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Practical Education, Volume I

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Title: Practical Education, Volume I

Author: Maria Edgeworth
        Richard Lovell Edgeworth


        
Release date: May 7, 2009 [eBook #28708]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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PRACTICAL EDUCATION:

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH,

AUTHOR OF LETTERS FOR LITERARY LADIES, AND THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT, &c.
&c.

AND, BY

RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH,

F.R.S. AND M.R.I.A.

IN TWO VOLUMES ... VOL. I.

SECOND AMERICAN EDITION.

PUBLISHED

BY J. FRANCIS LIPPITT, PROVIDENCE, (R. I.) AND T. B. WAIT & SONS,
BOSTON.

T. B. Wait and Sons, Printers.

1815.




PREFACE.


We shall not imitate the invidious example of some authors, who think
it necessary to destroy the edifices of others, in order to clear the
way for their own. We have no peculiar system to support, and,
consequently, we have no temptation to attack the theories of others;
and we have chosen the title of Practical Education, to point out that
we rely entirely upon practice and experience.

To make any progress in the art of education, it must be patiently
reduced to an experimental science: we are fully sensible of the
extent and difficulty of this undertaking, and we have not the
arrogance to imagine, that we have made any considerable progress in a
work, which the labours of many generations may, perhaps, be
insufficient to complete; but we lay before the publick the result of
our experiments, and in many instances the experiments themselves. In
pursuing this part of our plan, we have sometimes descended from that
elevation of style, which the reader might expect in a quarto volume;
we have frequently been obliged to record facts concerning children
which may seem trifling, and to enter into a minuteness of detail
which may appear unnecessary. No anecdotes, however, have been
admitted without due deliberation; nothing has been introduced to
gratify the idle curiosity of others, or to indulge our own feelings
of domestic partiality.

In what we have written upon the rudiments of science, we have pursued
an opposite plan; so far from attempting to teach them in detail, we
refer our readers to the excellent treatises on the different branches
of science, and on the various faculties of the human mind, which are
to be found in every language. The chapters that we have introduced
upon these subjects, are intended merely as specimens of the manner in
which we think young children should be taught. We have found from
experience, that an early knowledge of the first principles of science
may be given in conversation, and may be insensibly acquired from the
usual incidents of life: if this knowledge be carefully associated
with the technical terms which common use may preserve in the memory,
much of the difficulty of subsequent instruction may be avoided.

The sketches we have hazarded upon these subjects, may to some appear
too slight, and to others too abstruse and tedious. To those who have
explored the vast mines of human knowledge, small specimens appear
trifling and contemptible, whilst the less accustomed eye is somewhat
dazzled and confused by the appearance even of a small collection: but
to the most enlightened minds, new combinations may be suggested by a
new arrangement of materials, and the curiosity and enthusiasm of the
inexperienced may be awakened, and excited to accurate and laborious
researches.

With respect to what is commonly called the education of the heart, we
have endeavoured to suggest the easiest means of inducing useful and
agreeable habits, well regulated sympathy and benevolent affections. A
witty writer says, "Il est permis d'ennuyer en moralites d'ici jusqu'
a Constantinople." Unwilling to avail ourselves of this permission, we
have sedulously avoided declamation, and, wherever we have been
obliged to repeat ancient maxims, and common truths, we have at least
thought it becoming to present them in a new dress.

On religion and politics we have been silent, because we have no
ambition to gain partisans, or to make proselytes, and because we do
not address ourselves exclusively to any sect or to any party. The
scrutinizing eye of criticism, in looking over our table of contents,
will also, probably, observe that there are no chapters on courage and
chastity. To pretend to teach courage to Britons, would be as
ridiculous as it is unnecessary; and, except amongst those who are
exposed to the contagion of foreign manners, we may boast of the
superior delicacy of our fair countrywomen; a delicacy acquired from
domestic example, and confirmed by publick approbation. Our opinions
concerning the female character and understanding, have been fully
detailed in a former publication;[1] and, unwilling to fatigue by
repetition, we have touched but slightly upon these subjects in our
chapters on Temper, Female Accomplishments, Prudence, and Economy.

We have warned our readers not to expect from us any new theory of
education, but they need not apprehend that we have written without
method, or that we have thrown before them a heap of desultory remarks
and experiments, which lead to no general conclusions, and which tend
to the establishment of no useful principles. We assure them that we
have worked upon a regular plan, and where we have failed of executing
our design, it has not been for want of labour or attention. Convinced
that it is the duty and the interest of all who write, to inquire what
others have said and thought upon the subject of which they treat, we
have examined attentively the works of others, that we might collect
whatever knowledge they contain, and that we might neither arrogate
inventions which do not belong to us, nor weary the public by
repetition. Some useful and ingenious essays may probably have escaped
our notice; but we flatter ourselves, that our readers will not find
reason to accuse us of negligence, as we have perused with diligent
attention every work upon education, that has obtained the sanction of
time or of public approbation, and, though we have never bound
ourselves to the letter, we hope that we have been faithful to the
spirit, of their authors. Without incumbering ourselves with any part
of their systems which has not been authorized by experience, we have
steadily attempted immediately to apply to practice such of their
ideas as we have thought useful; but whilst we have used the thoughts
of others, we have been anxious to avoid mean plagiarism, and wherever
we have borrowed, the debt has been carefully acknowledged.

The first hint of the chapter on Toys was received from Dr. Beddoes;
the sketch of an introduction to chemistry for children was given to
us by Mr. Lovell Edgeworth; and the rest of the work was resumed from
a design formed and begun twenty years ago. When a book appears under
the name of two authors, it is natural to inquire what share belongs
to each of them. All that relates to the art of teaching to read in
the chapter on Tasks, the chapters on Grammar and Classical
Literature, Geography, Chronology, Arithmetic, Geometry, and
Mechanics, were written by Mr. Edgeworth, and the rest of the book by
Miss Edgeworth. She was encouraged and enabled to write upon this
important subject, by having for many years before her eyes the
conduct of a judicious mother in the education of a large family. The
chapter on Obedience, was written from Mrs. Edgeworth's notes, and was
exemplified by her successful practice in the management of her
children; the whole manuscript was submitted to her judgment, and she
revised parts of it in the last stage of a fatal disease.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Letters for Literary Ladies.




CONTENTS.


Chapter                                                         Page

     I. _Toys_                                                     9
    II. _Tasks_                                                   40
   III. _On Attention_                                            71
    IV. _Servants_                                               109
     V. _Acquaintance_                                           121
    VI. _On Temper_                                              137
   VII. _On Obedience_                                           153
  VIII. _On Truth_                                               168
    IX. _On Rewards and Punishments_                             198
     X. _On Sympathy and Sensibility_                            232
    XI. _On Vanity, Pride, and Ambition_                         261
   XII. _Books_                                                  276




PRACTICAL EDUCATION.




CHAPTER I.

TOYS.


"Why don't you play with your playthings, my dear? I am sure that I
have bought toys enough for you; why can't you divert yourself with
them, instead of breaking them to pieces?" says a mother to her child,
who stands idle and miserable, surrounded by disjointed dolls, maimed
horses, coaches and one-horse chairs without wheels, and a nameless
wreck of gilded lumber.

A child in this situation is surely more to be pitied than blamed; for
is it not vain to repeat, "Why don't you play with your playthings,"
unless they be such as he can play with, which is very seldom the
case; and is it not rather unjust to be angry with him for breaking
them to pieces, when he can by no other device render them subservient
to his amusement? He breaks them, not from the love of mischief, but
from the hatred of idleness; either he wishes to see what his
playthings are made of, and how they are made; or, whether he can put
them together again, if the parts be once separated. All this is
perfectly innocent; and it is a pity that his love of knowledge and
his spirit of activity should be repressed by the undistinguishing
correction of a nursery maid, or the unceasing reproof of a French
governess.

The more natural vivacity and ingenuity young people possess, the
less are they likely to be amused with the toys which are usually put
into their hands. They require to have things which exercise their
senses or their imagination, their imitative, and inventive powers.
The glaring colours, or the gilding of toys, may catch the eye, and
please for a few minutes, but unless some use can be made of them,
they will, and ought, to be soon discarded. A boy, who has the use of
his limbs, and whose mind is untainted with prejudice, would, in all
probability, prefer a substantial cart, in which he could carry weeds,
earth and stones, up and down hill, to the finest frail coach and six
that ever came out of a toy-shop: for what could he do with the coach
after having admired, and sucked the paint, but drag it cautiously
along the carpet of a drawing-room, watching the wheels, which will
not turn, and seeming to sympathize with the just terrors of the lady
and gentleman within, who are certain of being overturned every five
minutes? When he is tired of this, perhaps, he may set about to
unharness horses which were never meant to be unharnessed; or to
currycomb their woollen manes and tails, which usually come off during
the first attempt.

That such toys are frail and useless, may, however, be considered as
evils comparatively small: as long as the child has sense and courage
to destroy the toys, there is no great harm done; but, in general, he
is taught to set a value upon them totally independent of all ideas of
utility, or of any regard to his own real feelings. Either he is
conjured to take particular care of them, because they cost a great
deal of money; or else he is taught to admire them as miniatures of
some of the fine things on which fine people pride themselves: if no
other bad consequence were to ensue, this single circumstance of his
being guided in his choice by the opinion of others is dangerous.
Instead of attending to his own sensations, and learning from his own
experience, he acquires the habit of estimating his pleasures by the
taste and judgment of those who happen to be near him.

"I liked the cart best," says the boy, "but mamma and every body said
that the coach was the prettiest; so I chose the coach."--Shall we
wonder if the same principle afterwards governs him in the choice of
"the toys of age?"

A little girl, presiding at her baby tea-table, is pleased with the
notion that she is like her mamma; and, before she can have any idea
of the real pleasures of conversation and society, she is confirmed in
the persuasion, that tattling and visiting are some of the most
enviable privileges of grown people; a set of beings whom she believes
to be in possession of all the sweets of happiness.

Dolls, beside the prescriptive right of ancient usage, can boast of
such an able champion in Rousseau, that it requires no common share of
temerity to attack them. As far as they are the means of inspiring
girls with a taste for neatness in dress, and with a desire to make
those things for themselves, for which women are usually dependent
upon milliners, we must acknowledge their utility; but a watchful eye
should be kept upon the child, to mark the first symptoms of a love of
finery and fashion. It is a sensible remark of a late female writer,
that whilst young people work, the mind will follow the hands, the
thoughts are occupied with trifles, and the industry is stimulated by
vanity.

Our objections to dolls are offered with great submission and due
hesitation. With more confidence we may venture to attack baby-houses;
an unfurnished baby-house might be a good toy, as it would employ
little carpenters and seamstresses to fit it up; but a completely
furnished baby-house proves as tiresome to a child, as a finished seat
is to a young nobleman. After peeping, for in general only a peep can
be had into each apartment, after being thoroughly satisfied that
nothing is wanting, and that consequently there is nothing to be done,
the young lady lays her doll upon the state bed, if the doll be not
twice as large as the bed, and falls fast asleep in the midst of her
felicity.

Before dolls, baby-houses, coaches, and cups and saucers, there comes
a set of toys, which are made to imitate the actions of men and women,
and the notes or noises of birds and beasts. Many of these are
ingenious in their construction, and happy in their effect, but that
effect unfortunately is transitory. When the wooden woman has churned
her hour in her empty churn; when the stiff backed man has hammered or
sawed till his arms are broken, or till his employers are tired; when
the gilt lamb has ba-ad, the obstinate pig squeaked, and the provoking
cuckoo cried cuckoo, till no one in the house can endure the noise;
what remains to be done?--Wo betide the unlucky little philosopher,
who should think of inquiring why the woman churned, or how the bird
cried cuckoo; for it is ten to one that in prosecuting such an
inquiry, just when he is upon the eve of discovery, he snaps the wire,
or perforates the bellows, and there ensue "a death-like silence, and
a dread repose."

The grief which is felt for spoiling a new plaything might be borne,
if it were not increased, as it commonly is, by the reproaches of
friends; much kind eloquence, upon these occasions, is frequently
displayed, to bring the sufferer to a proper sense of his folly, till
in due time the contrite corners of his mouth are drawn down, his wide
eyes fill with tears, and, without knowing what he means, he promises
never to be so silly any more. The future safety of his worthless
playthings is thus purchased at the expense of his understanding,
perhaps of his integrity: for children seldom scrupulously adhere to
promises, which they have made to escape from impending punishment.

We have ventured to object to some fashionable toys; we are bound at
least to propose others in their place; and we shall take the matter
up soberly from the nursery.

The first toys for infants should be merely such things as may be
grasped without danger, and which might, by the difference of their
sizes, invite comparison: round ivory or wooden sticks should be put
into their little hands; by degrees they will learn to lift them to
their mouths, and they will distinguish their sizes: square and
circular bits of wood, balls, cubes, and triangles, with holes of
different sizes made in them, to admit the sticks, should be their
playthings. No greater apparatus is necessary for the amusement of the
first months of an infant's life. To ease the pain which they feel
from cutting teeth, infants generally carry to their mouths whatever
they can lay their hands upon; but they soon learn to distinguish
those bodies which relieve their pain, from those which gratify their
palate; and, if they are left to themselves, they will always choose
what is painted in preference to every thing else; nor must we
attribute the look of delight with which they seize toys that are
painted red, merely to the pleasure which their eye takes in the
bright colour, but to the love of the sweet taste which they suck from
the paint. What injury may be done to the health by the quantity of
lead which is thus swallowed, we will not pretend to determine, but we
refer to a medical name of high authority,[2] whose cautions probably
will not be treated with neglect. To gratify the eye with glittering
objects, if this be necessary, may be done with more safety by toys of
tin and polished iron: a common steel button is a more desirable
plaything to a young child than many expensive toys; a few such
buttons tied together, so as to prevent any danger of their being
swallowed, would continue for some time a source of amusement.

When a nurse wants to please or to pacify a child, she stuns its ear
with a variety of noises, or dazzles its eye with glaring colours or
stimulating light. The eye and the ear are thus fatigued without
advantage, and the temper is hushed to a transient calm by expedients,
which in time must lose their effect, and which can have no power over
confirmed fretfulness. The pleasure of exercising their senses, is in
itself sufficient to children without any factitious stimulus, which
only exhausts their excitability, and renders them incapable of being
amused by a variety of common objects, which would naturally be their
entertainment. We do not here speak of the attempts made to sooth a
child who is ill; "to charm the sense of pain," so far as it can be
done by diverting the child's attention from his own sufferings to
outward objects, is humane and reasonable, provided our compassion
does not induce in the child's mind the expectation of continual
attendance, and that impatience of temper which increases bodily
suffering. It would be in vain to read lectures on philosophy to a
nurse, or to expect stoicism from an infant; but, perhaps, where
mothers pay attention themselves to their children, they will be able
to prevent many of the consequences of vulgar prejudice and folly. A
nurse's wish is to have as little trouble as possible with the child
committed to her charge, and at the same time to flatter the mother,
from whom she expects her reward. The appearance of extravagant
fondness for the child, of incessant attention to its humour, and
absurd submission to its caprices, she imagines to be the surest
method of recommending herself to favour. She is not to be imposed
upon by the faint and affected rebukes of the fond mother, who
exclaims, "Oh, nurse, indeed you _do_ spoil that child sadly!--Oh,
nurse, upon my word she governs you entirely!--Nurse, you must not let
her have her own way always.--Never mind her crying, I beg,
nurse."--Nurse smiles, sees that she has gained her point, and
promises what she knows it is not expected she should perform. Now if,
on the contrary, she perceived that the mother was neither to be
flattered nor pleased by these means, one motive for spoiling the
child would immediately cease: another strong one would, it is true,
still remain. A nurse wishes to save herself trouble, and she
frequently consults her own convenience when she humours an infant.
She hushes it to sleep, that she may leave it safely; she stops it
from crying, that she may not hear an irritating noise, that she may
relieve herself as soon as possible from the painful weakness of
compassion, or that she may avoid the danger of being interrogated by
the family as to the cause of the disturbance. It is less trouble to
her to yield to caprice and ill-humour than to prevent or cure it, or
at least she thinks it is so. In reality it is not; for an humoured
child in time plagues its attendant infinitely more than it would have
done with reasonable management. If it were possible to convince
nurses of this, they would sacrifice perhaps the convenience of a
moment to the peace of future hours, and they would not be eager to
quell one storm, at the hazard of being obliged to endure twenty more
boisterous; the candle would then no more be thrust almost into the
infant's eyes to make it take notice of the light through the mist of
tears, the eternal bunch of keys would not dance and jingle at every
peevish summons, nor would the roarings of passion be overpowered by
insulting songs, or soothed by artful caresses; the child would then
be caressed and amused when he looks smiling and good-humoured, and
all parties would be much happier.

Practical education begins very early, even in the nursery. Without
the mountebank pretence, that miracles can be performed by the turning
of a straw, or the dictatorial anathematizing tone, which calls down
vengeance upon those who do not follow to an iota the injunctions of a
theorist, we may simply observe, that parents would save themselves a
great deal of trouble, and their children some pain, if they would
pay some attention to their early education. The temper acquires
habits much earlier than is usually apprehended; the first impressions
which infants receive, and the first habits which they learn from
their nurses, influence the temper and disposition long after the
slight causes which produced them are forgotten. More care and
judgment than usually fall to the share of a nurse are necessary, to
cultivate the disposition which infants show, to exercise their
senses, so as neither to suffer them to become indolent and torpid
from want of proper objects to occupy their attention, nor yet to
exhaust their senses by continual excitation. By ill-timed restraints
or injudicious incitements, the nurse frequently renders the child
obstinate or passionate. An infant should never be interrupted in its
operations; whilst it wishes to use its hands, we should not be
impatient to make it walk; or when it is pacing, with all the
attention to its centre of gravity that is exerted by a rope-dancer,
suddenly arrest its progress, and insist upon its pronouncing the
scanty vocabulary which we have compelled it to learn. When children
are busily trying experiments upon objects within their reach, we
should not, by way of saving them trouble, break the course of their
ideas, and totally prevent them from acquiring knowledge by their own
experience. When a foolish nurse sees a child attempting to reach or
lift any thing, she runs immediately, "Oh, dear love, it can't do it,
it can't!--I'll do it for it, so I will!"--If the child be trying the
difference between pushing and pulling, rolling or sliding, the powers
of the wedge or the lever, the officious nurse hastens instantly to
display her own knowledge of the mechanic powers: "Stay, love, stay;
that is not the way to do it--I'll show it the right way--see
here--look at me love."--Without interrupting a child in the moment of
action, proper care might previously be taken to remove out of its way
those things which can really hurt it, and a just degree of attention
must be paid to its first experiments upon hard and heavy, and more
especially upon sharp, brittle, and burning bodies; but this degree of
care should not degenerate into cowardice; it is better that a child
should tumble down or burn its fingers, than that it should not learn
the use of its limbs and its senses. We should for another reason take
care to put all dangerous things effectually out of the child's reach,
instead of saying perpetually, "Take care, don't touch that!--don't do
that!--let that alone!" The child, who scarcely understands the words,
and not at all the reason of these prohibitions, is frightened by the
tone and countenance with which they are uttered and accompanied; and
he either becomes indolent or cunning; either he desists from
exertion, or seizes the moment to divert himself with forbidden
objects, when the watchful eye that guards them is withdrawn. It is in
vain to encompass the restless prisoner with a fortification of
chairs, and to throw him an old almanack to tear to pieces, or an old
pincushion to explore; the enterprising adventurer soon makes his
escape from this barricado, leaves his goods behind him, and presently
is again in what the nurse calls mischief.

Mischief is with nurses frequently only another name for any species
of activity which they find troublesome; the love which children are
supposed to have for pulling things out of their places, is in reality
the desire of seeing things in motion, or of putting things into
different situations. They will like to put the furniture in a room in
its proper place, and to arrange every thing in what we call order, if
we can make these equally permanent sources of active amusement; but
when things are once in their places, the child has nothing more to
do, and the more quickly each chair arrives at its destined situation,
the sooner comes the dreaded state of idleness and quiet.

A nursery, or a room in which young children are to live, should
never have any furniture in it which they can spoil; as few things as
possible should be left within their reach which they are not to
touch, and at the same time they should be provided with the means of
amusing themselves, not with painted or gilt toys, but with pieces of
wood of various shapes and sizes, which they may build up and pull
down, and put in a variety of different forms and positions; balls,
pulleys, wheels, strings, and strong little carts, proportioned to
their age, and to the things which they want to carry in them, should
be their playthings.

Prints will be entertaining to children at a very early age; it would
be endless to enumerate the uses that may be made of them; they teach
accuracy of sight, they engage the attention, and employ the
imagination. In 1777 we saw L----, a child of two years old, point out
every piece of furniture in the French prints of Gil Blas; in the
print of the Canon at Dinner, he distinguished the knives, forks,
spoons, bottles, and every thing upon the table: the dog lying upon
the mat, and the bunch of keys hanging at Jacintha's girdle; he told,
with much readiness, the occupation of every figure in the print, and
could supply, from his imagination, what is supposed to be hidden by
the foremost parts of all the objects. A child of four years old was
asked, what was meant by something that was very indistinctly
represented as hanging round the arm of a figure in one of the prints
of the London Cries. He said it was a glove; though it had as little
resemblance to a glove, as to a ribbon or a purse. When he was asked
how he knew that it was a glove, he answered, "that it ought to be a
glove, because the woman had one upon her other arm, and none upon
that where the thing was hanging." Having seen the gown of a female
figure in a print hanging obliquely, the same child said, "The wind
blows that woman's gown back." We mention these little circumstances
from real life, to show how early prints may be an amusement to
children, and how quickly things unknown, are learnt by the relations
which they bear to what was known before. We should at the same time
observe, that children are very apt to make strange mistakes, and
hasty conclusions, when they begin to reason from analogy. A child
having asked what was meant by some marks in the forehead of an old
man in a print; and having been told, upon some occasion, that old
people were wiser than young ones, brought a print containing several
figures to his mother, and told her that _one_, which he pointed to,
was wiser than all the rest; upon inquiry, it was found that he had
formed this notion from seeing that one figure was wrinkled, and that
the others were not.

Prints for children should be chosen with great care; they should
represent objects which are familiar; the resemblances should be
accurate, and the manners should be attended to, or at least, the
general moral that is to be drawn from them. The attitude of Sephora,
the boxing lady in Gil Blas, must appear unnatural to children who
have not lived with termagant heroines. Perhaps, the first ideas of
grace, beauty, and propriety, are considerably influenced by the first
pictures and prints which please children. Sir Joshua Reynolds tells
us, that he took a child with him through a room full of pictures, and
that the child stopped, with signs of aversion, whenever it came to
any picture of a figure in a constrained attitude.

Children soon judge tolerably well of proportion in drawing, where
they have been used to see the objects which are represented: but we
often give them prints of objects, and of animals especially, which
they have never seen, and in which no sort of proportion is observed.
The common prints of animals must give children false ideas. The mouse
and the elephant are nearly of the same size, and the crocodile and
whale fill the same space in the page. Painters, who put figures of
men amongst their buildings, give the idea of the proportionate
height immediately to the eye: this is, perhaps, the best scale we can
adopt; in every print for children this should be attended to. Some
idea of the relative sizes of the animals they see represented would
then be given, and the imagination would not be filled with chimeras.

After having been accustomed to examine prints, and to trace their
resemblance to real objects, children will probably wish to try their
own powers of imitation. At this moment no toy, which we could invent
for them, would give them half so much pleasure as a pencil. If we put
a pencil into their hands even before they are able to do any thing
with it but make random marks all over a sheet of paper, it will long
continue a real amusement and occupation. No matter how rude their
first attempts at imitation may be; if the attention of children be
occupied, our point is gained. Girls have generally one advantage at
this age over boys, in the exclusive possession of the scissors: how
many camels, and elephants with amazing trunks, are cut out by the
industrious scissors of a busy, and therefore happy little girl,
during a winter evening, which passes so heavily, and appears so
immeasurably long, to the idle.

Modelling in clay or wax might probably be a useful amusement about
this age, if the materials were so prepared, that the children could
avoid being every moment troublesome to others whilst they are at
work. The making of baskets, and the weaving of sash-line, might
perhaps be employment for children; with proper preparations, they
might at least be occupied with these things; much, perhaps, might not
be produced by their labours, but it is a great deal to give early
habits of industry. Let us do what we will, every person who has ever
had any experience upon the subject, must know that it is scarcely
possible to provide sufficient and suitable occupations for young
children: this is one of the first difficulties in education. Those
who have never tried the experiment, are astonished to find it such a
difficult and laborious business as it really is, to find employments
for children from three to six years old. It is perhaps better, that
our pupils should be entirely idle, than that they should be half
employed. "My dear, have you nothing to do?" should be spoken in
sorrow rather than in anger. When they see other people employed and
happy, children feel mortified and miserable to have nothing to do.
Count Rumford's was an excellent scheme for exciting sympathetic
industry amongst the children of the poor at Munich; in the large
hall, where the elder children were busy in spinning, there was a
range of seats for the younger children, who were not yet permitted to
work; these being compelled to sit idle, and to see the busy
multitude, grew extremely uneasy in their own situation, and became
very anxious to be employed. We need not use any compulsion or any
artifice; parents in every family, we suppose, who think of educating
their own children, are employed some hours in the day in reading,
writing, business, or conversation; during these hours, children will
naturally feel the want of occupation, and will, from sympathy, from
ambition and from impatience of insupportable ennui, desire with
anxious faces, "to have something to do." Instead of loading them with
playthings, by way of relieving their misery, we should honestly tell
them, if that be the truth, "I am sorry I cannot find any thing for
you to do at present. I hope you will soon be able to employ yourself.
What a happy thing it will be for you to be able, by and by, to read,
and write and draw; then you will never be forced to sit idle."

The pains of idleness stimulate children to industry, if they are from
time to time properly contrasted with the pleasures of occupation. We
should associate cheerfulness, and praise, and looks of approbation,
with industry; and, whenever young people invent employments for
themselves, they should be assisted as much as possible, and
encouraged. At that age when they are apt to grow tired in half an
hour of their playthings, we had better give them playthings only for
a very short time, at intervals in the day; and, instead of waiting
till they are tired, we should take the things away before they are
weary of them. Nor should we discourage the inquisitive genius from
examining into the structure of their toys, whatever they may be. The
same ingenious and active dispositions, which prompt these inquiries,
will secure children from all those numerous temptations to do
mischief, to which the idle are exposed. Ingenious children are
pleased with contrivances which answer the purposes for which they are
intended: and they feel sincere regret whenever these are injured or
destroyed: this we mention as a further comfort and security for
parents, who, in the company of young mechanics, are apt to tremble
for their furniture. Children who observe, and who begin to amuse
themselves with _thought_, are not so actively hostile in their
attacks upon inanimate objects. We were once present at the dissection
of a wooden cuckoo, which was attended with extreme pleasure by a
large family of children; and it was not one of the children who broke
the precious toy, but it was the father who took it to pieces. Nor was
it the destruction of the plaything which entertained the company, but
the sight of the manner in which it was constructed. Many guesses were
made by all the spectators about the internal structure of the cuckoo,
and the astonishment of the company was universal, when the bellows
were cut open, and the simple contrivance was revealed to view;
probably, more was learnt from this cuckoo, than was ever learnt from
any cuckoo before. So far from being indifferent to the destruction of
this plaything, H---- the little girl of four years old, to whom it
belonged, remembered, several months afterwards, to remind her father
of his promise to repair the mischief he had done.

"Several toys, which are made at present, are calculated to give
pleasure merely by exciting surprise, and of course give children's
minds such a tone, that they are afterwards too fond of _similar
useless baubles_."[3] This species of delight is soon over, and is
succeeded by a desire to triumph in the ignorance, the credulity, or
the cowardice, of their companions. Hence that propensity to play
tricks, which is often injudiciously encouraged by the smiles of
parents, who are apt to mistake it for a proof of wit and vivacity.
They forget, that "gentle dulness ever loved a joke;" and that even
wit and vivacity, if they become troublesome and mischievous, will be
feared, and shunned. Many juggling tricks and puzzles are highly
ingenious; and, as far as they can exercise the invention or the
patience of young people, they are useful. Care, however, should be
taken, to separate the ideas of deceit and of ingenuity, and to
prevent children from glorying in the mere possession of a secret.

Toys which afford trials of dexterity and activity, such as tops,
kites, hoops, balls, battledores and shuttlecocks, ninepins, and
cup-and-ball, are excellent; and we see that they are consequently
great and lasting favourites with children; their senses, their
understanding, and their passions, are all agreeably interested and
exercised by these amusements. They emulate each other; but, as some
will probably excel at one game, and some at another, this emulation
will not degenerate into envy. There is more danger that this hateful
passion should be created in the minds of young competitors at those
games, where it is supposed that some _knack_ or _mystery_ is to be
learned before they can be played with success. Whenever children play
at such games, we should point out to them how and why it is that they
succeed or fail: we may show them, that, in reality, there is no
_knack_ or _mystery_ in any thing, but that from certain causes
certain effects will follow; that, after trying a number of
experiments, the circumstances essential to success may be discovered;
and that all the ease and dexterity, which we often attribute to the
power of natural genius, is simply the consequence of practice and
industry. This sober lesson may be taught to children without putting
it into grave words or formal precepts. A gentleman once astonished a
family of children by his dexterity in playing at bilboquet: he caught
the ball nine or ten times successively with great rapidity upon the
spike: this success appeared miraculous; and the father, who observed
that it had made a great impression upon the little spectators, took
that opportunity to show the use of spinning the ball, to make the
hole at the bottom ascend in a proper direction. The nature of
centrifugal motion, and its effect, in preserving the _parallelism_ of
_motion_, if we may be allowed the expression, was explained, not at
once, but at different intervals, to the young audience. Only as much
was explained at a time as the children could understand, without
fatiguing their attention, and the abstruse subject was made familiar
by the mode of illustration that was adopted.

It is surprising how much children may learn from their playthings,
when they are judiciously chosen, and when the habit of reflection and
observation is associated with the ideas of amusement and happiness. A
little boy of nine years old, who had had a hoop to play with, asked
"why a hoop, or a plate, if rolled upon its edge, keeps up as long as
it rolls, but falls as soon as it stops, and will not stand if you try
to make it stand still upon its edge?" Was not the boy's understanding
as well employed whilst he was thinking of this phenomenon, which he
observed whilst he was beating his hoop, as it could possibly have
been by the most learned preceptor?

When a pedantic schoolmaster sees a boy eagerly watching a paper kite,
he observes, "What a pity it is that children cannot be made to mind
their grammar as well as their kites!" And he adds, perhaps, some
peevish ejaculation on the natural idleness of boys, and that
pernicious love of play against which he is doomed to wage perpetual
war. A man of sense will see the same thing with a different eye; in
this pernicious love of play he will discern the symptoms of a love of
science, and, instead of deploring the natural idleness of children,
he will admire the activity which they display in the pursuit of
knowledge. He will feel that it is his business to direct this
activity, to furnish his pupil with materials for fresh combinations,
to put him or to let him put himself, in situations where he can make
useful observations, and acquire that experience which cannot be
bought, and which no masters can communicate.

It will not be beneath the dignity of a philosophic tutor to consider
the different effects, which the most common plays of children have
upon the habits of the understanding and temper. Whoever has watched
children putting together a dissected map, must have been amused with
the trial between Wit and Judgment. The child, who quickly perceives
resemblances, catches instantly at the first bit of the wooden map,
that has a single hook or hollow that seems likely to answer his
purpose; he makes, perhaps, twenty different trials before he hits
upon the right; whilst the wary youth, who has been accustomed to
observe differences, cautiously examines with his eye the whole
outline before his hand begins to move; and, having exactly compared
the two indentures, he joins them with sober confidence, more proud of
never disgracing his judgment by a fruitless attempt, than ambitious
of rapid success. He is slow, but sure, and wins the day.

There are some plays which require presence of mind, and which demand
immediate attention to what is actually going forward, in which
children, capable of the greatest degree of abstract attention, are
most apt to be defective. They have many ideas, but none of them
ready, and their knowledge is useless, because it is recollected a
moment too late. Could we, in suitably dignified language, describe
the game of "birds, beasts, and fishes," we should venture to
prescribe it as no very painful remedy for these absent and abstracted
personages. When the handkerchief or the ball is thrown, and when his
bird's name is called for, the absent little philosopher is obliged to
collect his scattered thoughts instantaneously, or else he exposes
himself to the ridicule of naming, perhaps, a fish or a beast, or any
bird but the right. To those children, who, on the contrary, are not
sufficiently apt to abstract their attention, and who are what Bacon
calls "birdwitted," we should recommend a solitary-board. At the
solitary-board they must withdraw their thoughts from all external
objects, hear nothing that is said, and fix their attention solely
upon the figure and the pegs before them, else they will never
succeed; and, if they make one errour in their calculations, they lose
all their labour. Those who are precipitate, and not sufficiently
attentive to the consequences of their own actions, may receive many
salutary lessons at the draught or chess-board--happy, if they can
learn prudence and foresight, by frequently losing the battle.

We are not quite so absurd as to imagine, that any great or permanent
effects can be produced by such slight causes as a game at draughts,
or at a solitary-board, but the combination of a number of apparent
trifles, is not to be neglected in education.

We have never yet mentioned what will probably first occur to those
who would invent employments for children. We have never yet mentioned
a garden; we have never mentioned those great delights to children, a
spade, a hoe, a rake, and a wheelbarrow. We hold all these in proper
respect; but we did not sooner mention them, because, if introduced
too early, they are useless. We must not expect, that a boy six or
seven years old, can find, for any length of time, sufficient daily
occupation in a garden: he has not strength for hard labour; he can
dig soft earth; he can weed groundsel, and other weeds, which take no
deep root in the earth; but after he has weeded his little garden, and
sowed his seeds, there must be a suspension of his labours. Frequently
children, for want of something to do, when they have sowed
flower-seeds in their crooked beds, dig up the hopes of the year to
make a new walk, or to sink a well in their garden. We mention these
things, that parents may not be disappointed, or expect more from the
occupation of a garden, than it can, at a very early age, afford. A
garden is an excellent resource for children, but they should have a
variety of other occupations: rainy days will come, and frost and
snow, and then children must be occupied within doors. We immediately
think of a little set of carpenter's tools, to supply them with active
amusement. Boys will probably be more inclined to attempt making
models, than drawings of the furniture which appears to be the most
easy to imitate; they will imagine that, if they had but tools, they
could make boxes, and desks, and beds, and chests of drawers, and
tables and chairs innumerable. But, alas! these fond imaginations are
too soon dissipated. Suppose a boy of seven years old to be provided
with a small set of carpenter's tools, his father thinks perhaps that
he has made him completely happy; but a week afterwards the father
finds dreadful marks of the file and saw upon his mahogany tables; the
use of these tools is immediately interdicted until a bench shall be
procured. Week after week passes away, till at length the frequently
reiterated speech of "Papa, you bid me put you in mind about my
bench." "Papa" has its effect, and the bench appears. Now the young
carpenter thinks he is quite set up in the world, and projects carts
and boxes, and reading-desks and writing-desks for himself and for his
sisters, if he have any; but when he comes to the execution of his
plans, what new difficulties, what new wants arise! the wood is too
thick or too thin; it splits, or it cannot be cut with a knife; wire,
nails, glue, and above all, the means of heating the glue, are
wanting. At last some frail machine, stuck together with pegs or pins,
is produced, and the workman is usually either too much ridiculed, or
too much admired. The step from pegging to mortising is a very
difficult step, and the want of a mortising-chisel is insuperable: one
tool is called upon to do the duty of another, and the pricker comes
to an untimely end in doing the hard duty of the punch; the saw wants
setting; the plane will plane no longer; and the mallet must be used
instead of the hammer, because the hammer makes so much noise, that
the ladies of the family have voted for its being locked up. To all
these various evils the child submits in despair; and finding, after
many fruitless exertions, that he cannot make any of the fine things
he had projected, he throws aside his tools, and is deterred by these
disappointments from future industry and ingenuity. Such are the
consequences of putting excellent tools into the hands of children
before they can possibly use them: but the tools which are useless at
seven years old, will be a most valuable present at eleven or twelve,
and for this age it will be prudent to reserve them. A rational
toy-shop should be provided with all manner of carpenter's tools, with
wood properly prepared for the young workman, and with screws, nails,
glue, emery-paper, and a variety of articles which it would be tedious
to enumerate; but which, if parents could readily meet within a
convenient assemblage, they would willingly purchase for their
children. The trouble of hunting through a number of different shops,
prevents them at present from purchasing such things; besides, they
may not perhaps be sufficiently good carpenters to know distinctly
every thing that is necessary for a young workman.

Card, pasteboard, substantial but not sharp-pointed scissors, wire,
gum and wax, may, in some degree, supply the want of carpenter's tools
at that early age when we have observed that the saw and plane are
useless. Models of common furniture should be made as toys, which
should take to pieces, so that all their parts, and the manner in
which they are put together, might be seen distinctly; the names of
the different parts should be written[4] or stamped upon them: by
these means the names will be associated with realities; children will
retain them in their memory, and they will neither learn by rote
technical terms, nor will they be retarded in their progress in
mechanical invention by the want of language. Before young people can
use tools, these models will amuse and exercise their attention. From
models of furniture we may go on to models of architecture; pillars of
different orders, the roofs of houses, the manner of slating and
tiling, &c. Then we may proceed to models of simple machines, choosing
at first such as can be immediately useful to children in their own
amusements, such as wheelbarrows, carts, cranes, scales, steelyards,
jacks, and pumps, which children ever view with eager eyes.

From simple, it will be easy to proceed gradually to models of more
complicated, machinery: it would be tiresome to give a list of these;
models of instruments used by manufacturers and artists should be
seen; many of these are extremely ingenious; spinning-wheels, looms,
paper-mills, wind-mills, water-mills, might with great advantage be
shown in miniature to children.

The distracting noise and bustle, the multitude of objects which all
claim the attention at once, prevent young people from understanding
much of what they see, when they are first taken to look at large
manufactories. If they had previously acquired some general idea of
the whole, and some particular knowledge of the different parts, they
would not stare when they get into these places; they would not "stare
round, see nothing, and come home content," bewildered by the sight of
cogs and wheels; and the explanations of the workmen would not be all
jargon to them; they would understand some of the technical terms,
which so much alarm the intellects of those who hear them for the
first time.

We may exercise the ingenuity and judgment of children by these models
of machines, by showing them first the thing to be done, and exciting
them to invent the best means of doing it; afterwards give the models
as the reward for their ingenuity, and let them compare their own
inventions with the contrivances actually in use amongst artificers;
by these means, young people may be led to compare a variety of
different contrivances; they will discern what parts of a machine are
superfluous, and what inadequate, and they will class particular
observations gradually under general principles. It may be thought,
that this will tend to give children only mechanical invention, or we
should call it, perhaps, the invention of machines; and those who do
not require this particular talent, will despise it as unnecessary in
what are called the liberal professions. Without attempting to compare
the value of different intellectual talents, we may observe, that they
are all in some measure dependent upon each other. Upon this subject
we shall enlarge more fully when we come to consider the method of
cultivating the memory and invention.

Chemical toys will be more difficult to manage than mechanical,
because the materials, requisite to try many chemical experiments, are
such as cannot safely be put into the hands of children. But a list of
experiments, and of the things necessary to try them, might easily be
drawn out by a chemist who would condescend to such a task; and if
these materials, with proper directions, were to be found at a
rational toy-shop, parents would not be afraid of burning or poisoning
their children in the first chemical lessons. In some families, girls
are taught the confectionary art; might not this be advantageously
connected with some knowledge of chemistry, and might not they be
better taught than by Mrs. Raffeld or Mrs. Glass?[5] Every culinary
operation may be performed as an art, probably, as well by a cook as
by a chemist; but, if the chemist did not assist the cook now and then
with a little science, epicures would have great reason for
lamentation. We do not, by any means, advise that girls should be
instructed in confectionary arts, at the hazard of their keeping
company with servants. If they learn any thing of this sort, there
will be many precautions necessary to separate them from servants: we
do not advise that these hazards should be run; but if girls learn
confectionary, let them learn the principles of chemistry, which may
assist in this art.[6]

Children are very fond of attempting experiments in dying, and are
very curious about vegetable dyes; but they can seldom proceed for
want of the means of boiling, evaporating, distilling, and subliming.
Small stills, and small tea-kettles and lamps, would be extremely
useful to them: these might be used in the room with the children's
parents, which would prevent all danger: they should continue to be
the property of the parents, and should be produced only when they are
wanted. No great apparatus is necessary for showing children the first
simple operations in chemistry: such as evaporation, crystalization,
calcination, detonation, effervescence, and saturation. Water and
fire, salt and sugar, lime and vinegar, are not very difficult to be
procured; and a wine-glass is to be found in every house. The
difference between an acid and alkali should be early taught to
children; many grown people begin to learn chemistry, without
distinctly knowing what is meant by those terms.

In the selection of chemical experiments for young people, it will be
best to avoid such as have the appearance of jugglers tricks, as it is
not our purpose to excite the amazement of children for the moment,
but to give them a permanent taste for science. In a well known book,
called "Hooper's _Rational Recreations_," there are many ingenious
experiments; but through the whole work there is such a want of an
enlarged mind, and such a love of magic and deception appears, as must
render it not only useless, but unsafe, for young people, in its
present state. Perhaps a selection might be made from it in which
these defects might be avoided: such titles as "_The real apparition:
the confederate counters: the five beatitudes_: and _the book of
fate_," may be changed for others more _rational_. Receipts for
"_Changing winter into spring_," for making "_Self-raising pyramids,
inchanted mirrors_, and _intelligent flies_," might be omitted, or
explained to advantage. Recreation the 5th, "To tell by the dial of a
watch at what hour any person intends to rise;" Recreation the 12th,
"To produce the appearance of a phantom on a pedestal placed on the
middle of a table;" and Recreation the 30th, "To write several letters
which contain no meaning, upon cards; to make them, after they have
been twice shuffled, give an answer to a question that shall be
proposed;" as for example, "What is love?" scarcely come under the
denomination of Rational Recreations, nor will they much conduce to
the end proposed in the introduction to Hooper's work; that is to say,
in his own words, "To enlarge and fortify the mind of man, that he may
advance with tranquil steps through the flowery paths of
investigation, till arriving at some noble eminence, he beholds, with
awful astonishment, the boundless regions of science, and becomes
animated to attain a still more lofty station, whilst his heart is
incessantly rapt with joys of which the groveling herd have no
conception."

Even in those chemical experiments in this book, which are really
ingenious and entertaining, we should avoid giving the old absurd
titles, which can only confuse the understanding, and spoil the taste
of children. The tree of Diana, and "Philosophic wool," are of this
species. It is not necessary to make every thing marvellous and
magical, to fix the attention of young people; if they are properly
educated, they will find more amusement in discovering, or in
searching for the cause of the effects which they see, than in a blind
admiration of the juggler's tricks.

In the papers of the Manchester Society, in Franklin's letters, in
Priestley's and Percival's works, there may be found a variety of
simple experiments which require no great apparatus, and which will at
once amuse and instruct. All the papers of the Manchester Society,
upon the repulsion and attraction of oil and water, are particularly
suited to children, because they state a variety of simple facts; the
mind is led to reason upon them, and induced to judge of the different
conclusions which are drawn from them by different people. The names
of Dr. Percival, or Dr. Wall, will have no weight with children; they
will compare only the reasons and experiments. Oil and water, a cork,
a needle, a plate, and a glass tumbler, are all the things necessary
for these experiments. Mr. Henry's experiments upon the influence that
fixed air has on vegetation, and several of Reaumur's experiments,
mentioned in the memoirs of the French Academy of Sciences, are
calculated to please young people much, and can be repeated without
expense or difficulty.

To those who acquire habits of observation, every thing that is to be
seen or heard, becomes a source of amusement. Natural history
interests children at an early age; but their curiosity and activity
is often repressed and restrained by the ignorance or indolence of
their tutors. The most inquisitive genius grows tired of repeating,
"Pray look at this--What is it? What can the use of this be?" when the
constant answer is, "Oh! it's nothing worth looking at, throw it away,
it will dirty the house." Those who have attended to the ways of
children and parents, well know that there are many little
inconveniences attending their amusements, which the sublime eye of
the theorist in education overlooks, which, nevertheless, are
essential to practical success. "It will dirty the house," puts a stop
to many of the operations of the young philosopher; nor is it
reasonable that his experiments should interfere with the necessary
regularity of a well ordered family. But most well ordered families
allow their horses and their dogs to have houses to themselves; cannot
one room be allotted to the children of the family? If they are to
learn chemistry, mineralogy, botany, or mechanics; if they are to take
sufficient bodily exercise without tormenting the whole family with
noise, a room should be provided for them. We mention exercise and
noise in particular, because we think they will, to many, appear of
the most importance.

To direct children in their choice of fossils, and to give them some
idea of the general arrangements of mineralogy, toy-shops should be
provided with specimens of ores, &c. properly labelled and arranged,
in drawers, so that they may be kept in order. Children should have
empty shelves in their cabinets, to be filled with their own
collections; they will then know how to direct their researches, and
how to dispose of their treasures. If they have proper places to keep
things in, they will acquire a taste for order by the best means, by
feeling the use of it: to either sex, this taste will be highly
advantageous. Children who are active and industrious, and who have a
taste for natural history, often collect, with much enthusiasm, a
variety of pebbles and common stones, which they value as great
curiosities, till some surly mineralogist happens to see them, and
condemns them all with one supercilious "pshaw!" or else a journey is
to be taken, and there is no way in making up the heterogeneous,
cumbersome collection, which must, of course, be abandoned. Nay, if no
journey is to be taken, a visitor, perhaps, comes unexpectedly; the
little naturalist's apartment must be vacated on a few minutes notice,
and the labour of years falls a sacrifice, in an instant, to the
housemaid's undistinguishing broom.

It may seem trifling to insist so much upon such slight things, but,
in fact, nothing can be done in education without attention to minute
circumstances. Many who have genius to sketch large plans, have seldom
patience to attend to the detail which is necessary for their
accomplishment. This is a useful, and therefore, no humiliating
drudgery.

With the little cabinets, which we have mentioned, should be sold
cheap microscopes, which will unfold a world of new delights to
children; and it is very probable that children will not only be
entertained with looking at objects through a microscope, but they
will consider the nature of the magnifying glass. They should not be
rebuffed with the answer, "Oh, it's only a common magnifying glass,"
but they should be encouraged in their laudable curiosity; they may
easily be led to try slight experiments in optics, which will, at
least, give the habits of observation and attention. In Dr.
Priestley's History of Vision, many experiments may be found, which
are not above the comprehension of children of ten or eleven years
old; we do not imagine that any science can be taught by desultory
experiments, but we think that a taste for science may early be given
by making it entertaining, and by exciting young people to exercise
their reasoning and inventive faculties upon every object which
surrounds them. We may point out that great discoveries have often
been made by attention to slight circumstances. The blowing of soap
bubbles, as it was first performed as a scientific experiment by the
celebrated Dr. Hook, before the Royal Society, makes a conspicuous
figure in Dr. Priestley's chapter on the reflection of light; this may
be read to children, and they will be pleased when they observe that
what at first appeared only a trifling amusement, has occupied the
understanding, and excited the admiration, of some great philosophers.

Every child observes the colours which are to be seen in panes of
glass windows: in Priestley's History of Vision, there are some
experiments of Hook's and Lord Brereton's upon these colours, which
may be selected. Buffon's observations upon blue and green shadows,
are to be found in the same work, and they are very entertaining. In
Dr. Franklin's letters, there are numerous experiments, which are
particularly suited to young people; especially, as in every instance
he speaks with that candour and openness to conviction, and with that
patient desire to discover truth, which we should wish our pupils to
admire and imitate.

The history of the experiments which have been tried in the progress
of any science, and of the manner in which observations of minute
facts have led to great discoveries, will be useful to the
understanding, and will gradually make the mind expert in that mental
algebra, on which both reasoning and invention (which is, perhaps,
only a more rapid species of reasoning) depend. In drawing out a list
of experiments for children, it will, therefore, be advantageous to
place them in that order which will best exhibit their relative
connection; and, instead of showing young people the steps of a
discovery, we should frequently pause to try if they can invent. In
this, our pupils will succeed often beyond our expectations; and,
whether it be in mechanics, chemistry, geometry, or in the arts, the
same course of education will be found to have the same advantages.
When the powers of reason have been cultivated, and the inventive
faculty exercised; when general habits of voluntary exertion and
patient perseverance, have been acquired, it will be easy, either for
the pupil himself, or for his friends, to direct his abilities to
whatever is necessary for his happiness. We do not use the phrase,
_success in the world_, because, if it conveys any distinct ideas, it
implies some which are, perhaps, inconsistent with real happiness.

Whilst our pupils occupy and amuse themselves with observation,
experiment, and invention, we must take care that they have a
sufficient variety of manual and bodily exercises. A turning-lathe,
and a work-bench, will afford them constant active employment; and
when young people can invent, they feel great pleasure in the
execution of their own plans. We do not speak from vague theory; we
have seen the daily pleasures of the work-bench, and the persevering
eagerness with which young people work in wood, and brass, and iron,
when tools are put into their hands at a proper age, and when their
understanding has been previously taught the simple principles of
mechanics. It is not to be expected that any exhortations we could
use, could prevail upon a father, who happens to have no taste for
mechanics, or for chemistry, to spend any of his time in his
children's laboratory, or at their work-bench; but in his choice of a
tutor, he may perhaps supply his own defects; and he will consider,
that even by interesting himself in the daily occupations of his
children, he will do more in the advancement of their education, than
can be done by paying money to a hundred masters.

We do not mean to confine young people to the laboratory or the
work-bench, for exercise; the more varied exercises, the better. Upon
this subject we shall speak more fully hereafter: we have in general
recommended all trials of address and dexterity, except games of
chance, which we think should be avoided, as they tend to give a taste
for gambling; a passion, which has been the ruin of so many young men
of promising talents, of so many once happy families, that every
parent will think it well worth his while to attend to the smallest
circumstances in education, which can prevent its seizing hold of the
minds of his children.

In children, as in men, a taste for gaming arises from the want of
better occupation, or of proper emotion to relieve them from the pains
and penalties of idleness; both the vain and indolent are prone to
this taste from different causes. The idea of personal merit is
insensibly connected with what is called _good luck_, and before
avarice absorbs every other feeling, vanity forms no inconsiderable
part of the charm which fixes such numbers to the gaming-table.
Indolent persons are fond of games of chance, because they feel
themselves roused agreeably from their habitual state of apathy, or
because they perceive, that at these contests, without any mental
exertion, they are equal, perhaps superior, to their competitors.

Happy they, who have early been inspired with a taste for science and
literature! They will have a constant succession of agreeable ideas;
they will find endless variety in the commonest objects which surround
them; and feeling that every day of their lives they have sufficient
amusement, they will require no extraordinary excitations, no holyday
pleasures. They who have learnt, from their own experience, a just
confidence in their own powers; they who have tasted the delights of
well-earned praise, will not lightly trust to _chance_, for the
increase of self-approbation; nor will those pursue, with too much
eagerness, the precarious triumphs of fortune, who know, that in their
usual pursuits, it is in their own power to command success
proportioned to their exertions. Perhaps it may be thought, that we
should have deferred our eulogium upon literature till we came to
speak of Tasks; but if there usually appears but little connection in
a child's mind, between books and toys, this must be attributed to his
having had bad books and bad toys. In the hands of a judicious
instructer, no means are too small to be useful; every thing is made
conducive to his purposes, and instead of useless baubles, his pupils
will be provided with play things which may instruct, and with
occupations which may at once amuse and improve the understanding.

It would be superfluous to give a greater variety of instances of the
sorts of amusements which are advantageous; we fear that we have
already given too many, and that we have hazarded some observations,
which will be thought too pompous for a chapter upon Toys. We intended
to have added to this chapter an inventory of the present most
fashionable articles in our toy-shops, and _a list of the new
assortment_, to speak in the true style of an advertisement; but we
are obliged to defer this for the present; upon a future occasion we
shall submit it to the judgment of the public. A revolution, _even in
toy-shops_, should not be attempted, unless there appear a moral
certainty that we both may, and can, change for the better. The danger
of doing too much in education, is greater even than the danger of
doing too little. As the merchants in France answered to Colbert, when
he desired to know "how he could best assist them," children might,
perhaps, reply to those who are most officious to amuse them, "Leave
us to ourselves."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Dr. Fothergill.

[3] Dr. Beddoes.

[4] We are indebted to Dr. Beddoes for this idea.

[5] We do not mean to do injustice to Mrs. Raffeld's professional
skill.

[6] V. Diderot's ingenious preface to "Chymie de gout et de l'odorat."




CHAPTER II.

TASKS.


"Why don't you get your task, instead of playing with your playthings
from morning till night? You are grown too old now to do nothing but
play. It is high time you should learn to read and write, for you
cannot be a child all your life, child; so go and fetch your _book_,
and learn your _task_."

This angry apostrophe is probably addressed to a child, at the moment
when he is intent upon some agreeable occupation, which is now to be
stigmatized with the name of Play. Why that word should all at once
change its meaning; why that should now be a crime, which was formerly
a virtue; why he, who had so often been desired to _go and play_,
should now be reviled for his obedience, the young casuist is unable
to discover. He hears that he is no longer a child: this he is willing
to believe; but the consequence is alarming. Of the new duties
incumbent upon his situation, he has but yet a confused idea. In his
manly character, he is not yet thoroughly perfect: his pride would
make him despise every thing that is childish, but no change has yet
been wrought in the inward man, and his old tastes and new ambition,
are in direct opposition. Whether to learn to read, be a dreadful
thing or not, is a question he cannot immediately solve; but if his
reasoning faculty be suspended, there is yet a power secretly working
within him, by which he will involuntarily be governed. This power is
the power of association: of its laws, he is, probably, not more
ignorant than his tutor; nor is he aware that whatever word or idea
comes into his mind, with any species of pain, will return, whenever
it is recalled to his memory, with the same feelings. The word Task,
the first time he hears it, is an unmeaning word, but it ceases to be
indifferent to him the moment he hears it pronounced in a terrible
voice. "Learn your task," and "fetch your book," recur to his
recollection with indistinct feelings of pain; and hence, without
further consideration, he will be disposed to dislike both books and
tasks; but his feelings are the last things to be considered upon this
occasion; the immediate business, is to teach him to read. A new era
in his life now commences. The age of learning begins, and begins in
sorrow. The consequences of a bad beginning, are proverbially ominous;
but no omens can avert his fate, no omens can deter his tutor from the
undertaking; the appointed moment is come; the boy is four years old,
and he must learn to read. Some people, struck with a panic fear, lest
their children should never learn to read and write, think that they
cannot be in too great a hurry to teach them. Spelling-books,
grammars, dictionaries, rods and masters, are collected; nothing is to
be heard of in the house but tasks; nothing is to be seen but tears.

"No tears! no tasks! no masters! nothing upon compulsion!" say the
opposite party in education. "Children must be left entirely at
liberty; they will learn every thing better than you can teach them;
their memory must not be overloaded with trash; their reason must be
left to grow."

Their reason will never grow, unless it be exercised, is the reply;
their memory must be stored whilst they are young, because, in youth,
the memory is most tenacious. If you leave them at liberty for ever,
they will never learn to spell; they will never learn Latin; they will
never learn Latin grammar; yet, they must learn Latin grammar, and a
number of other disagreeable things; therefore, we must give them
tasks and task-masters.

In all these assertions, perhaps, we shall find a mixture of truth
and errour; therefore, we had better be governed by neither party, but
listen to both, and examine arguments unawed by authority. And first,
as to the panic fear, which, though no argument, is a most powerful
motive. We see but few examples of children so extremely stupid as not
to have been able to learn to read and write between the years of
three and thirteen; but we see many whose temper and whose
understanding have been materially injured by premature or injudicious
instruction; we see many who are disgusted, perhaps irrecoverably,
with literature, whilst they are fluently reading books which they
cannot comprehend, or learning words by rote, to which they affix no
ideas. It is scarcely worth while to speak of the vain ambition of
those who long only to have it said, that their children read sooner
than those of their neighbours do; for, supposing their utmost wish to
be gratified, that their son could read before the age when children
commonly articulate, still the triumph must be of short duration, the
fame confined to a small circle of "foes and friends," and, probably,
in a few years, the memory of the phenomenon would remain only with
his doting grandmother. Surely, it is the use which children make of
their acquirements which is of consequence, not the possessing them a
few years sooner or later. A man, who, during his whole life, could
never write any thing that was worth reading, would find it but poor
consolation for himself, his friends, or the public, to reflect, that
he had been in joining-hand before he was five years old.

As it is usually managed, it is a dreadful task indeed to learn, and,
if possible, a more dreadful task to teach to read. With the help of
counters, and coaxing, and gingerbread, or by dint of reiterated pain
and terror, the names of the four-and-twenty letters of the alphabet,
are, perhaps, in the course of some weeks, firmly fixed in the pupil's
memory. So much the worse; all these names will disturb him, if he
have common sense, and at every step must stop his progress. To begin
with the vowels: each of these have several different sounds, and,
consequently, ought to have several names, or different signs, to
distinguish them in different circumstances. In the first lesson of
the spelling book, the child begins with a-b, makes ab; b-a makes ba.
The inference, if any general inference can be drawn from this lesson,
is, that when _a_ comes before _b_, it has one sound, and after _b_,
it has another sound; but this is contradicted by and by, and it
appears that _a_ after _b_, has various sounds, as in _ball_, in
_bat_, in _bare_. The letter _i_ in _fire_, is _i_, as we call it in
the alphabet, but in fir, it is changed; in _pin_, it is changed
again; so that the child, being ordered to affix to the same sign a
variety of sounds and names, and not knowing in what circumstances to
obey, and in what to disregard the contradictory injunctions imposed
upon him, he pronounces sounds at hazard, and adheres positively to
the last ruled case, or maintains an apparently sullen, or truly
philosophic and sceptical silence. Must _e_ in _pen_, and _e_ in
_where_, and _e_ in _verse_, and _e_ in _fear_, all be called _e_
alike? The child is patted on the head for reading _u_ as it ought to
be pronounced in _future_; but if, remembering this encouragement, the
pupil should venture to pronounce _u_ in _gun_, and _bun_, in the same
manner, he will, inevitably, be disgraced. Pain and shame, impress
precepts upon the mind: the child, therefore, is intent upon
remembering the new sound of _u_ in _bun_; but when he comes to
_busy_, and _burial_, and _prudence_, his last precedent will lead him
fatally astray, and he will again be called a _dunce_. _O_, in the
exclamation _Oh!_ is happily called by its alphabetical name; but in
_to_, we can hardly know it again, and in _morning_ and _wonder_, it
has a third and a fourth additional sound. The amphibious letter _y_,
which is either a vowel or a consonant, has one sound in one
character, and two sounds in the other; as a consonant, it is
pronounced as in _yesterday_; in _try_, it is sounded as _i_; in
_any_, and in the termination of many other words, it is sounded like
_e_. Must a child know all this by intuition, or must it be whipt into
him? But he must know a great deal more, before he can read the most
common words. What length of time should we allow him for learning,
when _c_ is to be sounded like _k_, and when like _s_? and how much
longer time shall we add for learning, when _s_ shall be pronounced
_sh_, as in _sure_, or _z_, as in _has_; the sound of which last
letter _z_, he cannot, by any conjuration, obtain from the name _zed_,
the only name by which he has been taught to call it? How much time
shall we allow a patient tutor for teaching a docile pupil, when _g_
is to be sounded soft, and when hard? There are many carefully worded
rules in the spelling-books, specifying before what letters, and in
what situations, _g_ shall vary in sound; but, unfortunately, these
rules are difficult to be learned by heart, and still more difficult
to understand. These laws, however positive, are not found to be of
universal application, or at least, a child has not always wit or time
to apply them upon the spur of the occasion. In coming to the words
_ingenious gentleman, get a good grammar_, he may be puzzled by the
nice distinctions he is to make in pronunciation in cases apparently
similar; but he has not yet become acquainted with all the powers of
this privileged letter: in company with _h_, it assumes the character
of _f_, as in _tough_; another time he meets it, perhaps, in the same
company, in the same place, and, as nearly as possible, in the same
circumstances, as in the word _though_; but now _g_ is to become a
silent letter, and is to pass incognito, and the child will commit an
unpardonable errour, if he claimed the incognito as his late
acquaintance _f_. Still, all these are slight difficulties; a moment's
reflection must convince us, that by teaching the common names of
every consonant in the alphabet, we prepare a child for misery, when
he begins to spell or read. A consonant, as sayeth the spelling-book,
is a letter which cannot be pronounced without a vowel before or after
it: for this reason, _B_, is called _be_, and _L_, _el_; but why the
vowel should come first in the one case, or last in the second, we are
not informed; nor are we told why the names of some letters have no
resemblance whatever to their sounds, either with a vowel before or
after them. Suppose, that after having learned the alphabet, a child
was to read the words

    _Here is some apple-pye._
    He would pronounce the letters thus:
    _Acheare ies esoeme apepeele pewie._

With this pronunciation the child would never decipher these simple
words. It will be answered, perhaps, that no child is expected to read
as soon as he has learnt his alphabet: a long initiation of
monosyllabic, dissyllabic, trissyllabic, and polysyllabic words is
previously to be submitted to; nor, after this inauguration, are the
novices capable of performing with propriety the ceremony of reading
whole words and sentences. By a different method of teaching, all this
waste of labour and of time, all this confusion of rules and
exceptions, and all the consequent confusion in the understanding of
the pupil, may be avoided.

In teaching a child to read, every letter should have a precise single
sound annexed to its figure; this should never vary. Where two
consonants are joined together, so as to have but one sound, as ph,
sh, &c. the two letters should be coupled together by a distinct
invariable mark. Letters that are silent should be marked in such a
manner as to point out to the child that they are not to be sounded.
Upon these simple rules our method of teaching to read has been
founded. The signs or marks, by which these distinctions are to be
effected, are arbitrary, and may be varied as the teacher chooses; the
addition of a single point above or below the common letters is
employed to distinguish the different sounds that are given to the
same letter, and a mark underneath such letters as are to be omitted,
is the only apparatus necessary. These marks were employed by the
author in 1776, before he had seen Sheridan's, or any similar
dictionary; he has found that they do not confuse children as much as
figures, because when dots are used to distinguish sounds, there is
only a change of place, and no change of form: but any person that
chooses it, may substitute figures instead of dots. It should,
however, be remembered, that children must learn to distinguish the
figures before they can be useful in discriminating the words.

All these sounds, and each of the characters which denote them, should
be distinctly known by a child before we begin to teach him to read.
And here at the first step we must entreat the teacher to have
patience; to fix firmly in her mind, we say _her_ mind, because we
address ourselves to mothers; that it is immaterial whether a child
learns this alphabet in six weeks or in six months; at all events, let
it not be inculcated with restraint, or made tiresome, lest it should
retard the whole future progress of the pupil. We do not mean to
recommend the custom of teaching in play, but surely a cheerful
countenance is not incompatible with application.

The three sounds of the letter (a) should first be taught; they may be
learned by the dullest child in a week, if the letters are shown to
him for a minute or two, twice a day. Proper moments should be chosen
when the child is not intent upon any thing else; when other children
have appeared to be amused with reading; when the pupil himself
appears anxious to be instructed. As soon as he is acquainted with the
sounds of (_a_) and with their distinguishing marks, each of these
sounds should be formed into syllables, with each of the consonants;
but we should never name the consonants by their usual names; if it
be required to point them out by sounds, let them resemble the real
sounds or powers of the consonants; but in fact it will never be
_necessary_ to name the consonants separately, till their powers, in
combination with the different vowels, be distinctly acquired. It will
then be time enough to teach the common names of the letters. To a
person unacquainted with the principles upon which this mode of
teaching is founded, it must appear strange, that a child should be
able to read before he knows the names of his letters; but it has been
ascertained, that the names of the letters are an incumbrance in
teaching a child to read.


  Vowels.        | Dipthongs.       | Consonants.
                 |                  |
  Sounded as in  | Sounded as in    | & double Consonants
                 |                  |
                 |                  |
  a       fate   | [=ea]     ocean  | c as in     cap
  [.a]    fat    |                  | [c.]        city
  [.a.]   fall   | [=ew]     few    | [=ch]       child
  e       mere   |                  | [=ch.]      machine
  [.e]    met    | [=ia]     filial | g           got
  [e.]    her    |                  | [.g]        age
  [.e.]   where  | [=ie]     Daniel | [=ng]       long
  i       fine   |                  | ing         thing
  [.i]    in     | [=io]     minion | [=le]       able
  [i.]    bird   |                  | [=re]       acre
  [.i.]   machine| [=oi]     voice  | [=ph]       physic
  o       throne |                  | [.s]        has
  [.o]    on     | [=ou]     found  | [=sh]       she
  [o.]    love   |                  | [=sion]     fusion
  [..o]   move   | [=ow]     now    | [=th]       the
  u       pure   |                  | ti          christian
  [ü]     busy   | [ua]      assuage| [=tion]     nation
  [u.]    sun    |                  | [=wh]       who
  [..u]   full   | [=ui]     languid| [=ough]     tough
  [.y]    by     |                  |
  [:y]    ably   | [=oy]     joy    |

  Consonants

  ba ca da fa ga ha ja ka la ma
  na pa qua ra sa ta va wa ya za

  (`) _This mark under a Letter shews that it is not to be
  pronounced, as_ [.e.]ight _in which_ igh _are not
  sounded._

  [Transcriber's Note: The symbols in this table are as follows:

  [.a] indicates dot above letter
  [a.] indicates dot below letter
  [.a.] indicates dot above letter and below letter
  [..o] indicates dot in center of letter
  [:a] indicates two dots above letter
  [=ea] indicates a horizontal line through letters
  [=ch.] indicates a horizontal line through letters and a dot below]


In the quotation from Mrs. Barbauld, at the bottom of the alphabetical
tables, there is a stroke between the letters _b_ and _r_ in
_February_, and between _t_ and _h_, in _there_, to show that these
letters are to be sounded together, so as to make one sound. The same
is to be observed as to (_ng_) in the word _long_, and also as to the
syllable _ing_, which, in the table No. 4, column 4, is directed to be
taught as one sound. The mark (.) of obliteration, is put under (_y_)
in the word _days_, under _e_ final in _there_, and also under one of
the _l_'s and the (_w_) in _yellow_, to show that these letters are
not to be pronounced. The exceptions to this scheme of articulation
are very few; such as occur, are marked, with the number employed in
Walker's dictionary, to denote the exception, to which excellent work,
the teacher will, of course, refer.

Parents, at the first sight of this new alphabet, will perhaps tremble
lest they should be obliged to learn the whole of it before they begin
to teach their children: but they may calm their apprehensions, for
they need only point out the letters in succession to the child, and
sound them as they are sounded in the words annexed to the letters in
the table, and the child will soon, by repetition, render the marks of
the respective letters familiar to the teacher. We have never found
any body complain of difficulty, who has gone on from letter to
letter along with the child who was taught.

As soon as our pupil knows the different sounds of (_a_) combined in
succession with all the consonants, we may teach him the rest of the
vowels joined with all the consonants, which will be a short and easy
work. Our readers need not be alarmed at the apparent slowness of this
method: six months, at the rate of four or five minutes each day, will
render all these combinations perfectly familiar. One of Mrs.
Barbauld's lessons for young children, carefully marked in the same
manner as the alphabet, should, when they are well acquainted with the
sounds of each of the vowels with each of the consonants, be put into
our pupil's hands.[7]

The sound of three or four letters together, will immediately become
familiar to him; and when any of the less common sounds of the vowels,
such as are contained in the second table, and the terminating sounds,
_tion_, _ly_, &c. occur, they should be read to the child, and should
be added to what he has got by rote from time to time. When all these
marks and their corresponding sounds are learnt, the primer should be
abandoned, and from that time the child will be able to read slowly
the most difficult words in the language. We must observe, that the
mark of obliteration is of the greatest service; it is a clue to the
whole labyrinth of intricate and uncouth orthography. The word though,
by the obliteration of three letters, may be as easily read as _the_
or _that_.

It should be observed that all people, before they can read fluently,
have acquired a knowledge of the general appearance of most of the
words in the language, independently of the syllables of which they
are composed. Seven children in the author's family were taught to
read in this manner, and three in the common method; the difference
of time, labour, and sorrow, between the two modes of learning,
appeared so clearly, that we can speak with confidence upon the
subject. We think that nine-tenths of the labour and disgust of
learning to read, may be saved by this method; and that instead of
frowns and tears, the usual harbingers of learning, cheerfulness and
smiles may initiate willing pupils in the most difficult of all human
attainments.

A and H, at four and five years old, after they had learned the
alphabet, without having ever combined the letters into syllables,
were set to read one of Mrs. Barbauld's little books. After being
employed two or three minutes every day, for a fortnight, in making
out the words of this book, a paper with a few raisins well concealed
in its folds, was given to each of them, with these words printed on
the outside of it, marked according to our alphabet:

"Open this, and eat what you find in it."

In twenty minutes, they read it distinctly without any assistance.

The step from reading with these marks, to reading without them, will
be found very easy. Nothing more is necessary, than to give children
the same books, without marks, which they can read fluently with them.

Spelling comes next to reading. New trials for the temper; new perils
for the understanding; positive rules and arbitrary exceptions;
endless examples and contradictions; till at length, out of all
patience with the stupid docility of his pupil, the tutor perceives
the absolute necessity of making him get by heart, with all convenient
speed, every word in the language. The formidable columns in dread
succession arise a host of foes; two columns a day, at least, may be
conquered. Months and years are devoted to the undertaking; but after
going through a whole spelling-book, perhaps a whole dictionary, till
we come triumphantly to spell _Zeugma_, we have forgotten to spell
_Abbot_, and we must begin again with _Abasement_. Merely the learning
to spell so many unconnected words, without any assistance from reason
or analogy, is nothing, compared with the difficulty of learning the
explanation of them by rote, and the still greater difficulty of
understanding the meaning of the explanation. When a child has got by
rote,

    "Midnight, the _depth_ of night;"
    "Metaphysics, the science which treats of immaterial
    beings, and of forms in general abstracted from matter;"

has he acquired any distinct ideas, either of midnight or of
metaphysics? If a boy had eaten rice pudding, till he fancied himself
tolerably well acquainted with rice, would he find his knowledge much
improved, by learning from his spelling-book, the words

    "Rice, a foreign esculent grain?"

Yet we are surprised to discover, that men have so few accurate ideas,
and that so many learned disputes originate in a confused or improper
use of words.

"All this is very true," says a candid schoolmaster; "we see the evil,
but we cannot new-model the language, or write a perfect philosophical
dictionary; and, in the mean time, we are bound to teach children to
spell, which we do with the less reluctance, because, though we allow
that it is an arduous task, we have found from experience, that it can
be accomplished, and that the understandings of many of our pupils,
survive all the perils to which you think them exposed during the
operation."

The understandings may, and do, survive the operation; but why should
they be put in unnecessary danger? and why should we early disgust
children with literature, by the pain and difficulty their first
lessons? We are convinced, that the business of learning to spell, is
made much more laborious to children than it need to be: it may be
useful to give them five or six words every day to learn by heart,
but more only loads their memory; and we should, at first, select
words of which they know the meaning, and which occur most frequently
in reading or conversation. The alphabetical list of words in a
spelling-book, contains many which are not in common use, and the
pupil forgets these as fast as he learns them. We have found it
entertaining to children, to ask them to spell any short sentence as
it has been accidentally spoken. "Put this book on that table." Ask a
child how he would spell these words, if he were obliged to write them
down, and you introduce into his mind the idea that he must learn to
spell, before he can make his words and thoughts understood in
writing. It is a good way to make children write down a few words of
their own selection every day, and correct the spelling; and also
after they have been reading, whilst the words are yet fresh in their
memory, we may ask them to spell some of the words which they have
just seen. By these means, and by repeating, at different times in the
day, those words which are most frequently wanted, his vocabulary will
be pretty well stocked without its having cost him many tears. We
should observe that children learn to spell more by the eye than by
the ear, and that the more they read and write, the more likely they
will be to remember the combination of letters in words which they
have continually before their eyes, or which they feel it necessary to
represent to others. When young people begin to write, they first feel
the use of spelling, and it is then that they will learn it with most
ease and precision. Then the greatest care should be taken to look
over their writing, and to make them correct every word in which they
have made a mistake; because, bad habits of spelling, once contracted,
can scarcely be cured: the understanding has nothing to do with the
business, and when the memory is puzzled between the rules of spelling
right, and the habits of spelling wrong, it becomes a misfortune to
the pupil to write even a common letter. The shame which is annexed to
bad spelling, excites young people's attention, as soon as they are
able to understand, that it is considered as a mark of ignorance and
ill breeding. We have often observed, that children listen with
anxiety to the remarks that are made upon this subject in their
presence, especially when the letters or notes of _grown up people_,
are criticised.

Some time ago, a lady, who was reading a newspaper, met with the story
of an ignorant magistrate, who gave for his toast, at a public dinner,
the two K's, for the King and Constitution. "How very much ashamed the
man must have felt, when all the people laughed at him for his
mistake! they must all have seen that he did not know how to spell;
and what a disgrace for a magistrate too!" said a boy who heard the
anecdote. It made a serious impression upon him. A few months
afterwards, he was employed by his father in an occupation which was
extremely agreeable to him, but in which he continually felt the
necessity of spelling correctly. He was employed to send messages by a
telegraph; these messages he was obliged to write down hastily, in
little journals kept for the purpose; and as these were seen by
several people, when the business of the day came to be reviewed, the
boy had a considerable motive for orthographical exactness. He became
extremely desirous to teach himself, and consequently his success was
from that moment certain. As to the rest, we refer to Lady Carlisle's
comprehensive maxim, "Spell well if you can."

It is undoubtedly of consequence, to teach the rudiments of literary
education early, to get over the first difficulties of reading,
writing, and spelling; but much of the anxiety and bustle, and labour
of teaching these things, may be advantageously spared. If more
attention were turned to the general cultivation of the understanding,
and if more pains were taken to make literature agreeable to
children, there would be found less difficulty to excite them to
mental exertion, or to induce the habits of persevering application.

When we speak of rendering literature agreeable to children, and of
the danger of associating pain with the sight of a book, or with the
sound of the word _task_, we should at the same time avoid the errour
of those who, in their first lessons, accustom their pupils to so much
amusement, that they cannot help afterwards feeling disgusted with the
sobriety of instruction. It has been the fashion of late to attempt
teaching every thing to children in play, and ingenious people have
contrived to insinuate much useful knowledge without betraying the
design to instruct; but this system cannot be pursued beyond certain
bounds without many inconveniences. The habit of being amused not only
increases the desire for amusement, but it lessens even the relish for
pleasure; so that the mind becomes passive and indolent, and a course
of perpetually increasing stimulus is necessary to awaken attention.
When dissipated habits are required, the pupil loses power over his
own mind, and, instead of vigorous voluntary exertion, which he should
be able to command, he shows that wayward imbecility, which can think
successfully only by fits and starts: this paralytic state of mind has
been found to be one of the greatest calamities attendant on what is
called genius; and injudicious education creates or increases this
disease. Let us not therefore humour children in this capricious
temper, especially if they have quick abilities: let us give rewards
proportioned to their exertions with uniform justice, but let us not
grant bounties in education, which, however they may appear to succeed
in effecting partial and temporary purposes, are not calculated to
ensure any consequences permanently beneficial. The truth is, that
useful knowledge cannot be obtained without labour; that attention
long continued is laborious, but that without this labour nothing
excellent can be accomplished. Excite a child to attend in earnest
for a short time, his mind will be less fatigued, and his
understanding more improved, than if he had exerted but half the
energy twice as long: the degree of pain which he may have felt will
be amply and properly compensated by his success; this will not be an
arbitrary, variable reward, but one within his own power, and that can
be ascertained by his own feelings. Here is no deceit practised, no
illusion; the same course of conduct may be regularly pursued through
the whole of his education, and his confidence in his tutor will
progressively increase. On the contrary, if, to entice him to enter
the paths of knowledge, we strew them with flowers, how will he feel
when he must force his way through thorns and briars!

There is a material difference between teaching children in play, and
making learning a task; in the one case we associate factitious
pleasure, in the other factitious pain, with the object: both produce
pernicious effects upon the temper, and retard the natural progress of
the understanding. The advocates in favour of "scholastic badinage"
have urged, that it excites an interest in the minds of children
similar to that which makes them endure a considerable degree of
labour in the pursuit of their amusements. Children, it is said, work
hard at play, therefore we should let them play at work. Would not
this produce effects the very reverse of what we desire? The whole
question must at last depend upon the meaning of the word play: if by
play be meant every thing that is not usually called a task, then
undoubtedly much may be learned at play: if, on the contrary, we mean
by the expression to describe that state of fidgeting idleness, or of
boisterous activity, in which the intellectual powers are torpid, or
stunned with unmeaning noise, the assertion contradicts itself. At
play so defined, children can learn nothing but bodily activity; it is
certainly true, that when children are interested about any thing,
whether it be about what we call a trifle, or a matter of consequence,
they will exert themselves in order to succeed; but from the moment
the attention is fixed, no matter on what, children are no longer at
idle play, they are at active work.

S----, a little boy of nine years old, was standing without any book
in his hand, and seemingly idle; he was amusing himself with looking
at what he called a rainbow upon the floor; he begged his sister
M----to look at it; then he said he wondered what could make it; how
it came there. The sun shone bright through the window; the boy moved
several things in the room, so as to place them sometimes between the
light and the colours which he saw upon the floor, and sometimes in a
corner of the room where the sun did not shine. As he moved the
things, he said, "This is not it;" "nor this;" "this has'n't any thing
to do with it." At last he found, that when he moved a tumbler of
water out of the place where it stood, his rainbow vanished. Some
violets were in the tumbler; S---- thought they might be the cause of
the colours which he saw upon the floor, or, as he expressed it,
"Perhaps these may be the thing." He took the violets out of the
water; the colours remained upon the floor. He then thought that "it
might be the water." He emptied the glass; the colours remained, but
they were fainter. S---- immediately observed, that it was the water
and glass together that made the rainbow. "But," said he, "there is no
glass in the sky, yet there is a rainbow, so that I think the water
alone would do, if we could but hold it together without the glass. Oh
I know how I can manage." He poured the water slowly out of the
tumbler into a basin, which he placed where the sun shone, and he saw
the colours on the floor twinkling behind the water as it fell: this
delighted him much; but he asked why it would not do when the sun did
not shine. The sun went behind a cloud whilst he was trying his
experiments: "There was light," said he, "though there was no
sunshine." He then said he thought that the different thickness of the
glass was the cause of the variety of colours: afterwards he said he
thought that the clearness or muddiness of the different drops of
water was the cause of the different colours.

A rigid preceptor, who thinks that every boy must be idle who has not
a Latin book constantly in his hand, would perhaps have reprimanded
S---- for wasting his time _at play_, and would have summoned him from
his rainbow to his _task_; but it is very obvious to any person free
from prejudices, that this child was not idle whilst he was meditating
upon the rainbow on the floor; his attention was fixed; he was
reasoning; he was trying experiments. We may call this _play_ if we
please, and we may say that Descartes was at play, when he first
verified Antonio de Dominis bishop of Spalatro's treatise of the
rainbow, by an experiment with a glass Globe:[8] and we may say that
Buffon was idle, when his pleased attention was first caught with a
landscape of green shadows, when one evening at sunset he first
observed that the shadows of trees, which fell upon a white wall, were
green. He was first delighted with the exact representation of a green
arbour, which seemed as if it had been newly painted on the wall.
Certainly the boy with his rainbow on the floor was as much amused as
the philosopher with his coloured shadows; and, however high sounding
the name of Antonio de Dominis, bishop of Spalatro, it does not alter
the business in the least; he could have exerted only his _utmost
attention_ upon the theory of the rainbow, and the child did the same.
We do not mean to compare the powers of reasoning, or the abilities of
the child and the philosopher; we would only show that the same
species of attention was exerted by both.

To fix the attention of children, or, in other words, to interest
them about those subjects to which we wish them to apply, must be our
first object in the early cultivation of the understanding. This we
shall not find a difficult undertaking if we have no false
associations, no painful recollections to contend with. We can connect
any species of knowledge with those occupations which are immediately
agreeable to young people: for instance, if a child is building a
house, we may take that opportunity to teach him how bricks are made,
how the arches over doors and windows are made, the nature of the
keystone and butments of an arch, the manner in which all the
different parts of the roof of a house are put together, &c.; whilst
he is learning all this he is eagerly and seriously attentive, and we
educate his understanding in the best possible method. But if,
mistaking the application of the principle, that literature should be
made agreeable to children, we should entice a child to learn his
letters by a promise of a gilt coach, or by telling him that he would
be the cleverest boy in the world if he could but learn the letter
_A_, we use false and foolish motives; we may possibly, by such means,
effect the immediate purpose, but we shall assuredly have reason to
repent of such imprudent deceit. If the child reasons at all, he will
be content after his first lesson with being "the cleverest boy in the
world," and he will not, on a future occasion, hazard his fame, having
much to lose, and nothing to gain; besides, he is now master of a gilt
coach, and some new and larger reward must be proffered to excite his
industry. Besides the disadvantage of early exhausting our stock of
incitements, it is dangerous in teaching to humour pupils with a
variety of objects by way of relieving their attention. The pleasure
of _thinking_, and much of the profit, must frequently depend upon our
preserving the greatest possible connection between our ideas. Those
who allow themselves to start from one object to another, acquire such
dissipated habits of mind, that they cannot, without extreme
difficulty and reluctance, follow any connected train of thought. You
cannot teach those who will not follow the chain of your reasons; upon
the connection of our ideas, useful memory and reasoning must depend.
We will give you an instance: arithmetic is one of the first things
that we attempt to teach children. In the following dialogue, which
passed between a boy of five years old and his father, we may observe
that, till the child followed his father's train of ideas, he could
not be taught.

_Father._ _S----_, how many can you take from one?

_S----._ None.

_Father._ None! Think; can you take nothing from one?

_S----._ None, except that one.

_Father._ Except! Then you can take one from one?

_S----._ Yes, _that one_.

_Father._ How many then can you take from one?

_S----._ One.

_Father._ Very true; but now, can you take two from one?

_S----._ Yes, if they were figures I could, with a rubber-out. (This
child had frequently sums written for him with a black lead pencil,
and he used to rub out his figures when they were wrong with Indian
rubber, which he had heard called _rubber-out_.)

_Father._ Yes, you could; but now we will not talk of figures, we will
talk of things. There may be one horse or two horses, or one man or
two men.

_S----._ Yes, or one coat or two coats.

_Father._ Yes, or one thing or two things, no matter what they are.
Now, could you take two things from one thing?

_S----._ Yes, if there were three things I could take away two things,
and leave one.

His Father took up a cake from the tea-table.

_Father._ Could I take two cakes from this one cake?

_S----._ You could take two pieces.

His Father divided the cake into halves, and held up each half so that
the child might distinctly see them.

_Father._ What would you call these two pieces?

_S----._ Two cakes.

_Father._ No, not two cakes.

_S----._ Two biscuits.

_Father._ Holding up a whole biscuit: What is this?

_S----._ A thing to eat.

_Father._ Yes, but what would you call it?

_S----._ A biscuit.

His Father broke it into halves, and showed one half.

_Father._ What would you call this?

_S----._ was silent, and his sister was applied to, who answered,
"Half a biscuit."

_Father._ Very well; that's all at present.

The father prudently stopped here, that he might not confuse his
pupil's understanding. Those only who have attempted to teach children
can conceive how extremely difficult it is to fix their attention, or
to make them seize the connection of ideas, which it appears to us
almost impossible to miss. Children are well occupied in examining
external objects, but they must also attend to words as well as
things. One of the great difficulties in early instruction arises from
the want of words: the pupil very often has acquired the necessary
ideas, but they are not associated in his mind with the words which
his tutor uses; these words are then to him mere sounds, which suggest
no correspondent thoughts. Words, as M. Condillac well observes,[9]
are essential to our acquisition of knowledge; they are the medium
through which one set of beings can convey the result of their
experiments and observations to another; they are, in all mental
processes, the algebraic signs which assist us in solving the most
difficult problems. What agony does a foreigner, knowing himself to be
a man of sense, appear to suffer, when, for want of language, he
cannot in conversation communicate his knowledge, explain his reasons,
enforce his arguments, or make his wit intelligible? In vain he has
recourse to the language of action. The language of action, or, as
Bacon calls it, of "transitory hieroglyphic," is expressive, but
inadequate. As new ideas are collected in the mind, new signs are
wanted, and the progress of the understanding would be early and
fatally impeded by the want of language. M. de la Condamine tells us
that there is a nation who have no sign to express the number three
but this word, _poellartarrorincourac_. These people having begun, as
Condillac observes, in such an incommodious manner, it is not
surprising that they have not advanced further in their knowledge of
arithmetic: they have got no further than the number three; their
knowledge of arithmetic stops for ever at _poellartarrorincourac_. But
even this cumbersome sign is better than none. Those who have the
misfortune to be born deaf and dumb, continue for ever in intellectual
imbecility. There is an account in the Memoires de l'Academie Royale,
p. xxii-xxiii, 1703, of a young man born deaf and dumb,[10] who
recovered his hearing at the age of four-and-twenty, and who, after
employing himself in repeating low to himself the words which he heard
others pronounce, at length broke silence in company, and declared
that he could talk. His conversation was but imperfect; he was
examined by several able theologians, who chiefly questioned him on
his ideas of God, the soul, and the morality or immorality of actions.
It appeared that he had not thought upon any of these subjects; he did
not distinctly know what was meant by death, and he never thought of
it. He seemed to pass a merely animal life, occupied with sensible,
present objects, and with the few ideas which he received by his sense
of sight; nor did he seem to have gained as much knowledge as he might
have done, by the comparison of these ideas; yet it is said that he
did not appear naturally deficient in understanding.

Peter, the wild boy, who is mentioned in Lord Monboddo's Origin of
Language,[11] had all his senses in remarkable perfection. He lived at
a farm house within half a mile of us in Hertfordshire for some years,
and we had frequent opportunities of trying experiments upon him. He
could articulate imperfectly a few words, in particular, _King
George_, which words he always accompanied with an imitation of the
bells, which rang at the coronation of George the Second; he could in
a rude manner imitate two or three common tunes, but without words.
Though his head, as Mr. Wedgewood and many others had remarked,
resembled that of Socrates, he was an idiot: he had acquired a few
automatic habits of rationality and industry, but he could never be
made to work at any continued occupation: he would shut the door of
the farm-yard five hundred times a day, but he would not reap or make
hay. Drawing water from a neighbouring river was the only domestic
business which he regularly pursued. In 1779 we visited him, and tried
the following experiment. He was attended to the river by a person who
emptied his buckets repeatedly after Peter had repeatedly filled them.
A shilling was put before his face into one of the buckets when it was
empty; he took no notice of it, but filled it with water and carried
it homeward: his buckets were taken from him before he reached the
house and emptied on the ground; the shilling, which had fallen out,
was again shown to him, and put into the bucket. Peter returned to the
river again, filled his bucket and went home; and when the bucket was
emptied by the maid at the house where he lived, he took the shilling
and laid it in a place where he was accustomed to deposit the presents
that were made to him by curious strangers, and whence the farmer's
wife collected the price of his daily exhibition. It appeared that
this savage could not be taught to reason for want of language.

Rousseau declaims with eloquence, and often with justice, against what
he calls a knowledge of words. Words without correspondent ideas, are
worse than useless; they are counterfeit coin, which imposes upon the
ignorant and unwary; but words, which really represent ideas, are not
only of current use, but of sterling value; they not only show our
present store, but they increase our wealth, by keeping it in
continual circulation; both the principal and the interest increase
together. The importance of signs and words, in our reasonings, has
been eloquently explained, since the time of Condillac, by Stewart. We
must use the ideas of these excellent writers, because they are just
and applicable to the art of education; but whilst we use, it is with
proper acknowledgments that we borrow, what we shall never be able to
return.

It is a nice and difficult thing in education, to proportion a child's
vocabulary exactly to his knowledge, dispositions, or conformation;
our management must vary; some will acquire words too quickly, others
too slowly. A child who has great facility in pronouncing sounds,
will, for that reason, quickly acquire a number of words, whilst those
whose organs of speech are not so happily formed, will from that cause
alone, be ready in forming a copious vocabulary. Children who have
many companions, or who live with people who converse a great deal,
have more motive, both from sympathy and emulation, to acquire a
variety of words, than those who live with silent people, and who have
few companions of their own age. All these circumstances should be
considered by parents, before they form their judgment of a child's
capacity from his volubility or his taciturnity. Volubility can easily
be checked by simply ceasing to attend to it, and taciturnity may be
vanquished by the encouragements of praise and affection: we should
neither be alarmed at one disposition nor at the other, but steadily
pursue the system of conduct which will be most advantageous to both.
When a prattling, vivacious child, pours forth a multiplicity of words
without understanding their meaning, we may sometimes beg to have an
explanation of a few of them, and the child will then be obliged to
think, which will prevent him from talking nonsense another time. When
a thoughtful boy, who is in the habit of observing every object he
sees, is at a loss for words to express his ideas, his countenance
usually shows to those who can read the countenance of children, that
he is not stupid; therefore, we need not urge him to talk, but assist
him judiciously with words "in his utmost need:" at the same time we
should observe carefully, whether he grows lazy when we assist him; if
his stock of words does not increase in proportion to the assistance
we give, we should then stimulate him to exertion, or else he will
become habitually indolent in expressing his ideas; though he may
_think_ in a language of his own, he will not be able to understand
our language when we attempt to teach him: this would be a source of
daily misery to both parties.

When children begin to read, they seem suddenly to acquire a great
variety of words: we should carefully examine whether they annex the
proper meaning to these which are so rapidly collected. Instead of
giving them lessons and tasks to get by rote, we should cautiously
watch over every new phrase and every new word which they learn from
books. There are but few books so written that young children can
comprehend a single sentence in them without much explanation. It is
tiresome to those who hear them read to explain every word; it is not
only tiresome, but difficult; besides, the progress of the pupil seems
to be retarded; the grand business of reading, of getting through the
book, is impeded; and the tutor, more impatient than his pupil, says,
"Read on, I cannot stop to explain _that_ to you now. You will
understand the meaning of the sentence if you will read to the end of
the page. You have not read three lines this half hour; we shall never
get on at this rate."

A certain dame at a country school, who had never been able to compass
the word Nebuchadnezzar, used to desire her pupils to "call it
Nazareth, and let it pass."

If they be obliged to pass over words without comprehending them in
books, they will probably do the same in conversation; and the
difficulty of teaching such pupils, and of understanding what they
say, will be equally increased. At the hazard of being tedious, we
must dwell a little longer upon this subject, because much of the
future capacity of children seems to depend upon the manner in which
they first acquire language. If their language be confused, so will be
their thoughts; and they will not be able to reason, to invent, or to
write, with more precision and accuracy than they speak. The first
words that children learn are the names of things; these are easily
associated with the objects themselves, and there is little danger of
mistake or confusion. We will not enter into the grammatical dispute
concerning the right of precedency, amongst pronoun substantives and
verbs; we do not know which came first into the mind of man; perhaps,
in different minds, and in different circumstances, the precedency
must have varied; but this seems to be of little consequence; children
see actions performed, and they act themselves; when they want to
express their remembrance of these actions, they make use of the sort
of words which we call verbs. Let these words be strictly associated
with the ideas which they mean to express, and no matter whether
children know any thing about the disputes of grammarians, they will
understand rational grammar in due time, simply by reflecting upon
their own minds. This we shall explain more fully when we speak
hereafter of grammar; we just mention the subject here, to warn
preceptors against puzzling their pupils too early with grammatical
subtleties.

If any person unused to mechanics was to read Dr. Desagulier's
description of the manner in which a man walks, the number of a-b-c's,
and the travels of the centre of gravity, it would so amaze and
confound him, that he would scarcely believe he could ever again
perform such a tremendous operation as that of walking. Children, if
they were early to hear grammarians talk of the parts of speech, and
of syntax, would conclude, that to speak must be one of the most
difficult arts in the world; but children, who are not usually so
unfortunate as to have grammarians for their preceptors, when they
first begin to speak, acquire language, without being aware of the
difficulties which would appear so formidable in theory. A child
points to, or touches, the table, and when the word table is repeated,
at the same instant he learns the name of the thing. The facility with
which a number of names are thus learned in infancy is surprising; but
we must not imagine that the child, in learning these names, has
acquired much knowledge; he has prepared himself to be taught, but he
has not yet learnt any thing accurately. When a child sees a guinea
and a shilling, and smiling says, "That's a guinea, mama! and that's a
shilling!" the mother is pleased and surprised by her son's
intelligence, and she gives him credit for more than he really
possesses. We have associated with the words guinea and shilling a
number of ideas, and when we hear the same words pronounced by a young
child, we perhaps have some confused belief that he has acquired the
same ideas that we have; hence we are pleased with the mere sound of
words of high import from infantine lips.

Children who are delighted in their turn by the expression of pleasure
in the countenance of others, repeat the things which they perceive
have pleased; and thus their education is begun by those who first
smile upon them, and listen to them when they attempt to speak. They
who applaud children for knowing the names of things, induce them
quickly to learn a number of names by rote; as long as they learn the
names of external objects only, which they can see, and smell, and
touch, all is well; the names will convey distinct ideas of certain
perceptions. A child who learns the name of a taste, or of a colour,
who learns that the taste of sugar is called sweet, and that the
colour of a red rose is called red, has learned distinct words to
express certain perceptions: and we can at any future time recall to
his mind the memory of those perceptions by means of their names, and
he understands us as well as the most learned philosopher. But,
suppose that a boy had learned only the name of gold; that when
different metals were shown to him, he could put his finger upon gold,
and say, "That is gold;" yet this boy does not know all the properties
of gold; he does not know in what it differs from other metals; to
what uses it is applied in arts, manufactures, and commerce; the name
of gold, in his mind, represents nothing more than a substance of a
bright yellow colour, upon which people, he does not precisely know
why, set a great value. Now, it is very possible, that a child might,
on the contrary, learn all the properties, and the various uses of
gold, without having learned its name; his ideas of this metal would
be perfectly distinct; but whenever he wished to speak of gold, he
would be obliged to use a vast deal of circumlocution to make himself
understood; and if he were to enumerate all the properties of the
metal every time he wanted to recal the general idea, his
conversation would be intolerably tedious to others, and to himself
this useless repetition must be extremely laborious. He would
certainly be glad to learn that single word _gold_, which would save
him so much trouble; his understanding would appear suddenly to have
improved, simply from his having acquired a proper sign to represent
his ideas. The boy who had learnt the name, without knowing any of the
properties of gold, would also appear comparatively ignorant, as soon
as it is discovered that he has few ideas annexed to the word. It is,
perhaps, for this reason, that some children seem suddenly to shine
out with knowledge, which no one suspected they possessed; whilst
others, who had appeared to be very quick and clever, come to a dead
stop in their education, and appear to be blighted by some unknown
cause. The children who suddenly shine out, are those who had acquired
a number of ideas, and who, the moment they acquire proper words, can
communicate their thoughts to others. Those children who suddenly seem
to lose their superiority, are those who had acquired a variety of
words, but who had not annexed ideas to them. When their ignorance is
detected, we not only despair of them, but they are apt to despair of
themselves; they see their companions get before them, and they do not
exactly perceive the cause of their sudden incapacity. Where we speak
of sensible, visible, tangible objects, we can easily detect and
remedy a child's ignorance. It is easy to discover whether he has or
has not a complete notion of such a substance as gold; we can
enumerate its properties, and readily point out in what his definition
is defective. The substance can be easily produced for examination;
most of its properties are obvious to the senses; we have nothing to
do but to show them to the child, and to associate with each property
its usual name; here there can be no danger of puzzling his
understanding; but when we come to the explanation of words which do
not represent external objects, we shall find the affair more
difficult. We can make children understand the meaning of those words
which are the names of simple feelings of the mind, such as surprise,
joy, grief, pity; because we can either put our pupils in situations
where they actually feel these sensations, and then we may associate
the name with the feelings; or we may, by the example of other people,
who actually suffer pain or enjoy pleasure, point out what we mean by
the words joy and grief. But how shall we explain to our young pupils,
a number of words which represent neither existing substances nor
simple feelings, when we can neither recur to experiment nor to
sympathy for assistance? How shall we explain, for instance, the words
virtue, justice, benevolence, beauty, taste, &c.? To analyze our own
ideas of these, is no easy task; to explain the process to a young
child, is scarcely possible. Call upon any man, who has read and
reflected, for a definition of virtue, the whole "theory of moral
sentiments" rises, perhaps, to his view at once, in all its elegance;
the paradoxical acumen of Mandeville, the perspicuous reasoning of
Hume, the accurate metaphysics of Condillac, the persuasive eloquence
of Stewart; all the various doctrines that have been supported
concerning the foundation of morals, such as the fitness of things,
the moral sense, the beauty of truth, utility, sympathy, common sense;
all that has been said by ancient and modern philosophers, is recalled
in transient perplexing succession to his memory. If such be the state
of mind of the man who is to define, what must be the condition of the
child who is to understand the definition? All that a prudent person
will attempt, is to give instances of different virtues; but even
these, it will be difficult properly to select for a child. General
terms, whether in morals or in natural philosophy, should, we
apprehend, be as much as possible avoided in early education. Some
people may imagine that children have improved in virtue and wisdom,
when they can talk fluently of justice, and charity, and humanity;
when they can read with a good emphasis any didactic compositions in
verse or prose. But let any person of sober, common sense, be allowed
to cross-examine these proficients, and the pretended extent of their
knowledge will shrink into a narrow compass; nor will their virtues,
which have never seen service, be ready for action.

General terms are, as it were, but the indorsements upon the bundles
of our ideas; they are useful to those who have collected a number of
ideas, but utterly useless to those who have no collections ready for
classification: nor should we be in a hurry to tie up the bundles,
till we are sure that the collection is tolerably complete; the
trouble, the difficulty, the shame of untying them late in life, is
felt even by superior minds. "Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "I don't like to
have any of my opinions attacked. I have made up my faggot, and if you
draw out one you weaken the whole bundle."

Preceptors sometimes explain general terms and abstract notions
vaguely to their pupils, simply because they are ashamed to make that
answer which every sensible person must frequently make to a child's
inquiries, "I don't know."[12] Surely it is much better to say at
once, "I cannot explain this to you," than to attempt an imperfect or
sophistical reply. Fortunately for us, children, if they are not
forced to attend to studies for which they have no taste, will not
trouble us much with moral and metaphysical questions; their attention
will be fully employed upon external objects; intent upon experiments,
they will not be very inquisitive about theories. Let us then take
care that their simple ideas be accurate, and when these are
compounded, their complex notions, their principles, opinions, and
tastes, will necessarily be just; their language will then be as
accurate as their ideas are distinct; and hence they will be enabled
to reason with precision, and to invent with facility. We may observe,
that the great difficulty in reasoning is to fix steadily upon our
terms; ideas can be readily compared, when the words by which we
express them are defined; as in arithmetic and algebra, we can easily
solve any problem, when we have precise signs for all the numbers and
quantities which are to be considered.

It is not from idleness, it is not from stupidity, it is not from
obstinacy, that children frequently show an indisposition to listen to
those who attempt to explain things to them. The exertion of
attention, which is frequently required from them, is too great for
the patience of childhood: the words that are used are so inaccurate
in their signification, that they convey to the mind sometimes one
idea and sometimes another; we might as well require of them to cast
up a sum right whilst we rubbed out and changed the figures every
instant, as expect that they should seize a combination of ideas
presented to them in variable words. Whoever expects to command the
attention of an intelligent child, must be extremely careful in the
use of words. If the pupil be paid for the labour of listening by the
pleasure of understanding what is said, he will attend, whether it be
to his playfellow, or to his tutor, to conversation, or to books. But
if he has by fatal experience discovered, that, let him listen ever so
intently, he cannot understand, he will spare himself the trouble of
fruitless exertion; and, though he may put on a face of attention, his
thoughts will wander far from his tutor and his tasks.

"It is impossible to fix the attention of children," exclaims the
tutor; "when this boy attends he can do any thing, but he will not
attend for a single instant."

Alas! it is in vain to say he _will not_ attend; he _cannot_.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Some of these lessons, and others by the authors, will shortly be
printed, and marked according to this method.

[8] See Priestley's History of Vision, vol. i. p. 51.

[9] "Art de Penser."

[10] See Condillac's Art de Penser. In the chapter "on the use of
signs," this young man is mentioned.

[11] Vol. II.

[12] Rousseau.




CHAPTER III.

ON ATTENTION.


Pere Bourgeois, one of the missionaries to China, attempted to preach
a Chinese sermon to the Chinese. His own account of the business is
the best we can give.

"They told me _Chou_ signifies a book, so that I thought whenever the
word _Chou_ was pronounced, a book was the subject of discourse; not
at all. Chou, the next time I heard it, I found signified _a tree_.
Now I was to recollect Chou was a book, and a tree; but this amounted
to nothing. Chou I found also expressed _great heats_. Chou is _to
relate_. Chou is _the Aurora_. Chou means _to be accustomed_. Chou
expresses the _loss of a wager_, &c. I should never have done were I
to enumerate all its meanings******.

"I recited my sermon at least fifty times to my servant before I spoke
it in public; and yet I am told, though he continually corrected me,
that of the ten parts of the sermon (as the Chinese express
themselves) they hardly understood three. Fortunately the Chinese are
wonderfully patient."

Children are sometimes in the condition in which the Chinese found
themselves at this learned missionary's sermon, and their patience
deserves to be equally commended. The difficulty of understanding the
Chinese Chou, strikes us immediately, and we sympathise with Pere
Bourgeois's perplexity; yet, many words, which are in common use
amongst us, may perhaps be as puzzling to children. _Block_ (see
Johnson's Dictionary) signifies _a heavy piece of timber, a mass of
matter_. Block means _the wood on which hats are formed_. Block means
_the wood on which criminals are beheaded_. Block is _a sea-term for
pulley_. Block is _an obstruction, a stop_; and, finally, Block means
_a blockhead_.

There are in our language, ten meanings for _sweet_, ten for _open_,
twenty-two for _upon_, and sixty-three for _to fall_. Such are the
defects of language! But, whatever they may be, we cannot hope
immediately to see them reformed, because common consent, and
universal custom, must combine to establish a new vocabulary. None but
philosophers could invent, and none but philosophers would adopt, a
philosophical language. The new philosophical language of chemistry
was received at first with some reluctance, even by chemists,
notwithstanding its obvious utility and elegance. Butter of antimony,
and liver of sulphur, flowers of zinc, oil of vitriol, and spirit of
sulphur by the bell, powder of algaroth, and salt of alembroth, may
yet long retain their ancient titles amongst apothecaries. There does
not exist in the mineral kingdom either butter or oil, or yet flowers;
these treacherous names[13] are given to the most violent poisons, so
that there is no analogy to guide the understanding or the memory: but
Custom has a prescriptive right to talk nonsense. The barbarous
enigmatical jargon of the ancient adepts continued for above a century
to be the only chemical language of men of science, notwithstanding
the prodigious labour to the memory, and confusion to the
understanding, which it occasioned: they have but just now left off
calling one of their vessels for distilling, a death's head, and
another a helmet. Capricious analogy with difficulty yields to
rational arrangement. If such has been the slow progress of a
philosophical language amongst the learned, how can we expect to make
a general, or even a partial reformation amongst the ignorant? And it
may be asked, how can we in education attempt to teach in any but
customary terms? There is no occasion to make any sudden or violent
alteration in language; but a man who attempts to teach, will find it
necessary to select his terms with care, to define them with accuracy,
and to abide by them with steadiness; thus he will make a
philosophical vocabulary for himself. Persons who want to puzzle and
to deceive, always pursue a contrary practice; they use as great a
variety of unmeaning, or of ambiguous words, as they possibly can.[14]
That state juggler, Oliver Cromwell, excelled in this species of
eloquence; his speeches are models in their kind. Count Cagliostro,
and the Countess de la Motte, were not his superiors in the power of
baffling the understanding. The ancient oracles, and the old books of
judicial astrologers, and of alchymists, were contrived upon the same
principles; in all these we are confounded by a multiplicity of words
which convey a doubtful sense.

Children, who have not the habit of listening to words without
understanding them, yawn and writhe with manifest symptoms of disgust,
whenever they are compelled to hear sounds which convey no ideas to
their minds. All supernumerary words should be avoided in cultivating
the power of attention.

The common observation, that we can attend to but one thing at a time,
should never be forgotten by those who expect to succeed in the art of
teaching. In teaching new terms, or new ideas, we must not produce a
number at once. It is prudent to consider, that the actual progress
made in our business at one sitting is not of so much consequence, as
the desire left in the pupil's mind to sit again. Now a child will be
better pleased with himself, and with his tutor, if he acquire one
distinct idea from a lesson, than if he retained a confused notion of
twenty different things. Some people imagine, that as children appear
averse to repetition, variety will amuse them. Variety, to a certain
degree, certainly relieves the mind; but then the objects which are
varied must not all be entirely new. Novelty and variety, joined,
fatigue the mind. Either we remain passive at the show, or else we
fatigue ourselves with ineffectual activity.

A few years ago, a gentleman[15] brought two Eskimaux to London--he
wished to amuse, and at the same time to astonish, them with the great
magnificence of the metropolis. For this purpose, after having
equipped them like English gentlemen, he took them out one morning to
walk through the streets of London. They walked for several hours in
silence; they expressed neither pleasure nor admiration at any thing
which they saw. When their walk was ended, they appeared uncommonly
melancholy and stupified. As soon as they got home, they sat down with
their elbows upon their knees, and hid their faces between their
hands. The only words they could be brought to utter, were, "Too much
smoke--too much noise--too much houses--too much men--too much every
thing!"

Some people who attend public lectures upon natural philosophy, with
the expectation of being much amused and instructed, go home with
sensations similar to those of the poor Eskimaux; they feel that they
have had too much of every thing. The lecturer has not time to explain
his terms, or to repeat them till they are distinct in the memory of
his audience.[16] To children, every mode of instruction must be
hurtful which fatigues attention; therefore, a skilful preceptor will,
as much as possible, avoid the manner of teaching, to which the public
lecturer is in some degree compelled by his situation. A private
preceptor, who undertakes the instruction of several pupils in the
same family, will examine with care the different habits and tempers
of his pupils; and he will have full leisure to adapt his instructions
peculiarly to each.

There are some general observations which apply to all understandings;
these we shall first enumerate, and we may afterwards examine what
distinctions should be made for pupils of different tempers or
dispositions.

Besides distinctness and accuracy in the language which we use,
besides care to produce but few ideas or terms that are new in our
first lessons, we must exercise attention only during very short
periods. In the beginning of every science pupils have much laborious
work; we should therefore allow them time; we should repress our own
impatience when they appear to be slow in comprehending reasons, or in
seizing analogies. We often expect, that those whom we are teaching
should know some things intuitively, because these may have been so
long known to us that we forget how we learned them. We may from habit
learn to pass with extraordinary velocity from one idea to another.
"Some often repeated processes of reasoning or invention," says Mr.
Stewart, "may be carried on so quickly in the mind, that we may not be
conscious of them ourselves." Yet we easily convince ourselves that
this rapid facility of thought is purely the result of practice, by
observing the comparatively slow progress of our understandings in
subjects to which we have not been accustomed: the progress of the
mind is there so slow, that we can count every step.

We are disposed to think that those must be naturally slow and stupid,
who do not perceive the resemblances between objects which strike us,
we say, at the first glance. But what we call the first glance is
frequently the fiftieth: we have got the things completely by heart;
all the parts are known to us, and we are at leisure to compare and
judge. A reasonable preceptor will not expect from his pupils two
efforts of attention at the same instant; he will not require them at
once to learn terms by heart, and to compare the objects which those
terms represent; he will repeat his terms till they are thoroughly
fixed in the memory; he will repeat his reasoning till the chain of
ideas is completely formed.

Repetition makes all operations easy; even the fatigue of thinking
diminishes by habit. That we may not increase the labour of the mind
unseasonably, we should watch for the moment when habit has made one
lesson easy, and when we may go forward a new step. In teaching the
children at the House of Industry at Munich to spin, Count Rumford
wisely ordered that they should be made perfect in one motion before
any other was shown to them: at first they were allowed only to move
the wheel by the treadle with their feet; when, after sufficient
practice, the foot became perfect in its lesson, the hands were set to
work, and the children were allowed to begin to spin with coarse
materials. It is said that these children made remarkable good
spinners. Madame de Genlis applied the same principle in teaching
Adela to play upon the harp.[17]

In the first attempts to learn any new bodily exercise, as fencing or
dancing, persons are not certain what muscles they must use, and what
may be left at rest; they generally employ those of which they have
the most ready command, but these may not always be the muscles which
are really wanted in the new operation. The simplest thing appears
difficult, till, by practice, we have associated the various slight
motions which ought to be combined. We feel, that from want of use,
our motions are not obedient to our will, and to supply this defect,
we exert more strength and activity than is requisite. "It does not
require strength; you need not use so much force; you need not take so
much pains;" we frequently say to those who are making the first
painful awkward attempts at some simple operation. Can any thing
appear more easy than knitting, when we look at the dexterous, rapid
motions of an experienced practitioner? But let a gentleman take up a
lady's knitting needles, and knitting appears to him, and to all the
spectators, one of the most difficult and laborious operations
imaginable. A lady who is learning to work with a tambour needle, puts
her head down close to the tambour frame, the colour comes into her
face, she strains her eyes, all her faculties are exerted, and perhaps
she works at the rate of three links a minute. A week afterwards,
probably, practice has made the work perfectly easy; the same lady
goes rapidly on with her work; she can talk and laugh, and perhaps
even think, whilst she works. She has now discovered that a number of
the motions, and a great portion of that attention which she thought
necessary to this mighty operation, may be advantageously spared.

In a similar manner, in the exercise of our minds upon subjects that
are new to us, we generally exert more attention than is necessary or
serviceable, and we consequently soon fatigue ourselves without any
advantage. Children, to whom many subjects are new, are often fatigued
by these overstrained and misplaced efforts. In these circumstances, a
tutor should relieve the attention by introducing indifferent subjects
of conversation; he can, by showing no anxiety himself, either in his
manner or countenance, relieve his pupil from any apprehension of his
displeasure, or of his contempt; he can represent that the object
before them is not a matter of life and death; that if the child does
not succeed in the first trials, he will not be disgraced in the
opinion of any of his friends; that by perseverance he will certainly
conquer the difficulty; that it is of little consequence whether he
understands the thing in question to-day or to-morrow; these
considerations will calm the over-anxious pupil's agitation, and,
whether he succeed or not, he will not suffer such a degree of pain
as to disgust him in his first attempts.

Besides the command which we, by this prudent management, obtain over
the pupil's mind, we shall also prevent him from acquiring any of
those awkward gestures and involuntary motions which are sometimes
practised to relieve the pain of attention.

Dr. Darwin observes, that when we experience any disagreeable
sensations, we endeavour to procure ourselves temporary relief by
motions of those muscles and limbs which are most habitually obedient
to our will. This observation extends to mental as well as to bodily
pain; thus persons in violent grief wring their hands and convulse
their countenances; those who are subject to the petty, but acute
miseries of false shame, endeavour to relieve themselves by awkward
gestures and continual motions. A plough-boy, when he is brought into
the presence of those whom he thinks his superiors, endeavours to
relieve himself from the uneasy sensations of false shame, by twirling
his hat upon his fingers, and by various uncouth gestures. Men who
think a great deal, sometimes acquire habitual awkward gestures, to
relieve the pain of intense thought.

When attention first becomes irksome to children, they mitigate the
mental pain by wrinkling their brows, or they fidget and put
themselves into strange attitudes. These odd motions, which at first
are voluntary, after they have been frequently associated with certain
states of mind, constantly recur involuntarily with those feelings or
ideas with which they have been connected. For instance, a boy, who
has been used to buckle and unbuckle his shoe, when he repeats his
lesson by rote, cannot repeat his lesson without performing this
operation; it becomes a sort of artificial memory, which is necessary
to prompt his recollective faculty. When children have a _variety_ of
tricks of this sort, they are of little consequence; but when they
have acquired a few constant and habitual motions, whilst they think,
or repeat, or listen, these should be attended to, and the habits
should be broken, otherwise these young people will appear, when they
grow up, awkward and ridiculous in their manners; and, what is worse,
perhaps their thoughts and abilities will be too much in the power of
external circumstances. Addison represents, with much humour, the case
of a poor man who had the habit of twirling a bit of thread round his
finger; the thread was accidentally broken, and the orator stood mute.

We once saw a gentleman get up to speak in a public assembly, provided
with a paper of notes written in pencil: during the exordium of his
speech, he thumbed his notes with incessant agitation; when he looked
at the paper, he found that the words were totally obliterated; he was
obliged to apologize to his audience; and, after much hesitation, sat
down abashed. A father would be sorry to see his son in such a
predicament.

To prevent children from acquiring such awkward tricks whilst they are
thinking, we should in the first place take care not to make them
attend for too long a time together, then the pain of attention will
not be so violent as to compel them to use these strange modes of
relief. Bodily exercise should immediately follow that entire state of
rest, in which our pupils ought to keep themselves whilst they attend.
The first symptoms of any awkward trick should be watched; they are
easily prevented by early care from becoming habitual. If any such
tricks have been acquired, and if the pupil cannot exert his attention
in common, unless certain contortions are permitted, we should attempt
the cure either by sudden slight bodily pain, or by a total suspension
of all the employments with which these bad habits are associated. If
a boy could not read without swinging his head like a pendulum, we
should rather prohibit him from reading for some time, than suffer
him to grow up with this ridiculous habit. But in conversation,
whenever opportunities occur of telling him any thing in which he is
particularly interested, we should refuse to gratify his curiosity,
unless he keeps himself perfectly still. The excitement here would be
sufficient to conquer the habit.

Whatever is connected with pain or pleasure commands our attention;
but to make this general observation useful in education, we must
examine what degrees of stimulus are necessary for different pupils,
and in different circumstances. We have formerly observed,[18] that it
is not prudent early to use violent or continual stimulus, either of a
painful or a pleasurable nature, to excite children to application,
because we should by an intemperate use of these, weaken the mind, and
because we may with a little patience obtain all we wish without these
expedients. Besides these reasons, there is another potent argument
against using violent motives to excite attention; such motives
frequently disturb and dissipate the very attention which they attempt
to fix. If a child be threatened with severe punishment, or flattered
with the promise of some delicious reward, in order to induce his
performance of any particular task, he desires instantly to perform
the task; but this desire will not ensure his success: unless he has
previously acquired the habit of voluntary exertion, he will not be
able to turn his mind from his ardent wishes, even to the means of
accomplishing them. He will be in the situation of Alnaschar in the
Arabian tales, who, whilst he dreamt of his future grandeur, forgot
his immediate business. The greater his hope or fear, the greater the
difficulty of his employing himself.

To teach any new habit or art, we must not employ any alarming
excitements: small, certain, regularly recurring motives, which
interest, but which do not distract the mind, are evidently the best.
The ancient inhabitants of Minorca were said to be the best slingers
in the world; when they were children, every morning what they were to
eat was slightly suspended from high poles, and they were obliged to
throw down their breakfasts with their slings from the places where
they were suspended, before they could satisfy their hunger. The
motive seems to have been here well proportioned to the effect that
was required; it could not be any great misfortune to a boy to go
without his breakfast; but as this motive returned every morning, it
became sufficiently serious to the hungry slingers.

It is impossible to explain this subject so as to be of use, without
descending to minute particulars. When a mother says to her little
daughter, as she places on the table before her a bunch of ripe
cherries, "Tell me, my dear, how many cherries are there, and I will
give them to you?" The child's attention is fixed instantly; there is
a sufficient motive, not a motive which excites any violent passions,
but which raises just such a degree of hope as is necessary to produce
attention. The little girl, if she knows from experience that her
mother's promise will be kept, and that her own patience is likely to
succeed, counts the cherries carefully, has her reward, and upon the
next similar trial she will, from this success, be still more disposed
to exert her attention. The pleasure of eating cherries, associated
with the pleasure of success, will balance the pain of a few moments
prolonged application, and by degrees the cherries may be withdrawn,
the association of pleasure will remain. Objects or thoughts, that
have been associated with pleasure, retain the power of pleasing; as
the needle touched by the loadstone acquires polarity, and retains it
long after the loadstone is withdrawn.

Whenever attention is habitually raised by the power of association,
we should be careful to withdraw all the excitements that were
originally used, because these are now unnecessary; and, as we have
formerly observed, the steady rule, with respect to stimulus, should
be to give the least possible quantity that will produce the effect we
want. Success is a great pleasure; as soon as children become sensible
to this pleasure, that is to say, when they have tasted it two or
three times, they will exert their attention merely with the hope of
succeeding. We have seen a little boy of three years old, frowning
with attention for several minutes together, whilst he was trying to
clasp and unclasp a lady's bracelet; his whole soul was intent upon
the business; he neither saw nor heard any thing else that passed in
the room, though several people were talking, and some happened to be
looking at him. The pleasure of success, when he clasped the bracelet,
was quite sufficient; he looked for no praise, though he was perhaps
pleased with the sympathy that was shown in his success. Sympathy is a
better reward for young children in such circumstances than praise,
because it does not excite vanity, and it is connected with benevolent
feelings; besides, it is not so violent a stimulus as applause.

Instead of increasing excitements to produce attention, we may vary
them, which will have just the same effect. When sympathy fails, try
curiosity; when curiosity fails, try praise; when praise begins to
lose its effect, try blame; and when you go back again to sympathy,
you will find that, after this interval, it will have recovered all
its original power. Doctor Darwin, who has the happy art of
illustrating, from the most familiar circumstances in real life, the
abstract theories of philosophy, gives us the following picturesque
instance of the use of varying motives to prolong exertion.

"A little boy, who was tired of walking, begged of his papa to carry
him. "Here," says the reverend doctor, "ride upon my gold headed
cane;" and the pleased child, putting it between his legs, galloped
away with delight. Here the aid of another sensorial power, that of
pleasurable sensation, superadded power to exhausted volition, which
could otherwise only have been excited by additional pain, as by the
lash of slavery."[19]

Alexander the Great one day saw a poor man carrying upon his shoulders
a heavy load of silver for the royal camp: the man tottered under his
burden, and was ready to give up the point from fatigue. "Hold on,
friend, the rest of the way, and carry it to your own tent, for it is
yours," said Alexander.

There are some people, who have the power of exciting others to great
mental exertions, not by the promise of specific rewards, or by the
threats of any punishment, but by the ardent ambition which they
inspire, by the high value which is set upon their love and esteem.
When we have formed a high opinion of a friend, his approbation
becomes necessary to our own self-complacency, and we think no labour
too great to satisfy our attachment. Our exertions are not fatiguing,
because they are associated with all the pleasurable sensations of
affection, self-complacency, benevolence, and liberty. These feelings,
in youth, produce all the virtuous enthusiasm characteristic of great
minds; even childhood is capable of it in some degree, as those
parents well know, who have never enjoyed the attachment of a grateful
affectionate child. Those, who neglect to cultivate the affections of
their pupils, will never be able to excite them to "noble ends," by
"noble means." Theirs will be the dominion of fear, from which reason
will emancipate herself, and from which pride will yet more certainly
revolt.

If Henry the Fourth of France had been reduced, like Dionysius the
tyrant of Syracuse, to earn his bread as a schoolmaster, what a
different preceptor he would probably have made! Dionysius must have
been hated by his scholars as much as by his subjects, for it is said,
that "he[20] practised upon children that tyranny which he could no
longer exercise over men."

The ambassador, who found Henry the Fourth playing upon the carpet
with his children, would probably have trusted his own children, if he
had any, to the care of such an affectionate tutor.

Henry the Fourth would have attached his pupils whilst he instructed
them; they would have exerted themselves because they could not have
been happy without his esteem. Henry's courtiers, or rather his
friends, for though he was a king he had friends, sometimes expressed
surprise at their own disinterestedness: "This king pays us with
words," said they, "and yet we are satisfied!" Sully, when he was only
Baron de Rosny, and before he had any hopes of being a duke, was once
in a passion with the king his master, and half resolved to leave him:
"But I don't know how it was," says the honest minister, "with all his
faults, there is something about Henry which I found I could not
leave; and when I met him again, a few words made me forget all my
causes of discontent."

Children are more easily attached than courtiers, and full as easily
rewarded. When once this generous desire of affection and esteem is
raised in the mind, their exertions seem to be universal and
spontaneous: children are then no longer like machines, which require
to be wound up regularly to perform certain revolutions; they are
animated with a living principle, which directs all that it inspires.

We have endeavoured to point out the general excitements, and the
general precautions, to be used in cultivating the power of attention;
it may be expected, that we should more particularly apply these to
the characters of different pupils. We shall not here examine whether
there be any original difference of character or intellect, because
this would lead into a wide theoretical discussion; a difference in
the temper and talents of children early appears, and some practical
remarks may be of service to correct defects, or to improve abilities,
whether we suppose them to be natural or acquired. The first
differences which a preceptor observes between his pupils, when he
begins to teach them, are perhaps scarcely marked so strongly as to
strike the careless spectator; but in a few years these varieties are
apparent to every eye. This seems to prove, that during the interval
the power of education has operated strongly to increase the original
propensities. The quick and slow, the timid and presumptuous, should
be early instructed so as to correct as much as possible their several
defects.

The manner in which children are first instructed must tend either to
increase or diminish their timidity, or their confidence in
themselves, to encourage them to undertake great things, or to rest
content with limited acquirements. Young people, who have found from
experience, that they cannot remember or understand one half of what
is forced upon their attention, become extremely diffident of their
own capacity, and they will not undertake as much even as they are
able to perform. With timid tempers, we should therefore begin, by
expecting but little from each effort, but whatever is attempted,
should be certainly within their attainment; success will encourage
the most stupid humility. It should be carefully pointed out to
diffident children, that attentive patience can do as much as
quickness of intellect. If they perceive that time makes all the
difference between the quick and the slow, they will be induced to
persevere. The transition of attention from one subject to another is
difficult to some children, to others it is easy. If all be expected
to do the same things in an equal period of time, the slow will
absolutely give up the competition; but, on the contrary, if they are
allowed time, they will accomplish their purposes. We have been
confirmed in our belief of this doctrine by experiments. The same
problems have been frequently given to children of different degrees
of quickness, and though some succeeded much more quickly than others,
all the individuals in the family have persevered till they have
solved the questions; and the timid seem to have been more encouraged
by this practical demonstration of the infallibility of persevering
attention, than by any other methods which have been tried. When,
after a number of small successful trials, they have acquired some
share of confidence in themselves, when they are certain of the
possibility of their performing any given operations, we may then
press them a little as to velocity. When they are well acquainted with
any set of ideas, we may urge them to quick transition of attention
from one to another; but if we insist upon this rapidity of
transition, before they are thoroughly acquainted with each idea in
the assemblage, we shall only increase their timidity and hesitation;
we shall confound their understandings, and depress their ambition.

It is of consequence to distinguish between slow and sluggish
attention. Sometimes children appear stupid and heavy, when they are
absolutely exhausted by too great efforts of attention: at other
times, they have something like the same dulness of aspect, before
they have had any thing to fatigue them, merely from their not having
yet awakened themselves to business. We must be certain of our pupil's
state of mind before we proceed. If he be incapacitated from fatigue,
let him rest; if he be torpid, rouse him with a rattling peal of
thunder; but be sure that you have not, as it has been said of
Jupiter,[21] recourse to your thunder only when you are in the wrong.
Some preceptors scold when they cannot explain, and grow angry in
proportion to the fatigue they see expressed in the countenance of
their unhappy pupils. If a timid child foresees that an explanation
will probably end in a phillipic, he cannot fix his attention; he is
anticipating the evil of your anger, instead of listening to your
demonstrations; and he says, "Yes, yes, I see, I know, I understand,"
with trembling eagerness, whilst through the mist and confusion of his
fears, he can scarcely see or hear, much less understand, any thing.
If you mistake the confusion and fatigue of terror for inattention or
indolence, and press your pupil to further exertions, you will
confirm, instead of curing, his stupidity. You must diminish his fear
before you can increase his attention. With children who are thus,
from timid anxiety to please, disposed to exert their faculties too
much, it is obvious that no excitation should be used, but every
playful, every affectionate means should be employed to dissipate
their apprehensions.

It is more difficult to manage with those who have sluggish, than with
those who have timid, attention. Indolent children have not usually so
lively a taste for pleasure as others have; they do not seem to hear
or see so quickly; they are content with a little enjoyment; they have
scarcely any ambition; they seem to prefer ease to all sorts of glory;
they have little voluntary exertion; and the pain of attention is to
them so great, that they would preferably endure the pain of shame,
and of all the accumulated punishments which are commonly devised for
them by the vengeance of their exasperated tutors. Locke notices this
listless, lazy humour in children; he classes it under the head
"Sauntering;" and he divides saunterers into two species; those who
saunter only at their books and tasks; and those who saunter at play
and every thing. The book-saunterers have only an acute, the others
have a chronic disease; the one is easily cured, the other disease
will cost more time and pains.

If, by some unlucky management, a vivacious child acquires a dislike
to literary application, he may appear at his books with all the
stupid apathy of a dunce. In this state of literary dereliction, we
should not force books and tasks of any sort upon him; we should
rather watch him when he is eager at amusements of his own selection,
observe to what his attention turns, and cultivate his attention upon
that subject, whatever it may be. He may be led to think, and to
acquire knowledge upon a variety of subjects, without sitting down to
read; and thus he may form habits of attention and application, which
will be associated with pleasure. When he returns to books, he will
find that he understands a variety of things in them which before
appeared incomprehensible; they will "give him back the image of his
mind," and he will like them as he likes pictures.

As long as a child shows energy upon any occasion, there is hope. If
he "lend his little soul"[22] to whipping a top, there is no danger of
his being a dunce. When Alcibiades was a child, he was one day playing
at dice with other boys in the street; a loaded waggon came up just as
it was his turn to throw. At first he called to the driver to stop,
but the waggoner would not stop his horses; all the boys, except
Alcibiades, ran away, but Alcibiades threw himself upon his face,
directly before the horses, and stretching himself out, bid the
waggoner drive on if he pleased. Perhaps, at the time when he showed
this energy about a game at dice, Alcibiades might have been a
saunterer at his book, and a foolish schoolmaster might have made him
a dunce.

Locke advises that children, who are too much addicted to what is
called play, should be surfeited with it, that they may return to
business with a better appetite. But this advice supposes that play
has been previously interdicted, or that it is something pernicious:
we have endeavoured to show that play is nothing but a change of
employment, and that the attention may be exercised advantageously
upon a variety of subjects which are not called Tasks.[23]

With those who show chronic listlessness, Locke advises that we should
use every sort of stimulus; praise, amusement, fine clothes, eating;
any thing that will make them bestir themselves. He argues, that as
there appears a deficiency of vigour, we have no reason to fear excess
of appetite for any of these things: nay, further still, where none
of these will act, he advises compulsory bodily exercise. If we
cannot, he says, make sure of the invisible attention of the mind, we
may at least get something done, prevent the habit of total idleness,
and perhaps make the children desire to exchange labour of body for
labour of mind. These expedients will, we fear, be found rather
palliative than effectual; if, by forcing children to bodily exercise,
that becomes disagreeable, they may prefer labour of the mind; but, in
making this exchange, or bargain, they are sensible that they choose
the least of two evils. The evil of application is diminished only by
comparison in their estimation; they will avoid it whenever they are
at liberty. The love of eating, of fine clothes, &c. if they stimulate
a slothful child, must be the ultimate object of his exertions; he
will consider the performance of his task merely as a painful
condition on his part. Still the association of pain with literature
continues; it is then impossible that he should love it. There is no
active principle within him, no desire for knowledge excited; his
attention is forced, it ceases the moment the external force is
withdrawn. He drudges to earn his cream bowl duly set, but he will
stretch his lubbar length the moment his task is done.

There is another class of children opposed to saunterers, whom we may
denominate volatile geniuses. They show a vast deal of quickness and
vivacity; they understand almost before a tutor can put his ideas into
words; they observe a variety of objects, but they do not connect
their observations, and the very rapidity with which they seize an
explanation, prevents them from thoroughly comprehending it; they are
easily disturbed by external objects when they are thinking. As they
have great sensibility, their associations are strong and various;
their thoughts branch off into a thousand beautiful, but useless
ramifications. Whilst you are attempting to instruct them upon one
subject, they are inventing, perhaps, upon another; or they are
following a train of ideas suggested by something you have said, but
foreign to your business. They are more pleased with the discovery of
resemblances, than with discrimination of difference; the one costs
them more time and attention than the other: they are apt to say witty
things, and to strike out sparks of invention; but they have not
commonly the patience to form exact judgments, or to bring their first
inventions to perfection. When they begin the race, every body expects
that they should outstrip all competitors; but it is often seen that
slower rivals reach the goal before them. The predictions formed of
pupils of this temperament, vary much, according to the characters of
their tutors. A slow man is provoked by their dissipated vivacity,
and, unable to catch or fix their attention, prognosticates that they
will never have sufficient application to learn any thing. This
prophecy, under certain tuition, would probably be accomplished. The
want of sympathy between a slow tutor and a quick child, is a great
disadvantage to both; each insists upon going his own pace, and his
own way, and these ways are perhaps diametrically opposite. Even in
forming a judgment of the child's attention, the tutor, who is not
acquainted with the manner in which his pupil goes to work, is liable
to frequent mistakes. Children are sometimes suspected of not having
listened to what has been said to them, when they cannot exactly
repeat the words that they have heard; they often ask questions, and
make observations, which seem quite foreign to the present business;
but this is not always a proof that their minds are absent, or that
their attention is dissipated. Their answers often appear to be far
from the point, because they suppress their intermediate ideas, and
give only the result of their thoughts. This may be inconvenient to
those who teach them; but this habit sufficiently proves that these
children are not deficient in attention. To cure them of the fault
which they have, we should not accuse them falsely of another. But it
may be questioned whether this be a fault; it is absolutely necessary,
in many processes of the mind, to suppress a number of intermediate
ideas. Life, if this were not practised, would be too short for those
who think, and much too short for those who speak. When somebody asked
Pyrrhus which of two musicians he liked the best, he answered,
"Polysperchon is the best general." This would appear to be the absurd
answer of an absent person, or of a fool, if we did not consider the
ideas that are implied, as well as those which are expressed.

March 5th, 1796. To-day, at dinner, a lady observed that Nicholson,
Williamson, Jackson, &c. were names which originally meant the sons of
Nicholas, William, Jack, &c. A boy who was present, H----, added, with
a very grave face, as soon as she had finished speaking, "Yes, ma'am,
Tydides." His mother asked him what he could mean by this absent
speech? H---- calmly repeated, "Ma'am, yes; because I think it is like
Tydides." His brother S----eagerly interposed, to supply the
intermediate ideas; "Yes, indeed, mother," cried he, "H---- is not
absent, because _des_, in Greek, means _the son of_ (the race of.)
Tydides is the son of Tydeus, as Jackson is the son of Jack." In this
instance, H---- was not absent, though he did not make use of a
sufficient number of words to explain his ideas.

August, 1796. L----, when he returned home, after some months absence,
entertained his brothers and sisters with a new play, which he had
learned at Edinburgh. He told them, that when he struck the table with
his hand, every person present, was instantaneously to remain fixed in
the attitudes in which they should be when the blow was given. The
attitudes in which some of the little company were fixed, occasioned
much diversion; but in speaking of this new play afterwards, they had
no name for it. Whilst they were thinking of a name for it, H----
exclaimed, "The Gorgon!" It was immediately agreed that this was a
good name for the play, and H----, upon this occasion, was perfectly
intelligible, without expressing all the intermediate ideas.

Good judges, form an accurate estimate of the abilities of those who
converse with them, by what they omit, as well as by what they say. If
any one can show that he also has been in Arcadia, he is sure of being
well received, without producing minutes of his journey. In the same
manner we should judge of children; if they arrive at certain
conclusions in reasoning, we may be satisfied that they have taken all
the necessary previous steps. We need not question their attention
upon subjects where they give proofs of invention; they must have
remembered well, or they could not invent; they must have attended
well, or they could not have remembered. Nothing wearies a quick child
more than to be forced slowly to retrace his own thoughts, and to
repeat the words of a discourse to prove that he has listened to it. A
tutor, who is slow in understanding the ideas of his vivacious pupil,
gives him so much trouble and pain, that he grows silent, from finding
it not worth while to speak. It is for this reason, that children
appear stupid and silent, with some people, and sprightly and
talkative with others. Those who hope to talk to children with any
effect, must, as Rousseau observes, be able to hear as well as to
speak. M. de Segrais, who was deaf, was much in the right to decline
being preceptor to the Duke de Maine. A deaf preceptor would certainly
make a child dumb.

To win the attention of vivacious children, we must sometimes follow
them in their zigzag course, and even press them to the end of their
own train of thought. They will be content when they have obtained a
full hearing; then they will have leisure to discover that what they
were in such haste to utter, was not so well worth saying as they
imagined; that their bright ideas often, when steadily examined by
themselves, fade into absurdities.

"Where does this path lead to? Can't we get over this stile? May I
_only_ go into this wood?" exclaims an active child, when he is taken
out to walk. Every path appears more delightful than the straight
road; but let him try the paths, they will perhaps end in
disappointment, and then his imagination will be corrected. Let him
try his own experiments, then he will be ready to try yours; and if
yours succeed better than his own, you will secure his confidence.
After a child has talked on for some time, till he comes to the end of
his ideas, then he will perhaps listen to what you have to say; and if
he finds it better than what he has been saying himself, he will
voluntarily give you his attention the next time you begin to speak.

Vivacious children are peculiarly susceptible of blame and praise; we
have, therefore, great power over their attachment, if we manage these
excitements properly. These children should not be praised for their
_happy hits_, their first[24] glances should not be extolled; but, on
the contrary, they should be rewarded with universal approbation when
they give proofs of patient industry, when they bring any thing to
perfection. No one can bring any thing to perfection without long
continued attention; and industry and perseverance presuppose
attention. Proofs of any of these qualities may therefore satisfy us
as to the pupil's capacity and habits of attention; we need not stand
by to see the attention exercised, the things produced are sufficient
evidence. Buffon tells us that he wrote his Epoques de la Nature over
eighteen times before he could perfect it to his taste. The high
finish of his composition is sufficient evidence to intelligent
readers, that he exerted long continued attention upon the work; they
do not require to have the eighteen copies produced.

Bacon supposes, that for every disease of the mind, specific remedies
might be found in appropriate studies and exercises. Thus, for
"bird-witted" children he prescribes the study of mathematics,
because, in mathematical studies, the attention must be fixed; the
least intermission of thought breaks the whole chain of reasoning,
their labour is lost, and they must begin their demonstration again.
This principle is excellent; but to apply it advantageously, we should
choose moments when a mathematical demonstration is interesting to
children, else we have not sufficient motive to excite them to
commence the demonstration; they will perceive, that they loose all
their labour if their attention is interrupted; but how shall we make
them begin to attend? There are a variety of subjects which are
interesting to children, to which we may apply Bacon's principle; for
instance, a child is eager to hear a story which you are going to tell
him; you may exercise his attention by your manner of telling this
story; you may employ with advantage the beautiful figure of speech
called _suspension_: but you must take care, that the hope which is
long deferred be at last gratified. The young critics will look back
when your story is finished, and will examine whether their attention
has been wasted, or whether all the particulars to which it was
directed were essential. Though in amusing stories we recommend the
figure called suspension,[25] we do not recommend its use in
explanations. Our explanations should be put into as few words as
possible: the closer the connection of ideas, the better. When we say,
allow time to understand your explanations, we mean, allow time
between each idea, do not fill up the interval with words. Never, by
way of gaining time, pay in sixpences; this is the last resource of a
bankrupt.

We formerly observed that a preceptor, in his first lessons on any new
subject, must submit to the drudgery of repeating his terms and his
reasoning, until these are sufficiently familiar to his pupils. He
must, however, proportion the number of his repetitions to the temper
and habits of his pupils, else he will weary, instead of
strengthening, the attention. When a thing is clear, let him never try
to make it clearer; when a thing is understood, not a word more of
exemplification should be added. To mark precisely the moment when the
pupil understands what is said, the moment when he is master of the
necessary ideas, and, consequently, the moment when repetition should
cease, is, perhaps, the most difficult thing in the art of teaching.
The countenance, the eye, the voice, and manner of the pupil, mark
this instant to an observing preceptor; but a preceptor, who is
absorbed in his own ideas, will never think of looking in his pupil's
face; he will go on with his routine of explanation, whilst his once
lively, attentive pupil, exhibits opposite to him the picture of
stupified fatigue. Quick, intelligent children, who have frequently
found that lessons are reiterated by a patient but injudicious tutor,
will learn a careless mode of listening at intervals; they will say to
themselves, "Oh I shall hear this again!" And if any stray thought
comes across their minds, they will not scruple to amuse themselves,
and will afterwards ask for a repetition of the words or ideas which
they missed during this excursion of fancy. When they hear the warning
advertisement of "certainly for the last time this season," they will
deem it time enough to attend to the performance. To cure them of this
presumption in favour of our patience, and of their own superlative
quickness, we should press that quickness to its utmost speed.
Whenever we call for their attention, let it be on subjects highly
interesting or amusing, and let us give them but just sufficient time
with their fullest exertion to catch our words and ideas. As these
quick gentlemen are proud of their rapidity of apprehension, this
method will probably secure their attention, they will dread the
disgrace of not understanding what is said, and they will feel that
they cannot understand unless they exert prompt, vigorous, unremitted
attention.

The Duchess of Kingston used to complain that she could never acquire
any knowledge, because she never could meet with any body who could
teach her anything "in two words." Her Grace felt the same sort of
impatience which was expressed by the tyrant who expected to find a
royal road to Geometry.

Those who believe themselves endowed with genius, expect to find a
royal road in every science shorter, and less laborious, than the
beaten paths of industry. Their expectations are usually in proportion
to their ignorance; they see to the summit only of one hill, and they
do not suspect the Alps that will arise as they advance: but as
children become less presumptuous, as they acquire more knowledge, we
may bear with their juvenile impatience, whilst we take measures to
enlarge continually their sphere of information. We should not,
however, humour the attention of young people, by teaching them always
in the mode which we know suits their temper best. Vivacious pupils
should, from time to time, be accustomed to an exact enumeration of
particulars; and we should take opportunities to convince them, that
an orderly connection of proofs, and a minute observation of apparent
trifles, are requisite to produce the lively descriptions, great
discoveries, and happy inventions, which pupils of this disposition
are ever prone to admire with enthusiasm. They will learn not to pass
over _old_ things, when they perceive that these may lead to something
_new_; and they will even submit to sober attention, when they feel
that this is necessary even to the rapidity of genius. In the
"Curiosities of Literature," there has been judiciously preserved a
curious instance of literary patience; the rough draught of that
beautiful passage in Pope's translation of the Iliad which describes
the parting of Hector and Andromache. The lines are in Pope's
hand-writing, and his numerous corrections appear; the lines which
seem to the reader to have been struck off at a single happy stroke,
are proved to have been touched and retouched with the indefatigable
attention of a great writer. The fragment, with all its climax of
corrections, was shown to a young vivacious poet of nine years old, as
a practical lesson, to prove the necessity of patience to arrive at
perfection. Similar examples, from real life, should be produced to
young people at proper times; the testimony of men of acknowledged
abilities, of men whom they have admired for genius, will come with
peculiar force in favour of application. Parents, well acquainted with
literature, cannot be at a loss to find opposite illustrations. The
Life of Franklin is an excellent example of persevering industry; the
variations in different editions of Voltaire's dramatic poetry, and in
Pope's works, are worth examining. All Sir Joshua Reynolds's eloquent
academical discourses enforce the doctrine of patience; when he wants
to prove to painters the value of continual energetic attention, he
quotes from Livy the character of Philopoemen, one of the ablest
generals of antiquity. So certain it is, that the same principle
pervades all superior minds: whatever may be their pursuits, attention
is the avowed primary cause of their success. These examples from the
dead, should be well supported by examples from amongst the living. In
common life, occurrences can frequently be pointed out, in which
attention and application are amply rewarded with success.

It will encourage those who are interested in education, to observe,
that two of the most difficult exercises of the mind can, by
practice, be rendered familiar, even by persons whom we do not
consider as possessed of superior talents. Abstraction and
transition--abstraction, the power of withdrawing the attention from
all external objects, and concentrating it upon some particular set of
ideas, we admire as one of the most difficult exercises of the
philosopher. Abstraction was formerly considered as such a difficult
and painful operation, that it required perfect silence and solitude;
many ancient philosophers quarrelled with their senses, and shut
themselves up in caves, to secure their attention from the
distraction caused by external objects. But modern[26] philosophers
have discovered, that neither caves nor lamps are essential to the
full and successful exercise of their mental powers. Persons of
ordinary abilities, tradesmen and shop-keepers, in the midst of the
tumult of a public city, in the noise of rumbling carts and rattling
carriages, amidst the voices of a multitude of people talking upon
various subjects, amidst the provoking interruptions of continual
questions and answers, and in the broad glare of a hot sun, can
command and abstract their attention so far as to calculate yards,
ells, and nails, to cast up long sums in addition right to a farthing,
and to make out multifarious bills with quick and unerring precision.
In almost all the dining houses at Vienna, as a late traveller[27]
informs us "a bill of fare containing a vast collection of dishes is
written out, and the prices are affixed to each article. As the people
of Vienna are fond of variety, the calculation at the conclusion of a
repast would appear somewhat embarrassing; this, however, is done by
mechanical habit with great speed; the custom is for the party who has
dined to name the dishes, and the quantity of bread and wine. The
keller who attends on this occasion, follows every article you name
with the sum, which this adds to the calculation, and the whole is
performed, to whatever amount, without ink or paper. It is curious to
hear this ceremony, which is muttered with great gravity, yet
performed with accuracy and despatch."

We coolly observe, when we read these things, "Yes, this is all habit;
any body who had used himself to it might do the same things." Yet the
very same power of abstracting the attention, when employed upon
scientific and literary subjects, would excite our astonishment; and
we should, perhaps, immediately attribute it to superior original
genius. We may surely educate children to this habit of abstracting
the attention, which we allow depends entirely upon practice. When we
are very much interested upon any subject, we attend to it
exclusively, and, without any effort, we surmount all petty
interposing interruptions. When we are reading an interesting book,
twenty people may converse round about us, without our hearing one
word that they say; when we are in a crowded playhouse, the moment we
become interested in the play, the audience vanish from our sight, and
in the midst of various noises, we hear only the voices of the actors.

In the same manner, children, by their eager looks and their
unaffected absence to all external circumstances, show when they are
thoroughly interested by any story that is told with eloquence suited
to their age. When we would teach them to attend in the midst of noise
and interruptions, we should begin by talking to them about things
which we are sure will please them; by degrees we may speak on less
captivating subjects, when we perceive that their habit of beginning
to listen with an expectation of pleasure is formed. Whenever a child
happens to be intent upon any favourite amusement, or when he is
reading any very entertaining book, we may increase the busy hum
around him, we may make what bustle we please, he will probably
continue attentive; it is useful therefore to give him such amusements
and such books when there is a noise or bustle in the room, because
then he will learn to disregard all interruptions; and when this habit
is formed, he may even read less amusing books in the same company
without being interrupted by the usual noises.

The power of abstracting our attention is universally allowed to be
necessary to the successful labour of the understanding; but we may
further observe, that this abstraction is characteristic in some cases
of heroism as well as of genius. Charles the Twelfth and Archimedes
were very different men; yet both, in similar circumstances, gave
similar proofs of their uncommon power of abstracting their attention.
"What has the bomb to do with what you are writing to Sweden," said
the hero to his pale secretary when a bomb burst through the roof of
his apartment, and he continued to dictate his letter. Archimedes went
on with his demonstration in the midst of a siege, and when a brutal
soldier entered with a drawn sword, the philosopher only begged he
might solve his problem before he was put to death.

Presence of mind in danger, which is usually supposed to depend upon
our quick perception of all the present circumstances, frequently
demands a total abstraction of our thoughts. In danger, fear is the
motive which excites our exertions; but from all the ideas that fear
naturally suggests, we must abstract our attention, or we shall not
act with courage or prudence. In proportion to the violence of our
terror, our voluntary exertion must be great to withdraw our thoughts
from the present danger, and to recollect the means of escape. In some
cases, where the danger has been associated with the use of certain
methods of escape, we use these without deliberation, and consequently
without any effort of attention; as when we see any thing catch fire,
we instantly throw water upon the flames to extinguish them. But in
new situations, where we have no mechanical courage, we must exert
much voluntary, quick, abstract attention, to escape from danger.

When Lee, the poet, was confined in Bedlam, a friend went to visit
him; and finding that he could converse reasonably, or at least
reasonably for a poet, imagined that Lee was cured of his madness. The
poet offered to show him Bedlam. They went over this melancholy,
medical prison, Lee moralising philosophically enough all the time to
keep his companion perfectly at ease. At length they ascended together
to the top of the building; and, as they were both looking down from
the perilous height, Lee seized his friend by the arm, "Let us
immortalize ourselves!" he exclaimed; "let us take this leap. We'll
jump down together this instant." "Any man could jump down," said his
friend, coolly; "we should not immortalize ourselves by that leap; but
let us go down, and try if we can jump up again." The madman, struck
with the idea of a more astonishing leap than that which he had
himself proposed, yielded to this new impulse, and his friend rejoiced
to see him run down stairs full of a new project for securing
immortality.

Lee's friend, upon this occasion, showed rather absence than presence
of mind: before he could have invented the happy answer that saved his
life, he must have abstracted his mind from the passion of fear; he
must have rapidly turned his attention upon a variety of ideas
unconnected by any former associations with the exciting
motive--falling from a height--fractured skulls--certain
death--impossibility of reasoning or wrestling with a madman. This was
the train of thoughts which we might naturally expect to arise in such
a situation, but from all these the man of presence of mind turned
away his attention; he must have directed his thoughts in a contrary
line: first, he must have thought of the means of saving himself, of
some argument likely to persuade a madman, of some argument peculiarly
suited to Lee's imagination, and applicable to his situation; he must
at this moment have considered that alarming situation without
thinking of his fears; for the interval in which all these ideas
passed in his mind, must have been so short that he could not have had
leisure to combat fear; if any of the ideas associated with that
passion had interrupted his reasonings, he would not have invented his
answer in time to have saved his life.

We cannot foresee on what occasions presence of mind may be wanted,
but we may, by education, give that general command of abstract
attention, which is essential to its exercise in all circumstances.

Transition of thought, the power of turning attention quickly to
different subjects or employments, is another of those mental habits,
which in some cases we call genius, and which in others we perceive
depends entirely upon practice. A number of trials in one newspaper,
upon a variety of unconnected subjects, once struck our eye, and we
saw the name of a celebrated lawyer[28] as counsel in each cause. We
could not help feeling involuntary admiration at that versatility of
genius, which could pass from a fractional calculation about a London
chaldron of coals, to the Jamaica laws of insurance; from the bargains
of a citizen, to the divorce of a fine lady; from pathos to argument;
from arithmetic to wit; from cross examination to eloquence. For a
moment we forgot our sober principles, and ascribed all this
versatility of mind to natural genius; but upon reflection we recurred
to the belief, that this dexterity of intellect was not bestowed by
nature. We observe in men who have no pretensions to genius, similar
versatility of mind as to their usual employments. The daily
occupations of Mr. Elwes's huntsman were as various and incongruous,
and required as quick transitions of attention, as any that can well
be imagined.

"At[29] four o'clock he milked the cows; then got breakfast for Mr.
Elwes and friends; then slipping on a green coat, he hurried into the
stable, saddled the horses, got the hounds out of the kennel, and away
they went into the field. After the fatigues of hunting, he
_refreshed_ himself, by rubbing down two or three horses as quickly as
he could; then running into the house to lay the cloth, and wait at
dinner; then hurrying again into the stable to feed the horses,
diversified with an interlude of the cows again to milk, the dogs to
feed, and eight hunters to litter down for the night." Mr. Elwes used
to call this huntsman an idle dog, who wanted to be paid for doing
nothing!

We do not mean to require any such rapid daily transitions in the
exercise of attention from our pupils; but we think that much may be
done to improve versatility of mind, by a judicious arrangement of
their occupations. When we are tired of smelling a rose, we can smell
a carnation with pleasure; and when the sense of smell is fatigued,
yet we can look at the beautiful colours with delight. When we are
tired of thinking upon one subject, we can attend to another; when our
memory is fatigued, the exercise of the imagination entertains us; and
when we are weary of reasoning, we can amuse ourselves with wit and
humour. Men, who have attended much to the cultivation of their mind,
seem to have felt all this, and they have kept some subordinate taste
as a refreshment after their labours. Descartes went from the system
of the world to his flower-garden; Galileo used to read Ariosto; and
the metaphysical Dr. Clarke recovered himself from abstraction by
jumping over chairs and tables. The learned and indefatigable
chancellor d'Aguesseau declared, that change of employment was the
only recreation he ever knew. Even Montaigne, who found his recreation
in playing with his cat, educated himself better than those are
educated who go from intense study to complete idleness. It has been
very wisely recommended by Mr. Locke, that young people should early
be taught some mechanical employment, or some agreeable art, to which
they may recur for relief when they are tired by mental
application.[30]

Doctor Darwin supposes that "animal motions, or configurations of the
organs of sense, constitute our ideas.[31] The fatigue, he observes,
that follows a continued attention of the mind to one object, is
relieved by changing the subject of our thoughts, as the continued
movement of one limb is relieved by moving another in its stead." Dr.
Darwin has further suggested a tempting subject of experiment in his
theory of ocular spectra, to which we refer ingenious preceptors. Many
useful experiments in education might be tried upon the principles
which are there suggested. We dare not here trust ourselves to
speculate upon this subject, because we are not at present provided
with a sufficient number of facts to apply our theory to practice. If
we could exactly discover how to arrange mental employments so as to
induce actions in the antagonist faculties of the mind, we might
relieve it from fatigue in the same manner as the eye is relieved by
change of colour. By pursuing this idea, might we not hope to
cultivate the general power of attention to a degree of perfection
hitherto unknown?

We have endeavoured to show how, by different arrangements and proper
excitations, a preceptor may acquire that command over the attention
of his pupils, which is absolutely essential to successful
instruction; but we must recollect, that when the years commonly
devoted to education are over, when young people are no longer under
the care of a preceptor, they will continue to feel the advantages of
a command of attention, whenever they mix in the active business of
life, or whenever they apply to any profession, to literature, or
science. Their attention must now be entirely voluntary; they will
have no tutor to excite them to exertion, no nice habitual
arrangements to assist them in their daily occupations. It is of
consequence, therefore, that we should substitute the power of
voluntary, for the habit of associated, attention. With young children
we depend upon particular associations of place, time, and manner,
upon different sorts of excitement, to produce habits of employment:
but as our pupils advance in their education, all these temporary
excitements should be withdrawn. Some large, but distant object, some
pursuit which is not to be rewarded with immediate praise, but rather
with permanent advantage and esteem, should be held out to the
ambition of youth. All the arrangements should be left to the pupil
himself, all the difficulties should be surmounted by his own
industry, and the interest he takes in his own success and
improvement, will now probably be a sufficient stimulus; his
preceptor will now rather be his partner than his master, he should
rather share the labour than attempt to direct it: this species of
sympathy in study, diminishes the pain of attention, and gives an
agreeable interest even in the most tiresome researches. When a young
man perceives that his preceptor becomes in this manner the companion
of his exertions, he loses all suspicion that he is compelled to
mental labour; it is improper to say _loses_, for in a good education
this suspicion need not ever be created: he discovers, we should
rather say, that all the habits of attention which he has acquired,
are those which are useful to men as well as to children, and he feels
the advantage of his cultivated powers on every fresh occasion. He
will perceive, that young men who have been ill educated, cannot, by
any motive, command their vigorous attention, and he will feel the
cause of his own superiority, when he comes to any trial of skill with
inattentive _men of genius_.

One of the arguments which Bayle uses, to prove that fortune has a
greater influence than prudence in the affairs of men, is founded upon
the common observation, that men of the best abilities cannot
frequently recollect, in urgent circumstances, what they have said or
done; the things occur to them perhaps a moment after they are past.
The fact seems to be, that they could not, in the proper moment,
command their attention; but this we should attribute to the want of
prudence in their early education. Thus, Bayle's argument does not, in
this point of view, prove any thing in favour of fortune. Those who
can best command their attention, in the greatest variety of
circumstances, have the most useful abilities; without this command of
mind, men of genius, as they are called, are helpless beings; with it,
persons of inferior capacity become valuable. Addison trembled and
doubted, and 

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