out of which it came was drained with
machine-made tiles; the surface was turned over by a machine; the wheat was
reaped, thrashed, and winnowed by machines; by machinery it was ground and
bolted; and had the flour been sent to Gosport, it might have been made into
biscuits by a machine. Look round the room in which you sit. If modern,
probably the bricks in its walls were machine-made; and by machinery the flooring
was sawn and planed, the mantel-shelf sawn and polished, the paper-hangings
made and printed. The veneer on the table, the turned legs of the chairs, the
carpet, the curtains, are all products of machinery. Your clothing—plain,
figured, or printed—is it not wholly woven, nay, perhaps even sewed, by
machinery? And the volume you are reading—are not its leaves fabricated by one
machine and covered with these words by another? Add to which that for the
means of distribution over both land and sea, we are similarly indebted. And
then observe that according as knowledge of mechanics is well or ill applied to
these ends, comes success or failure. The engineer who miscalculates the
strength of materials, builds a bridge that breaks down. The manufacturer who
uses a bad machine cannot compete with another whose machine wastes less in
friction and inertia. The ship-builder adhering to the old model is out-sailed
by one who builds on the mechanically-justified wave-line principle. And as the
ability of a nation to hold its own against other nations, depends on the
skilled activity of its units, we see that on mechanical knowledge may turn the
national fate.
On ascending from the divisions of Abstract-Concrete science
dealing with molar forces, to those divisions of it which deal with molecular
forces, we come to another vast series of applications. To this group of
sciences joined with the preceding groups we owe the steam-engine, which does
the work of millions of labourers. That section of physics which formulates the
laws of heat, has taught us how to economise fuel in various industries; how to
increase the produce of smelting furnaces by substituting the hot for the cold
blast; how to ventilate mines; how to prevent explosions by using the
safety-lamp; and, through the thermometer, how to regulate innumerable
processes. That section which has the phenomena of light for its subject, gives
eyes to the old and the myopic; aids through the microscope in detecting
diseases and adulterations; and, by improved lighthouses, prevents shipwrecks.
Researches in electricity and magnetism have saved innumerable lives and
incalculable property through the compass; have subserved many arts by the
electrotype; and now, in the telegraph, have supplied us with an agency by which for the future,
mercantile transactions will be regulated and political intercourse carried on.
While in the details of in-door life, from the improved kitchen-range up to the
stereoscope on the drawing-room table, the applications of advanced physics
underlie our comforts and gratifications.
Still more numerous are the applications of Chemistry. The
bleacher, the dyer, the calico-printer, are severally occupied in processes
that are well or ill done according as they do or do not conform to chemical
laws. Smelting of copper, tin, zinc, lead, silver, iron, must be guided by
chemistry. Sugar-refining, gas-making, soap-boiling, gunpowder-manufacture, are
operations all partly chemical; as are likewise those which produce glass and
porcelain. Whether the distiller's wort stops at the alcoholic fermentation or
passes into the acetous, is a chemical question on which hangs his profit or
loss; and the brewer, if his business is extensive, finds it pay to keep a
chemist on his premises. Indeed, there is now scarcely any manufacture over
some part of which chemistry does not preside. Nay, in these times even
agriculture, to be profitably carried on, must have like guidance. The analysis
of manures and soils; the disclosure of their respective adaptations; the use
of gypsum or other substance for fixing ammonia; the utilisation of coprolites;
the production of artificial manures—all these are boons of chemistry which it
behoves the farmer to acquaint himself with. Be it in the lucifer match, or in
disinfected sewage, or in photographs—in bread made without fermentation, or
perfumes extracted from refuse, we may perceive that chemistry affects all our
industries; and that, therefore, knowledge of it concerns every one who is
directly or indirectly connected with our industries.
Of the Concrete sciences, we come first to Astronomy. Out of this
has grown that art of navigation which has made possible the enormous foreign
commerce that supports a large part of our population, while supplying us with
many necessaries and most of our luxuries.
Geology, again, is a science knowledge of which greatly aids
industrial success. Now that iron ores are so large a source of wealth; now
that the duration of our coal-supply has become a question of great interest;
now that we have a College of Mines and a Geological Survey; it is scarcely
needful to enlarge on the truth that the study of the Earth's crust is
important to our material welfare.
And then the science of life—Biology: does
not this, too, bear fundamentally on these processes of indirect self-preservation?
With what we ordinarily call manufactures, it has, indeed, little connection;
but with the all-essential manufacture—that of food—it is inseparably
connected. As agriculture must conform its methods to the phenomena of vegetal
and animal life, it follows that the science of these phenomena is the rational
basis of agriculture. Various biological truths have indeed been empirically
established and acted upon by farmers, while yet there has been no conception
of them as science; such as that particular manures are suited to particular
plants; that crops of certain kinds unfit the soil for other crops; that horses
cannot do good work on poor food; that such and such diseases of cattle and
sheep are caused by such and such conditions. These, and the every-day
knowledge which the agriculturist gains by experience respecting the management
of plants and animals, constitute his stock of biological facts; on the
largeness of which greatly depends his success. And as these biological facts,
scanty, indefinite, rudimentary, though they are, aid him so essentially; judge
what must be the value to him of such facts when they become positive,
definite, and exhaustive. Indeed, even now we may see the benefits that
rational biology is conferring on him. The truth that the production of animal
heat implies waste of substance, and that, therefore, preventing loss of heat
prevents the need for extra food—a purely theoretical conclusion—now guides the
fattening of cattle: it is found that by keeping cattle warm, fodder is saved.
Similarly with respect to variety of food. The experiments of physiologists
have shown that not only is change of diet beneficial, but that digestion is
facilitated by a mixture of ingredients in each meal. The discovery that a
disorder known as "the staggers," of which many thousands of sheep
have died annually, is caused by an entozoon which presses on the brain, and
that if the creature is extracted through the softened place in the skull which
marks its position, the sheep usually recovers, is another debt which
agriculture owes to biology.
Yet one more science have we to note as bearing directly on
industrial success—the Science of Society. Men who daily look at the state of
the money-market glance over prices current; discuss the probable crops of
corn, cotton, sugar, wool, silk; weigh the chances of war; and from these data
decide on their mercantile operations; are students of social science:
empirical and blundering students it may be; but still, students who gain the
prizes or are plucked of their profits, according as they do or do not reach
the right conclusion. Not only the manufacturer and the merchant must guide
their transactions by calculations of supply and demand, based on numerous
facts, and tacitly recognising sundry general principles of social action; but
even the retailer must do the like: his prosperity very greatly depending upon
the correctness of his judgments respecting the future wholesale prices and the
future rates of consumption. Manifestly, whoever takes part in the entangled
commercial activities of a community, is vitally interested in understanding
the laws according to which those activities vary.
Thus, to all such as are occupied in the production, exchange, or
distribution of commodities, acquaintance with Science in some of its
departments, is of fundamental importance. Each man who is immediately or
remotely implicated in any form of industry (and few are not) has in some way
to deal with the mathematical, physical, and chemical properties of things;
perhaps, also, has a direct interest in biology; and certainly has in
sociology. Whether he does or does not succeed well in that indirect
self-preservation which we call getting a good livelihood, depends in a great
degree on his knowledge of one or more of these sciences: not, it may be, a
rational knowledge; but still a knowledge, though empirical. For what we call
learning a business, really implies learning the science involved in it; though
not perhaps under the name of science. And hence a grounding in science is of
great importance, both because it prepares for all this, and because rational
knowledge has an immense superiority over empirical knowledge. Moreover, not
only is scientific culture requisite for each, that he may understand the how and the why of the things and processes with which
he is concerned as maker or distributor; but it is often of much moment that he
should understand the how and the why of various other things and processes.
In this age of joint-stock undertakings, nearly every man above the labourer is
interested as capitalist in some other occupation than his own; and, as thus
interested, his profit or loss often depends on his knowledge of the sciences
bearing on this other occupation. Here is a mine, in the sinking of which many
shareholders ruined themselves, from not knowing that a certain fossil belonged
to the old red sandstone, below which no coal is found. Numerous attempts have
been made to construct electromagnetic engines, in the hope of superseding
steam; but had those who supplied the money understood the general law ofthe correlation and equivalence of forces, they might have
had better balances at their bankers. Daily are men induced to aid in carrying
out inventions which a mere tyro in science could show to be futile. Scarcely a
locality but has its history of fortunes thrown away over some impossible
project.
And if already the loss from want of science is so frequent and so
great, still greater and more frequent will it be to those who hereafter lack
science. Just as fast as productive processes become more scientific, which
competition will inevitably make them do; and just as fast as joint-stock
undertakings spread, which they certainly will; so fast must scientific
knowledge grow necessary to every one.
That which our school-courses leave almost entirely out, we thus
find to be that which most nearly concerns the business of life. Our industries
would cease, were it not for the information which men begin to acquire, as
they best may, after their education is said to be finished. And were it not
for this information, from age to age accumulated and spread by unofficial
means, these industries would never have existed. Had there been no teaching
but such as goes on in our public schools, England would now be what it was in
feudal times. That increasing acquaintance with the laws of phenomena, which
has through successive ages enabled us to subjugate Nature to our needs, and in
these days gives the common labourer comforts which a few centuries ago kings
could not purchase, is scarcely in any degree owed to the appointed means of
instructing our youth. The vital knowledge—that by which we have grown as a
nation to what we are, and which now underlies our whole existence, is a
knowledge that has got itself taught in nooks and corners; while the ordained
agencies for teaching have been mumbling little else but dead formulas.
We come now to the third great division of human activities—a
division for which no preparation whatever is made. If by some strange chance
not a vestige of us descended to the remote future save a pile of our
school-books or some college examination papers, we may imagine how puzzled an
antiquary of the period would be on finding in them no sign that the learners
were ever likely to be parents. "This must have been the curriculum for their celibates," we may
fancy him concluding. "I perceive here an elaborate preparation for many
things; especially for reading the books of extinct nations and of co-existing
nations (from which indeed it seems clear that these people had very
little worth reading in their own tongue); but I find no reference whatever to
the bringing up of children. They could not have been so absurd as to omit all
training for this gravest of responsibilities. Evidently then, this was the school-course
of one of their monastic orders."
Seriously, is it not an astonishing fact, that though on the
treatment of offspring depend their lives or deaths, and their moral welfare or
ruin; yet not one word of instruction on the treatment of offspring is ever
given to those who will by and by be parents? Is it not monstrous that the fate
of a new generation should be left to the chances of unreasoning custom,
impulse, fancy—joined with the suggestions of ignorant nurses and the
prejudiced counsel of grandmothers? If a merchant commenced business without
any knowledge of arithmetic and book-keeping, we should exclaim at his folly,
and look for disastrous consequences. Or if, before studying anatomy, a man set
up as a surgical operator, we should wonder at his audacity and pity his
patients. But that parents should begin the difficult task of rearing children,
without ever having given a thought to the principles—physical, moral, or
intellectual—which ought to guide them, excites neither surprise at the actors
nor pity for their victims.
To tens of thousands that are killed, add hundreds of thousand
that survive with feeble constitutions, and millions that grow up with
constitutions not so strong as they should be; and you will have some idea of
the curse inflicted on their offspring by parents ignorant of the laws of life.
Do but consider for a moment that the regimen to which children are subject, is
hourly telling upon them to their life-long injury or benefit; and that there
are twenty ways of going wrong to one way of going right; and you will get some
idea of the enormous mischief that is almost everywhere inflicted by the
thoughtless, haphazard system in common use. Is it decided that a boy shall be
clothed in some flimsy short dress, and be allowed to go playing about with
limbs reddened by cold? The decision will tell on his whole future
existence—either in illnesses; or in stunted growth; or in deficient energy; or
in a maturity less vigorous than it ought to have been, and in consequent
hindrances to success and happiness. Are children doomed to a monotonous
dietary, or a dietary that is deficient in nutritiveness? Their ultimate
physical power, and their efficiency as men and women, will inevitably be more
or less diminished by it. Are they forbidden vociferous play, or (being too
ill-clothed to bear exposure) are they kept indoors in cold weather? They are
certain to fall below that measure of health and strength to which they would
else have attained. When sons and daughters grow up sickly and feeble, parents
commonly regard the event as a misfortune—as a visitation of Providence.
Thinking after the prevalent chaotic fashion, they assume that these evils come
without causes; or that the causes are supernatural. Nothing of the kind. In
some cases the causes are doubtless inherited; but in most cases foolish
regulations are the causes. Very generally, parents themselves are responsible
for all this pain, this debility, this depression, this misery. They have
undertaken to control the lives of their offspring from hour to hour; with
cruel carelessness they have neglected to learn anything about these vital
processes which they are unceasingly affecting by their commands and
prohibitions; in utter ignorance of the simplest physiologic laws, they have
been year by year undermining the constitutions of their children; and have so
inflicted disease and premature death, not only on them but on their
descendants.
Equally great are the ignorance and the consequent injury, when we
turn from physical training to moral training. Consider the young mother and
her nursery-legislation. But a few years ago she was at school, where her
memory was crammed with words, and names, and dates, and her reflective
faculties scarcely in the slightest degree exercised—where not one idea was
given her respecting the methods of dealing with the opening mind of childhood;
and where her discipline did not in the least fit her for thinking out methods
of her own. The intervening years have been passed in practising music, in
fancy-work, in novel-reading, and in party-going: no thought having yet been
given to the grave responsibilities of maternity; and scarcely any of that
solid intellectual culture obtained which would be some preparation for such
responsibilities. And now see her with an unfolding human character committed
to her charge—see her profoundly ignorant of the phenomena with which she has
to deal, undertaking to do that which can be done but imperfectly even with the
aid of the profoundest knowledge. She knows nothing about the nature of the
emotions, their order of evolution, their functions, or where use ends and
abuse begins. She is under the impression that some of the feelings are wholly
bad, which is not true of any one of them; and that others are good however far
they may be carried, which is also not true of any one of them. And then,
ignorant as she is of the structure she has to deal with, she is equally ignorant of
the effects produced on it by this or that treatment. What can be more
inevitable than the disastrous results we see hourly arising? Lacking knowledge
of mental phenomena, with their cause and consequences, her interference is
frequently more mischievous than absolute passivity would have been. This and
that kind of action, which are quite normal and beneficial, she perpetually
thwarts; and so diminishes the child's happiness and profit, injures its temper
and her own, and produces estrangement. Deeds which she thinks it desirable to
encourage, she gets performed by threats and bribes, or by exciting a desire
for applause: considering little what the inward motive may be, so long as the
outward conduct conforms; and thus cultivating hypocrisy, and fear, and
selfishness, in place of good feeling. While insisting on truthfulness, she
constantly sets an example of untruth by threatening penalties which she does
not inflict. While inculcating self-control, she hourly visits on her little
ones angry scoldings for acts undeserving of them. She has not the remotest
idea that in the nursery, as in the world, that alone is the truly salutary
discipline which visits on all conduct, good and bad, the natural
consequences—the consequences, pleasurable or painful, which in the nature of
things such conduct tends to bring. Being thus without theoretic guidance, and
quite incapable of guiding herself by tracing the mental processes going on in
her children, her rule is impulsive, inconsistent, mischievous; and would
indeed be generally ruinous were it not that the overwhelming tendency of the
growing mind to assume the moral type of the race usually subordinates all
minor influences.
And then the culture of the intellect—is not this, too, mismanaged
in a similar manner? Grant that the phenomena of intelligence conform to laws;
grant that the evolution of intelligence in a child also conforms to laws; and
it follows inevitably that education cannot be rightly guided without a
knowledge of these laws. To suppose that you can properly regulate this process
of forming and accumulating ideas, without understanding the nature of the process,
is absurd. How widely, then, must teaching as it is differ from teaching as it
should be; when hardly any parents, and but few tutors, know anything about
psychology. As might be expected, the established system is grievously at
fault, alike in matter and in manner. While the right class of facts is
withheld, the wrong class is forcibly administered in the wrong way and in the
wrong order. Under
that common limited idea of education which confines it to knowledge gained
from books, parents thrust primers into the hands of their little ones years
too soon, to their great injury. Not recognising the truth that the function of
books is supplementary—that they form an indirect means to knowledge when
direct means fail—a means of seeing through other men what you cannot see for
yourself; teachers are eager to give second-hand facts in place of first-hand
facts. Not perceiving the enormous value of that spontaneous education which
goes on in early years—not perceiving that a child's restless observation, instead
of being ignored or checked, should be diligently ministered to, and made as
accurate and complete as possible; they insist on occupying its eyes and
thoughts with things that are, for the time being, incomprehensible and
repugnant. Possessed by a superstition which worships the symbols of knowledge
instead of the knowledge itself, they do not see that only when his
acquaintance with the objects and processes of the household, the streets, and
the fields, is becoming tolerably exhaustive—only then should a child be
introduced to the new sources of information which books supply: and this, not
only because immediate cognition is of far greater value than mediate
cognition; but also, because the words contained in books can be rightly
interpreted into ideas, only in proportion to the antecedent experience of
things. Observe next, that this formal instruction, far too soon commenced, is
carried on with but little reference to the laws of mental development.
Intellectual progress is of necessity from the concrete to the abstract. But
regardless of this, highly abstract studies, such as grammar, which should come
quite late, are begun quite early. Political geography, dead and uninteresting
to a child, and which should be an appendage of sociological studies, is
commenced betimes; while physical geography, comprehensible and comparatively
attractive to a child, is in great part passed over. Nearly every subject dealt
with is arranged in abnormal order: definitions and rules and principles being
put first, instead of being disclosed, as they are in the order of nature,
through the study of cases. And then, pervading the whole, is the vicious
system of rote learning—a system of sacrificing the spirit to the letter. See
the results. What with perceptions unnaturally dulled by early thwarting, and a
coerced attention to books—what with the mental confusion produced by teaching
subjects before they can be understood, and in each of them giving
generalisations before the facts of which they are the generalisations—what with making the
pupil a mere passive recipient of other's ideas, and not in the least leading
him to be an active inquirer or self-instructor—and what with taxing the
faculties to excess; there are very few minds that become as efficient as they
might be. Examinations being once passed, books are laid aside; the greater
part of what has been acquired, being unorganised, soon drops out of
recollection; what remains is mostly inert—the art of applying knowledge not
having been cultivated; and there is but little power either of accurate
observation or independent thinking. To all which add, that while much of the
information gained is of relatively small value, an immense mass of information
of transcendent value is entirely passed over.
Thus we find the facts to be such as might have been inferred à priori. The training of
children—physical, moral, and intellectual—is dreadfully defective. And in
great measure it is so because parents are devoid of that knowledge by which
this training can alone be rightly guided. What is to be expected when one of
the most intricate of problems is undertaken by those who have given scarcely a
thought to the principles on which its solution depends? For shoe-making or
house-building, for the management of a ship or a locomotive engine, a long
apprenticeship is needful. Is it, then, that the unfolding of a human being in
body and mind is so comparatively simple a process that any one may superintend
and regulate it with no preparation whatever? If not—if the process is, with one
exception, more complex than any in Nature, and the task of ministering to it
one of surpassing difficulty; is it not madness to make no provision for such a
task? Better sacrifice accomplishments than omit this all-essential
instruction. When a father, acting on false dogmas adopted without examination,
has alienated his sons, driven them into rebellion by his harsh treatment,
ruined them, and made himself miserable; he might reflect that the study of
Ethology would have been worth pursuing, even at the cost of knowing nothing
about Æschylus. When a mother is mourning over a first-born that has sunk under
the sequelæ of scarlet-fever—when perhaps a candid medical man has confirmed
her suspicion that her child would have recovered had not its system been enfeebled
by over-study—when she is prostrate under the pangs of combined grief and
remorse; it is but a small consolation that she can read Dante in the original.
Thus we see that for regulating the third great division of human
activities, a knowledge of the laws of life is the one thing needful. Some
acquaintance with the first principles of physiology and the elementary truths
of psychology, is indispensable for the right bringing up of children. We doubt
not that many will read this assertion with a smile. That parents in general
should be expected to acquire a knowledge of subjects so abstruse will seem to
them an absurdity. And if we proposed that an exhaustive knowledge of these
subjects should be obtained by all fathers and mothers, the absurdity would
indeed be glaring enough. But we do not. General principles only, accompanied
by such illustrations as may be needed to make them understood, would suffice.
And these might be readily taught—if not rationally, then dogmatically. Be this
as it may, however, here are the indisputable facts:—that the development of
children in mind and body follows certain laws; that unless these laws are in
some degree conformed to by parents, death is inevitable; that unless they are
in a great degree conformed to, there must result serious physical and mental
defects; and that only when they are completely conformed to, can a perfect
maturity be reached. Judge, then, whether all who may one day be parents,
should not strive with some anxiety to learn what these laws are.
From the parental functions let us pass now to the functions of
the citizen. We have here to inquire what knowledge fits a man for the
discharge of these functions. It cannot be alleged that the need for knowledge
fitting him for these functions is wholly overlooked; for our school-courses
contain certain studies, which, nominally at least, bear upon political and
social duties. Of these the only one that occupies a prominent place is
History.
But, as already hinted, the information commonly given under this
head, is almost valueless for purposes of guidance. Scarcely any of the facts
set down in our school-histories, and very few of those contained in the more
elaborate works written for adults, illustrate the right principles of
political action. The biographies of monarchs (and our children learn little
else) throw scarcely any light upon the science of society. Familiarity with
court intrigues, plots, usurpations, or the like, and with all the
personalities accompanying them, aids very little in elucidating the causes of
national progress. We read of some squabble for power, that it led to a pitched
battle; that such and such were the names of the generals and their leading
subordinates; that they had each so many thousand infantry and cavalry, and so many cannon;
that they arranged their forces in this and that order; that they manœuvred,
attacked, and fell back in certain ways; that at this part of the day such
disasters were sustained, and at that such advantages gained; that in one
particular movement some leading officer fell, while in another a certain
regiment was decimated; that after all the changing fortunes of the fight, the
victory was gained by this or that army; and that so many were killed and
wounded on each side, and so many captured by the conquerors. And now, out of
the accumulated details making up the narrative, say which it is that helps you
in deciding on your conduct as a citizen. Supposing even that you had
diligently read, not only The
Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World, but accounts of all other battles
that history mentions; how much more judicious would your vote be at the next
election? "But these are facts—interesting facts," you say. Without
doubt they are facts (such, at least, as are not wholly or partially fictions);
and to many they may be interesting facts. But this by no means implies that
they are valuable. Factitious or morbid opinion often gives seeming value to
things that have scarcely any. A tulipomaniac will not part with a choice bulb
for its weight in gold. To another man an ugly piece of cracked old china seems
his most desirable possession. And there are those who give high prices for the
relics of celebrated murderers. Will it be contended that these tastes are any
measures of value in the things that gratify them? If not, then it must be
admitted that the liking felt for certain classes of historical facts is no
proof of their worth; and that we must test their worth, as we test the worth
of other facts, by asking to what uses they are applicable. Were some one to
tell you that your neighbour's cat kittened yesterday, you would say the
information was valueless. Fact though it might be, you would call it an
utterly useless fact—a fact that could in no way influence your actions in
life—a fact that would not help you in learning how to live completely. Well,
apply the same test to the great mass of historical facts, and you will get the
same result. They are facts from which no conclusions can be drawn—unorganisablefacts;
and therefore facts of no service in establishing principles of conduct, which
is the chief use of facts. Read them, if you like, for amusement; but do not
flatter your self they are instructive.
That which constitutes History, properly so called, is in great
part omitted from works on the subject. Only of late years have historians
commenced giving us, in any considerablequantity, the
truly valuable information. As in past ages the king was everything and the
people nothing; so, in past histories the doings of the king fill the entire
picture, to which the national life forms but an obscure background. While only
now, when the welfare of nations rather than of rulers is becoming the dominant
idea, are historians beginning to occupy themselves with the phenomena of
social progress. The thing it really concerns us to know is the natural history
of society. We want all facts which help us to understand how a nation has
grown and organised itself. Among these, let us of course have an account of
its government; with as little as may be of gossip about the men who officered
it, and as much as possible about the structure, principles, methods,
prejudices, corruptions, etc., which it exhibited: and let this account include
not only the nature and actions of the central government, but also those of
local governments, down to their minutest ramifications. Let us of course also
have a parallel description of the ecclesiastical government—its organisation,
its conduct, its power, its relations to the State; and accompanying this, the
ceremonial, creed, and religious ideas—not only those nominally believed, but
those really believed and acted upon. Let us at the same time be informed of
the control exercised by class over class, as displayed in social
observances—in titles, salutations, and forms of address. Let us know, too,
what were all the other customs which regulated the popular life out of doors
and in-doors: including those concerning the relations of the sexes, and the
relations of parents to children. The superstitions, also, from the more
important myths down to the charms in common use, should be indicated. Next
should come a delineation of the industrial system: showing to what extent the
division of labour was carried; how trades were regulated, whether by caste,
guilds, or otherwise; what was the connection between employers and employed;
what were the agencies for distributing commodities; what were the means of
communication; what was the circulating medium. Accompanying all which should
be given an account of the industrial arts technically considered: stating the
processes in use, and the quality of the products. Further, the intellectual
condition of the nation in its various grades should be depicted; not only with
respect to the kind and amount of education, but with respect to the progress made
in science, and the prevailing manner of thinking. The degree of æsthetic
culture, as displayed in architecture, sculpture, painting, dress, music,
poetry, and fiction, should be described. Nor should there be
omitted a sketch of the daily lives of the people—their food, their homes, and
their amusements. And lastly, to connect the whole, should be exhibited the
morals, theoretical and practical, of all classes: as indicated in their laws,
habits, proverbs, deeds. These facts, given with as much brevity as consists
with clearness and accuracy, should be so grouped and arranged that they may be
comprehended in their ensemble,
and contemplated as mutually-dependent parts of one great whole. The aim should
be so to present them that men may readily trace the consensus subsisting among them; with the view
of learning what social phenomena co-exist with what other. And then the
corresponding delineations of succeeding ages should be so managed as to show
how each belief, institution, custom, and arrangement was modified; and how the consensus of preceding structures and functions
was developed into the consensus of succeeding ones. Such alone is the
kind of information respecting past times which can be of service to the
citizen for the regulation of his conduct. The only history that is of
practical value is what may be called Descriptive Sociology. And the highest
office which the historian can discharge, is that of so narrating the lives of
nations, as to furnish materials for a Comparative Sociology; and for the
subsequent determination of the ultimate laws to which social phenomena
conform.
But now mark, that even supposing an adequate stock of this truly
valuable historical knowledge has been acquired, it is of comparatively little
use without the key. And the key is to be found only in Science. In the absence
of the generalisations of biology and psychology, rational interpretation of
social phenomena is impossible. Only in proportion as men draw certain rude,
empirical inferences respecting human nature, are they enabled to understand
even the simplest facts of social life: as, for instance, the relation between
supply and demand. And if the most elementary truths of sociology cannot be
reached until some knowledge is obtained of how men generally think, feel, and
act under given circumstances; then it is manifest that there can be nothing
like a wide comprehension of sociology, unless through a competent acquaintance
with man in all his faculties, bodily, and mental. Consider the matter in the
abstract, and this conclusion is self-evident. Thus:—Society is made up of
individuals; all that is done in society is done by the combined actions of
individuals; and therefore, in individual actions only can be found the
solutions of social phenomena. But the actions of individuals depend on the
laws of their natures; and their actions cannot be understood until these laws are
understood. These laws, however, when reduced to their simplest expressions,
prove to be corollaries from the laws of body and mind in general. Hence it
follows, that biology and psychology are indispensable as interpreters of
sociology. Or, to state the conclusions still more simply:—all social phenomena
are phenomena of life—are the most complex manifestations of life—must conform
to the laws of life—and can be understood only when the laws of life are
understood. Thus, then, for the regulation of this fourth division of human
activities, we are, as before, dependent on Science. Of the knowledge commonly
imparted in educational courses, very little is of service for guiding a man in
his conduct as a citizen. Only a small part of the history he reads is of
practical value; and of this small part he is not prepared to make proper use.
He lacks not only the materials for, but the very conception of, descriptive
sociology; and he also lacks those generalisations of the organic sciences,
without which even descriptive sociology can give him but small aid.
And now we come to that remaining division of human life which
includes the relaxations and amusements filling leisure hours. After
considering what training best fits for self-preservation, for the obtainment
of sustenance, for the discharge of parental duties, and for the regulation of
social and political conduct; we have now to consider what training best fits
for the miscellaneous ends not included in these—for the enjoyment of Nature,
of Literature, and of the Fine Arts, in all their forms. Postponing them as we
do to things that bear more vitally upon human welfare; and bringing
everything, as we have, to the test of actual value; it will perhaps be
inferred that we are inclined to slight these less essential things. No greater
mistake could be made, however. We yield to none in the value we attach to
aesthetic culture and its pleasures. Without painting, sculpture, music,
poetry, and the emotions produced by natural beauty of every kind, life would
lose half its charm. So far from regarding the training and gratification of
the tastes as unimportant, we believe that in time to come they will occupy a
much larger share of human life than now. When the forces of Nature have been
fully conquered to man's use—when the means of production have been brought to
perfection—when labour has been economised to the highest degree—when education
has been so systematised that a preparation for the more essential activities
may be made with comparative rapidity—and when, consequently,
there is a great increase of spare time; then will the beautiful, both in Art
and Nature, rightly fill a large space in the minds of all.
But it is one thing to approve of æsthetic culture as largely
conducive to human happiness; and another thing to admit that it is a
fundamental requisite to human happiness. However important it may be, it must
yield precedence to those kinds of culture which bear directly upon daily
duties. As before hinted, literature and the fine arts are made possible by
those activities which make individual and social life possible; and
manifestly, that which is made possible, must be postponed to that which makes
it possible. A florist cultivates a plant for the sake of its flower; and
regards the roots and leaves as of value, chiefly because they are instrumental
in producing the flower. But while, as an ultimate product, the flower is the
thing to which everything else is subordinate, the florist has learnt that the
root and leaves are intrinsically of greater importance; because on them the
evolution of the flower depends. He bestows every care in rearing a healthy
plant; and knows it would be folly if, in his anxiety to obtain the flower, he
were to neglect the plant. Similarly in the case before us. Architecture,
sculpture, painting, music, and poetry, may truly be called the efflorescence
of civilised life. But even supposing they are of such transcendent worth as to
subordinate the civilised life out of which they grow (which can hardly be
asserted), it will still be admitted that the production of a healthy civilised
life must be the first consideration; and that culture subserving this must
occupy the highest place.
And here we see most distinctly the vice of our educational
system. It neglects the plant for the sake of the flower. In anxiety for
elegance, it forgets substance. While it gives no knowledge conducive to
self-preservation—while of knowledge that facilitates gaining a livelihood it
gives but the rudiments, and leaves the greater part to be picked up any how in
after life—while for the discharge of parental functions it makes not the
slightest provision—and while for the duties of citizenship it prepares by
imparting a mass of facts, most of which are irrelevant, and the rest without a
key; it is diligent in teaching whatever adds to refinement, polish, éclat.
Fully as we may admit that extensive acquaintance with modern languages is a
valuable accomplishment, which, through reading, conversation, and travel, aids
in giving a certain finish; it by no means follows that this result is rightly
purchased at the cost of the vitally important knowledge sacrificed to it. Supposing it true
that classical education conduces to elegance and correctness of style; it
cannot be said that elegance and correctness of style are comparable in
importance to a familiarity with the principles that should guide the rearing
of children. Grant that the taste may be improved by reading the poetry written
in extinct languages; yet it is not to be inferred that such improvement of
taste is equivalent in value to an acquaintance with the laws of health.
Accomplishments, the fine arts, belles-lettres,
and all those things which, as we say, constitute the efflorescence of
civilisation, should be wholly subordinate to that instruction and discipline
in which civilisation rests. As
they occupy the leisure part of life, so should they occupy the leisure part of
education.
Recognising thus the true position of aesthetics, and holding that
while the cultivation of them should form a part of education from its
commencement, such cultivation should be subsidiary; we have now to inquire
what knowledge is of most use to this end—what knowledge best fits for this
remaining sphere of activity? To this question the answer is still the same as
heretofore. Unexpected though the assertion may be, it is nevertheless true,
that the highest Art of every kind is based on Science—that without Science
there can be neither perfect production nor full appreciation. Science, in that
limited acceptation current in society, may not have been possessed by various
artists of high repute; but acute observers as such artists have been, they
have always possessed a stock of those empirical generalisations which
constitute science in its lowest phase; and they have habitually fallen far
below perfection, partly because their generalisations were comparatively few
and inaccurate. That science necessarily underlies the fine arts, becomes
manifest, à priori, when
we remember that art-products are all more or less representative of objective
or subjective phenomena; that they can be good only in proportion as they
conform to the laws of these phenomena; and that before they can thus conform,
the artist must know what these laws are. That this à priori conclusion tallies with experience, we
shall soon see.
Youths preparing for the practice of sculpture have to acquaint
themselves with the bones and muscles of the human frame in their distribution,
attachments, and movements. This is a portion of science; and it has been found
needful to impart it for the prevention of those many errors which sculptors
who do not possess it commit. A knowledge of mechanical principles is also
requisite; and such knowledge not being usually possessed, grave mechanical
mistakes are frequently made. Take an instance. For the stability of a figure
it is needful that the perpendicular from the centre of gravity—"the line
of direction," as it is called—should fall within the base of support; and
hence it happens, that when a man assumes the attitude known as "standing
at ease," in which one leg is straightened and the other relaxed, the line
of direction falls within the foot of the straightened leg. But sculptors
unfamiliar with the theory of equilibrium, not uncommonly so represent this
attitude, that the line of direction falls midway between the feet. Ignorance
of the law of momentum leads to analogous blunders: as witness the admired
Discobolus, which, as it is posed, must inevitably fall forward the moment the
quoit is delivered.
In painting, the necessity for scientific information, empirical
if not rational, is still more conspicuous. What gives the grotesqueness of
Chinese pictures, unless their utter disregard of the laws of appearances—their
absurd linear perspective, and their want of aerial perspective? In what are
the drawings of a child so faulty, if not in a similar absence of truth—an
absence arising, in great part, from ignorance of the way in which the aspects
of things vary with the conditions? Do but remember the books and lectures by
which students are instructed; or consider the criticisms of Ruskin; or look at
the doings of the Pre-Raffaelites; and you will see that progress in painting
implies increasing knowledge of how effects in Nature are produced. The most
diligent observation, if unaided by science, fails to preserve from error.
Every painter will endorse the assertion that unless it is known what
appearances must exist under given circumstances, they often will not be
perceived; and to know what appearances must exist, is, in so far, to
understand the science of appearances. From want of science Mr. J. Lewis,
careful painter as he is, casts the shadow of a lattice-window in
sharply-defined lines upon an opposite wall; which he would not have done, had
he been familiar with the phenomena of penumbræ. From want of science, Mr.
Rosetti, catching sight of a peculiar iridescence displayed by certain hairy
surfaces under particular lights (an iridescence caused by the diffraction of
light in passing the hairs), commits the error of showing this iridescence on
surfaces and in positions where it could not occur.
To say that music, too, has need of scientific aid will cause
still more surprise. Yet it may be shown that music is but an idealisation of
the natural language of emotion; and that consequently, music must be good or
bad according as it conforms to the laws of this natural language. The various
inflections of voice which accompany feelings of different kinds and
intensities, are the germs out of which music is developed. It is demonstrable
that these inflections and cadences are not accidental or arbitrary; but that
they are determined by certain general principles of vital action; and that
their expressiveness depends on this. Whence it follows that musical phrases
and the melodies built of them, can be effective only when they are in harmony
with these general principles. It is difficult here properly to illustrate this
position. But perhaps it will suffice to instance the swarms of worthless
ballads that infest drawing-rooms, as compositions which science would forbid.
They sin against science by setting to music ideas that are not emotional
enough to prompt musical expression; and they also sin against science by using
musical phrases that have no natural relations to the ideas expressed: even
where these are emotional. They are bad because they are untrue. And to say
they are untrue, is to say they are unscientific.
Even in poetry the same thing holds. Like music, poetry has its
root in those natural modes of expression which accompany deep feeling. Its
rhythm, its strong and numerous metaphors, its hyperboles, its violent
inversions, are simply exaggerations of the traits of excited speech. To be
good, therefore, poetry must pay attention to those laws of nervous action
which excited speech obeys. In intensifying and combining the traits of excited
speech, it must have due regard to proportion—must not use its appliances without
restriction; but, where the ideas are least emotional, must use the forms of
poetical expression sparingly; must use them more freely as the emotion rises;
and must carry them to their greatest extent, only where the emotion reaches a
climax. The entire contravention of these principles results in bombast or
doggerel. The insufficient respect for them is seen in didactic poetry. And it
is because they are rarely fully obeyed, that so much poetry is inartistic.
Not only is it that the artist, of whatever kind, cannot produce a
truthful work without he understands the laws of the phenomena he represents;
but it is that he must also understand how the minds of spectators or listeners
will be affected by the several peculiarities of his work—a question in
psychology. What impression any art-product generates, manifestly depends upon
the mental natures of those to whom it is presented; and as all mental natures
have certain characteristics in common, there must result certain corresponding
general principles on which alone art-products can be successfully framed.
These general principles cannot be fully understood and applied, unless the
artist sees how they follow from the laws of mind. To ask whether the
composition of a picture is good is really to ask how the perceptions and
feelings of observers will be affected by it. To ask whether a drama is well
constructed, is to ask whether its situations are so arranged as duly to
consult the power of attention of an audience, and duly to avoid overtaxing any
one class of feelings. Equally in arranging the leading divisions of a poem or
fiction, and in combining the words of a single sentence, the goodness of the
effect depends upon the skill with which the mental energies and
susceptibilities of the reader are economised. Every artist, in the course of
his education and after-life, accumulates a stock of maxims by which his
practice is regulated. Trace such maxims to their roots, and they inevitably
lead you down to psychological principles. And only when the artist understands
these psychological principles and their various corollaries can he work in
harmony with them.
We do not for a moment believe that science will make an artist.
While we contend that the leading laws both of objective and subjective
phenomena must be understood by him, we by no means contend that knowledge of
such laws will serve in place of natural perception. Not the poet only, but the
artist of every type, is born, not made. What we assert is, that innate faculty
cannot dispense with the aid of organised knowledge. Intuition will do much,
but it will not do all. Only when Genius is married to Science can the highest
results be produced.
As we have above asserted, Science is necessary not only for the
most successful production, but also for the full appreciation, of the fine
arts. In what consists the greater ability of a man than of a child to perceive
the beauties of a picture; unless it is in his more extended knowledge of those
truths in nature or life which the picture renders? How happens the cultivated
gentleman to enjoy a fine poem so much more than a boor does; if it is not
because his wider acquaintance with objects and actions enables him to see in
the poem much that the boor cannot see? And if, as is here so obvious, there
must be some familiarity with the things represented, before the representation
can be appreciated, then, the representation can be completely appreciated only
when the things represented are completely understood. The fact is,
that every additional truth which a word of art expresses, gives an additional
pleasure to the percipient mind—a pleasure that is missed by those ignorant of
this truth. The more realities an artist indicates in any given amount of work,
the more faculties does he appeal to; the more numerous ideas does he suggest;
the more gratification does he afford. But to receive this gratification the
spectator, listener, or reader, must know the realities which the artist has
indicated; and to know these realities is to have that much science.
And now let us not overlook the further great fact, that not only
does science underlie sculpture, painting, music, poetry, but that science is
itself poetic. The current opinion that science and poetry are opposed, is a
delusion. It is doubtless true that as states of consciousness, cognition and
emotion tend to exclude each other. And it is doubtless also true that an
extreme activity of the reflective powers tends to deaden the feelings; while
an extreme activity of the feelings tends to deaden the reflective powers: in
which sense, indeed, all orders of activity are antagonistic to each other. But
it is not true that the facts of science are unpoetical; or that the
cultivation of science is necessarily unfriendly to the exercise of imagination
and the love of the beautiful. On the contrary, science opens up realms of
poetry where to the unscientific all is a blank. Those engaged in scientific
researches constantly show us that they realise not less vividly, but more
vividly, than others, the poetry of their subjects. Whoso will dip into Hugh
Miller's works of geology, or read Mr. Lewes's Sea-side Studies, will perceive
that science excites poetry rather than extinguishes it. And he who
contemplates the life of Goethe, must see that the poet and the man of science
can co-exist in equal activity. Is it not, indeed, an absurd and almost a
sacrilegious belief, that the more a man studies Nature the less he reveres it?
Think you that a drop of water, which to the vulgar eye is but a drop of water,
loses anything in the eye of the physicist who knows that its elements are held
together by a force which, if suddenly liberated, would produce a flash of
lightning? Think you that what is carelessly looked upon by the uninitiated as
a mere snow-flake, does not suggest higher associations to one who had seen
through a microscope the wondrously-varied and elegant forms of snow-crystals?
Think you that the rounded rock marked with parallel scratches, calls up as
much poetry in an ignorant mind as in the mind of a geologist, who knows that
over this rock a glacier slid a million years ago? The truth is, that those who have never
entered upon scientific pursuits are blind to most of the poetry by which they
are surrounded. Whoever has not in youth collected plants and insects, knows
not half the halo of interest which lanes and hedge-rows can assume. Whoever
has not sought for fossils, has little idea of the poetical associations that
surround the places where imbedded treasures were found. Whoever at the
sea-side has not had a microscope and aquarium, has yet to learn what the
highest pleasures of the sea-side are. Sad, indeed, is it to see how men occupy
themselves with trivialities, and are indifferent to the grandest
phenomena—care not to understand the architecture of the Heavens, but are
deeply interested in some contemptible controversy about the intrigues of Mary
Queen of Scots!—are learnedly critical over a Greek ode, and pass by without a
glance that grand epic written by the finger of God upon the strata of the
Earth!
We find, then, that even for this remaining division of human
activities, scientific culture is the proper preparation. We find that
aesthetics in general are necessarily based upon scientific principles; and can
be pursued with complete success only through an acquaintance with these
principles. We find that for the criticism and due appreciation of works of
art, a knowledge of the constitution of things, or in other words, a knowledge
of science, is requisite. And we not only find that science is the handmaid to
all forms of art and poetry, but that, rightly regarded, science is itself
poetic.
Thus far our question has been, the worth of knowledge of this or
that kind for purposes of guidance. We have now to judge the relative value of
different kinds of knowledge for purposes of discipline. This division of our
subject we are obliged to treat with comparative brevity; and happily, no very
lengthened treatment of it is needed. Having found what is best for the one
end, we have by implication found what is best for the other. We may be quite
sure that the acquirement of those classes of facts which are most useful for
regulating conduct, involves a mental exercise best fitted for strengthening
the faculties. It would be utterly contrary to the beautiful economy of Nature,
if one kind of culture were needed for the gaining of information and another
kind were needed as a mental gymnastic. Everywhere throughout creation we find
faculties developed through the performance of those functions which it is
their office to perform; not through the performance of artificial exercises
devised to fit them for those functions. The Red Indian acquires
the swiftness and agility which make him a successful hunter, by the actual
pursuit of animals; and through the miscellaneous activities of his life, he
gains a better balance of physical powers than gymnastics ever give. That skill
in tracking enemies and prey which he had reached after long practice, implies
a subtlety of perception far exceeding anything produced by artificial
training. And similarly in all cases. From the Bushman whose eye, habitually
employed in identifying distant objects that are to be pursued or fled from,
has acquired a telescopic range, to the accountant whose daily practice enables
him to add up several columns of figures simultaneously; we find that the
highest power of a faculty results from the discharge of those duties which the
conditions of life require it to discharge. And we may be certain, à priori, that the same law
holds throughout education. The education of most value for guidance, must at
the same time be the education of most value for discipline. Let us consider
the evidence.
One advantage claimed for that devotion to language-learning which
forms so prominent a feature in the ordinary curriculum,
is, that the memory is thereby strengthened. This is assumed to be an advantage
peculiar to the study of words. But the truth is, that the sciences afford far
wider fields for the exercise of memory. It is no slight task to remember
everything about our solar system; much more to remember all that is known
concerning the structure of our galaxy. The number of compound substances, to
which chemistry daily adds, is so great that few, save professors, can
enumerate them; and to recollect the atomic constitutions and affinities of all
these compounds, is scarcely possible without making chemistry the occupation
of life. In the enormous mass of phenomena presented by the Earth's crust, and
in the still more enormous mass of phenomena presented by the fossils it
contains, there is matter which it takes the geological student years of
application to master. Each leading division of physics—sound, heat, light,
electricity—includes facts numerous enough to alarm any one proposing to learn
them all. And when we pass to the organic sciences, the effort of memory
required becomes still greater. In human anatomy alone, the quantity of detail
is so great, that the young surgeon has commonly to get it up half-a-dozen
times before he can permanently retain it. The number of species of plants
which botanists distinguish, amounts to some 320,000; while the varied forms of
animal life with which the zoologist deals, are estimated at some 2,000,000. So
vast is the accumulation offacts which men of science
have before them, that only by dividing and subdividing their labours can they
deal with it. To a detailed knowledge of his own division, each adds but a
general knowledge of the allied ones; joined perhaps to a rudimentary
acquaintance with some others. Surely, then, science, cultivated even to a very
moderate extent, affords adequate exercise for memory. To say the very least,
it involves quite as good a discipline for this faculty as language does.
But now mark that while, for the training of mere memory, science
is as good as, if not better than, language; it has an immense superiority in
the kind of memory it trains. In the acquirement of a language, the connections
of ideas to be established in the mind correspond to facts that are in great
measure accidental; whereas, in the acquirement of science, the connections of
ideas to be established in the mind correspond to facts that are mostly
necessary. It is true that the relations of words to their meanings are in one
sense natural; that the genesis of these relations may be traced back a certain
distance, though rarely to the beginning; and that the laws of this genesis
form a branch of mental science—the science of philology. But since it will not
be contended that in the acquisition of languages, as ordinarily carried on,
these natural relations between words and their meanings are habitually traced,
and their laws explained; it must be admitted that they are commonly learned as
fortuitous relations. On the other hand, the relations which science presents
are causal relations; and, when properly taught, are understood as such. While
language familiarises with non-rational relations, science familiarises with
rational relations. While the one exercises memory only, the other exercises both
memory and understanding.
Observe next, that a great superiority of science over language as
a means of discipline, is, that it cultivates the judgment. As, in a lecture on
mental education delivered at the Royal Institution, Professor Faraday well
remarks, the most common intellectual fault is deficiency of judgment.
"Society, speaking generally," he says, "is not only ignorant as
respects education of the judgment, but it is also ignorant of its
ignorance." And the cause to which he ascribes this state, is want of
scientific culture. The truth of his conclusion is obvious. Correct judgment
with regard to surrounding objects, events, and consequences, becomes possible
only through knowledge of the way in which surrounding phenomena depend on each
other. No extent of acquaintance with the meanings of words, will guarantee correct
inferences respecting causes and effects. The habit of drawing conclusions from
data, and then of verifying those conclusions by observation and experiment,
can alone give the power of judging correctly. And that it necessitates this
habit is one of the immense advantages of science.
Not only, however, for intellectual discipline is science the
best; but also for moral discipline. The learning of languages
tends, if anything, further to increase the already undue respect for
authority. Such and such are the meanings of these words, says the teacher of
the dictionary. So and so is the rule in this case, says the grammar. By the
pupil these dicta are received as unquestionable. His constant attitude of mind
is that of submission to dogmatic teaching. And a necessary result is a
tendency to accept without inquiry whatever is established. Quite opposite is
the mental tone generated by the cultivation of science. Science makes constant
appeal to individual reason. Its truths are not accepted on authority alone;
but all are at liberty to test them—nay, in many cases, the pupil is required
to think out his own conclusions. Every step in a scientific investigation is
submitted to his judgment. He is not asked to admit it without seeing it to be
true. And the trust in his own powers thus produced is further increased by the
uniformity with which Nature justifies his inferences when they are correctly
drawn. From all which there flows that independence which is a most valuable
element in character. Nor is this the only moral benefit bequeathed by
scientific culture. When carried on, as it should always be, as much as
possible under the form of original research, it exercises perseverance and sincerity.
As says Professor Tyndall of inductive inquiry, "It requires patient
industry, and an humble and conscientious acceptance of what Nature reveals.
The first condition of success is an honest receptivity and a willingness to
abandon all preconceived notions, however cherished, if they be found to
contradict the truth. Believe me, a self-renunciation which has something noble
in it, and of which the world never hears, is often enacted in the private
experience of the true votary of science."
Lastly we have to assert—and the assertion will, we doubt not,
cause extreme surprise—that the discipline of science is superior to that of
our ordinary education, because of thereligious culture that it gives. Of course we do
not here use the words scientific and religious in their ordinary limited
acceptations; but in their widest and highest acceptations. Doubtless, to the
superstitions that pass under the name of religion, science is
antagonistic; but not to the essential religion which these superstitions
merely hide. Doubtless, too, in much of the science that is current, there is a
pervading spirit of irreligion; but not in that true science which had passed
beyond the superficial into the profound.
"True science and true religion," says Professor Huxley
at the close of a recent course of lectures, "are twin-sisters, and the
separation of either from the other is sure to prove the death of both. Science
prospers exactly in proportion as it is religious; and religion flourishes in
exact proportion to the scientific depth and firmness of its basis. The great
deeds of philosophers have been less the fruit of their intellect than of the
direction of that intellect by an eminently religious tone of mind. Truth has
yielded herself rather to their patience, their love, their single-heartedness,
and their self-denial, than to their logical acumen."
So far from science being irreligious, as many think, it is the
neglect of science that is irreligious—it is the refusal to study the
surrounding creation that is irreligious. Take a humble simile. Suppose a
writer were daily saluted with praises couched in superlative language. Suppose
the wisdom, the grandeur, the beauty of his works, were the constant topics of
the eulogies addressed to him. Suppose those who unceasingly uttered these
eulogies on his works were content with looking at the outsides of them; and
had never opened them, much less tried to understand them. What value should we
put upon their praises? What should we think of their sincerity? Yet, comparing
small things to great, such is the conduct of mankind in general, in reference
to the Universe and its Cause. Nay, it is worse. Not only do they pass by
without study, these things which they daily proclaim to be so wonderful; but
very frequently they condemn as mere triflers those who give time to the
observation of Nature—they actually scorn those who show any active interest in
these marvels. We repeat, then, that not science, but the neglect of science,
is irreligious. Devotion to science, is a tacit worship—a tacit recognition of
worth in the things studied; and by implication in their Cause. It is not a
mere lip-homage, but a homage expressed in actions—not a mere professed
respect, but a respect proved by the sacrifice of time, thought, and labour.
Nor is it thus only that true science is essentially religious. It
is religious, too, inasmuch as it generates a profound respect for, and an
implicit faith in, those uniformities of action which all things disclose. By
accumulated experiences the man of science acquires a thorough belief in the
unchanging relations of phenomena—in the invariable connection of cause and
consequence—in the necessity of good or evil results. Instead of the rewards and punishments
of traditional belief, which people vaguely hope they may gain, or escape,
spite of their disobedience; he finds that there are rewards and punishments in
the ordained constitution of things; and that the evil results of disobedience
are inevitable. He sees that the laws to which we must submit are both inexorable
and beneficent. He sees that in conforming to them, the process of things is
ever towards a greater perfection and a higher happiness. Hence he is led
constantly to insist on them, and is indignant when they are disregarded. And
thus does he, by asserting the eternal principles of things and the necessity
of obeying them, prove himself intrinsically religious.
Add lastly the further religious aspect of science, that it alone
can give us true conceptions of ourselves and our relation to the mysteries of
existence. At the same time that it shows us all which can be known, it shows
us the limits beyond which we can know nothing. Not by dogmatic assertion, does
it teach the impossibility of comprehending the Ultimate Cause of things; but
it leads us clearly to recognise this impossibility by bringing us in every
direction to boundaries we cannot cross. It realises to us in a way which
nothing else can, the littleness of human intelligence in the face of that
which transcends human intelligence. While towards the traditions and
authorities of men its attitude may be proud, before the impenetrable veil
which hides the Absolute its attitude is humble—a true pride and a true
humility. Only the sincere man of science (and by this title we do not mean the
mere calculator of distances, or analyser of compounds, or labeller of species;
but him who through lower truths seeks higher, and eventually the highest)—only
the genuine man of science, we say, can truly know how utterly beyond, not only
human knowledge but human conception, is the Universal Power of which Nature,
and Life, and Thought are manifestations.
We conclude, then, that for discipline, as well as for guidance,
science is of chiefest value. In all its effects, learning the meanings of
things, is better than learning the meanings of words. Whether for
intellectual, moral, or religious training, the study of surrounding phenomena
is immensely superior to the study of grammars and lexicons.
Thus to the question we set out with—What knowledge is of most
worth?—the uniform reply is—Science. This is the verdict on all the counts. For
direct self-preservation, or the maintenance of life and health, the
all-important knowledge is—Science. For that indirect self-preservation which we
call gaining a livelihood, the knowledge of greatest value is—Science. For the
due discharge of parental functions, the proper guidance is to be found only
in—Science. For that interpretation of national life, past and present, without
which the citizen cannot rightly regulate his conduct, the indispensable key
is—Science. Alike for the most perfect production and highest enjoyment of art
in all its forms, the needful preparation is still—Science. And for purposes of
discipline—intellectual, moral, religious—the most efficient study is, once
more—Science. The question which at first seemed so perplexed, has become, in
the course of our inquiry, comparatively simple. We have not to estimate the
degrees of importance of different orders of human activity, and different
studies as severally fitting us for them; since we find that the study of
Science, in its most comprehensive meaning, is the best preparation for all
these orders of activity. We have not to decide between the claims of knowledge
of great though conventional value, and knowledge of less though intrinsic
value; seeing that the knowledge which proves to be of most value in all other
respects, is intrinsically most valuable: its worth is not dependent upon
opinion, but is as fixed as is the relation of man to the surrounding world. Necessary
and eternal as are its truths, all Science concerns all mankind for all time.
Equally at present and in the remotest future, must it be of incalculable
importance for the regulation of their conduct, that men should understand the
science of life, physical, mental, and social; and that they should understand
all other science as a key to the science of life.
And yet this study, immensely transcending all other in
importance, is that which, in an age of boasted education, receives the least
attention. While what we call civilisation could never have arisen had it not
been for science, science forms scarcely an appreciable element in our
so-called civilised training. Though to the progress of science we owe it, that
millions find support where once there was food only for thousands; yet of
these millions but a few thousands pay any respect to that which has made their
existence possible. Though increasing knowledge of the properties and relations
of things has not only enabled wandering tribes to grow into populous nations,
but has given to the countless members of these populous nations, comforts and
pleasures which their few naked ancestors never even conceived, or could have
believed, yet
is this kind of knowledge only now receiving a grudging recognition in our
highest educational institutions. To the slowly growing acquaintance with the
uniform co-existences and sequences of phenomena—to the establishment of
invariable laws, we owe our emancipation from the grossest superstitions. But
for science we should be still worshipping fetishes; or, with hecatombs of
victims, propitiating diabolical deities. And yet this science, which, in place
of the most degrading conceptions of things, has given us some insight into the
grandeurs of creation, is written against in our theologies and frowned upon
from our pulpits.
Paraphrasing an Eastern fable, we may say that in the family of
knowledges, Science is the household drudge, who, in obscurity, hides
unrecognised perfections. To her has been committed all the works; by her
skill, intelligence, and devotion, have all conveniences and gratifications
been obtained; and while ceaselessly ministering to the rest, she has been kept
in the background, that her haughty sisters might flaunt their fripperies in
the eyes of the world. The parallel holds yet further. For we are fast coming
to the dénouement, when
the positions will be changed; and while these haughty sisters sink into
merited neglect, Science, proclaimed as highest alike in worth and beauty, will
reign supreme.