Part 2 — ON THE GREAT DESIGN OF NATURE'S TEACHING, AND THE METHODS SHE EMPLOYS IN CARRYING IT ON. (continued 2)

Though a child had in this way gained an exact knowledge of every apartment in a house, it is obvious that there may not have been, during the whole process, a single act of the understanding. Many of the lower animals are capable of collecting all the knowledge he has received; and even infants are, to a certain extent, in the daily habit of acquiring it. But the classification of objects, according to their nature and uses, is an operation of a perfectly different kind. Hence it is, that a change in the arrangement of the furniture of a room acts so slightly on the feelings of the adult, and so powerfully on the young. In the former, the reasoning powers neutralize the effect produced; to the latter, the change appears a complete revolution.

This principle of classification, though peculiar to the mature mind, is not restricted to any particular class of men. It is found to be universal, wherever the reasoning powers are capable of acting. It is no doubt conspicuous in civilized societies, because there it is more cultivated; but it is not confined to them. The savage is prompted to its exercise under the tuition of Nature. For example, the various articles and arts which he employs in hunting, are all regularly classified in his mind, and retained upon his memory, as perfectly distinct from those which he employs in fishing; and neither of these classes of articles are ever confounded with his implements and weapons of war. His hooks and lines, are as naturally classified in his mind with his nets and his canoe, as his club or his tomahawk is with his other weapons used in battle. It is by this means that Nature aids the memory in the retention of knowledge, and keeps all the successive accumulations of the individual at the command of the will. When cultivated, as Nature designs that it should be, it forms an extensive cabinet in the mind, where every department of knowledge has its appropriate place; and which, when once systematically formed, can be furnished at leisure. When a new idea is acquired, it is immediately put in its place, and associated with others of the same kind; and when any portion of the knowledge which we have accumulated is required, we know at once the particular place where it is to be found.

The benefits of this principle in the above form are extensively felt and acted upon in society, even where the principle itself is neither observed nor known; for in the family, in the work shop, and in the manufactory, it is of the last importance. It is upon this principle that a clergyman, for the help of his own memory, as well as for assisting the memory of his hearers, arranges the subject of his sermons in a classified form;—his text is the root of the classification. This he divides into heads, which form the first branch in this table; and these again he sometimes sub-divides into particulars, which form a second branch depending on the first, and all proceeding from the root,—the original text. Similar, but more extensive, is the plan adopted in the divisions and subdivisions of objects in the Sciences, such as Botany, Zoology, Chemistry, &c. in all of which the existence of this principle in Nature's educational process is acknowledged and exemplified. In these sciences, the efficiency of the principle in facilitating the reception of knowledge, and in assisting the memory in retaining it, and in putting it to use, is universally acknowledged.

But there is another form in which the same principle appears, not so obvious indeed, but it is one which is at least equally important in the education of the young. Nature always brings it into operation when a teacher, while communicating any series of connected truths, such as a portion of history or of science, gives more of the details than the mind of his pupil can receive, or his memory retain at one time. It may be desirable that the pupil should be made thoroughly acquainted with all the minute, as well as with the general circumstances of a history or a science; but if so, it must be done, not at once, but by degrees, or steps. It is usually done by repeating the course,—"revising," as it is called,—and that perhaps more than once;—going over all the exercises again and again, till the several parts are perceived and remembered in their connection. In these "revisings," the mind forms an analytical table of the subject for itself, consisting of successive steps, formed by the successive courses. By the first course, or hearing, it is chiefly the great outlines of the subject that are perceived; and these form the first branch of a regular analytical table, which every succeeding course of reading or hearing tends to fill up. This will perhaps be best understood by an example.

Let us suppose that a young person sits down to read a history for the first time, and that he reads it with attention and care. When we examine the state of his mind after he has finished it, we find that, independently of what, by the principle of grouping, he has got in the form of episode, he has been able to retain only the great outlines of the history, and no more. He remembers perhaps of whose reign he has been reading, and the principal events that took place during it; but the intermediate and minor events, as connected with the history, he has not been able to remember. Nothing has been imparted by this first reading, but the great landmarks of the narrative. These are destined to form the first branch of a regular analytical table, of which the reign of the particular monarch is the root. This is the frame-work of the whole history of that period, however numerous the minor circumstances may be; and a second reading will only enlarge his knowledge of the circumstances under each of the heads. In other words, it will enable him to sub-divide them into more minute details or periods, and thus form a series of second branches from each. Now it is quite obvious, that when this analysis of the circumstances of that period is once formed in the mind, no new event connected with it can ever come to his knowledge without being classed with some of the others. It will be disposed of according to the relation which it bears to the parts already existing; and thus the whole texture will be regularly framed, and every event will have its proper place, and be readily available for future use. One part may be filled up and finished before another; but the regular proportions of the whole remain undisturbed. The pupil has, by the original outline and its several branches, got a date and a place for every new fact which he may afterwards glean, either in his reading or his conversation; and he has a place in which to put it, where it can easily be found. When placed there, it is safe in the keeping of the memory, and will always afterwards be at the command of the will.

The connection of these circumstances, with the principle in education which we are at present endeavouring to illustrate, may not to some be very apparent. We shall therefore take another example from a circumstance similar to what occurs every day in ordinary life, and in which the principle, in the hands of Nature, is abundantly conspicuous. In the example we are here to give, she forms the several steps of the classification in a number of hearers by once reading a subject, very similar to what she does successively in the mind of one individual by repeated readings.

Let us then suppose a teacher with two or three hundred pupils, including every degree of mental capacity, from the youngest child who is able to understand, up to his own classical assistant; and that he reads to them the history of Joseph as given in the Book of Genesis. Let us also suppose, that they all give him their best attention, and that they all hear the narrative for the first time. Such an experiment, let it be observed, has its parallel every day, in the church, in the class room, and in the seminary; and similar effects to those we are about to describe invariably take place in each of them.

When the teacher has read and concluded this lengthened exercise, it will be found, that no two individuals among his hearers have acquired the same amount of knowledge. Some will have received and retained more of the circumstances, and some less, but no two, strictly speaking, will be alike. Those whose minds were incapable of connecting the several parts of the narrative into a whole, will retain what they have received in disjointed groups and patches,—episodes, as it were, in the narrative,—without being able very clearly to perceive its general design. This class, upon whom the principle of association chiefly has been at work, we leave out, and confine ourselves to the state of knowledge possessed by those who are in a greater or less degree capable of classification, and of taking some cognisance of the narrative as a connected whole.

Among this latter class, some will have retained no more than the bare outline of the history, interspersed with groupings, as in the younger children. They will remember little more than that Joseph was at first a boy in his father's house;—that he was afterwards a slave, and in prison;—and at last, a great man and a governor. Here the whole history is divided into three distinct heads, or eras,—the first branch of an analytical table of the whole story, from one or other of which all the other particulars, of whatever kind, must of necessity take their rise, and branch off in their natural order. An advanced class of the auditors will have retained some of the more obvious circumstances connected with each of these three great divisions, as well as the divisions themselves. They will not only remember that Joseph was a boy in his father's house, but they will also be able to remember the more prominent subdivisions of the narrative regarding him while there; such as his father's partiality, his dreams, and his brothers' hatred. The second great division will be recollected as including the particulars of his being sold, his serving in Potiphar's house, and his conduct in prison; and the third division will be remembered as containing his appearance before Pharoah, his laying up corn, his conduct to his brothers, and his reception of his father and family. These subdivisions, it will at once be perceived, form the second branch of a regular analytical table, each of which has sprung from, and is intimately connected with, some one or other of the three great divisions forming the first branch, of which the "History of Joseph" is the comprehensive root.

In like manner, a third class of the pupils, whose minds have been better cultivated, and whose memories are more retentive, will not only remember all this, but they will also remember, in connection with each of these subdivisions, many of the more specific events included in, or springing from them, and which carry forward this regular analytical table one step farther. As for example, under the subdivision entitled "Joseph's conduct to his brethren," they will remember the "detention of Simeon,"—"the feast in the palace,"—"the scene of the cup in the sack," and "Joseph's making himself known." Even these again might be subdivided into their more minute circumstances, as a fourth, or even a fifth branch, if necessary, all of which might be exactly delineated upon paper, as a regular analytical table of the history of Joseph.

Here, then, we have an example of Nature herself dividing an audience into different classes, and that by one and the same operation,—by one reading,—forming in each class part of a regular analytical table of the whole history, each class being one step in advance of the other. The first has the foundation of the whole fabric broadly and solidly laid; and it is worthy of remark, that there is not one of the ideas acquired by the most talented of the hearers, that is not strictly and regularly derived from some one or other of the three general divisions possessed by the first and the least advanced; and any one of the ideas may be regularly traced back through the several divisions to the root itself. The additional facts possessed by the second class, are nothing more than a more full developement of the circumstances remembered by the first; and those obtained by the third, are but a more extensive developement of the facts remembered by the second.

This being the state of the several classes into which Nature divides every audience, it is of importance to trace the means which she employs for the purpose of advancing each, and of ultimately completing the analysis; or, in other words, perfecting the knowledge of the narrative, in each individual mind. This is equally beautiful, and equally simple. It is, if we may be allowed the expression, by a regular system of building. The foundation being laid, and the frame-work of the whole being erected, in the knowledge of the great general outline, confusion is ever after completely prevented. Every piece of information connected with the history, which may be afterwards received, has a specific place provided for it. It must belong to some one or other of the three great divisions; and it is there inserted as a part of the general building. It is now remembered in its connection, till all the circumstances,—the whole of the information,—gradually, and perhaps distantly received, complete the narrative.

To follow out this plan of Nature regularly, as in a school education, the method must be exceedingly obvious; for if the first class, by once hearing the chapters read, have received merely the outline,—the frame-work of the narrative,—it must be obvious, that when this has by reflection become familiar, a second reading would enable them to fill up much of this outline, by which they would be on a par with the second. Another reading would, in like manner, add to the second, and form a third; and so forth of all the others. Each reading would add more and more to the knowledge of the pupil; and yet, every idea communicated would be nothing more than a fuller developement of the original outline,—the frame-work,—the skeleton of the story which he had acquired by the first reading. By successive readings, therefore, the first class will take the place of the second, the second of the third, and so on to the end. This is Nature's uniform method of perfecting her pupils in any branch of connected knowledge;—a method which, therefore, it should be the object of the Educationist to understand, and closely to imitate.

From the cases which we have in this chapter supposed as examples, there are several important practical inferences to be derived, to which we shall here very briefly advert.

In the first place, we are led to infer, from all the cases brought into notice, that every kind of external force, or precipitation in education, is abhorrent to Nature. In each of the cases supposed, we have a remarkable exhibition of the calm serenity of Nature's operations in the education of the young. For instance, in the last case supposed, the children all listened,—they all heard the same words,—the mental food was the same to each, however diversified their abilities might be; and it was indiscriminately offered in the same form to all, although all were not equally prepared to receive and digest it. The results accordingly were, in fact, as various as the number of the persons present. And yet, notwithstanding of all this, there was no hurry, no confusion, no attempt to stretch the mind beyond its strength. Each individual, according to his capacity, laid hold of as much as his mind could receive, and silently abandoned the remainder.—But if there had been any external urgency or force employed, to compel the child to accomplish more than his mind was capable of, this serenity and composure would have been destroyed; irritation, and confusion, and mental weakness, would have been the consequence; and altogether, matters would not have been made better, but worse, by the attempt.

Another inference, which we think may legitimately be drawn from the above examples, is this, that although Nature prompts the child silently to throw off or reject that which the mind at the time cannot receive, yet it would be better for the child if no more had been pressed upon him than he was capable of receiving. The very rejection of any portion of the mental food presented for acceptance, must in some measure tend to dissipate the mind, and exhaust its strength. This we think is demonstrated by the fact, that the child had to listen for an hour, and yet retained on his memory no more than experience shews us could have been much more successfully communicated in five minutes.

This leads us to another remark, almost equally important; which is, that the want of classification among the children, will not only hurt them, but tend to waste the time, and unnecessarily to exhaust the strength of the teacher. The teacher's success with any one child, is not to be estimated by the pains he takes, or the extent of his labour, but by the amount of knowledge actually retained by the child. To employ an hour's labour, therefore, to communicate that knowledge which could with much better effect be given in five minutes, is both unreasonable and improper; and every one who will for a moment think on the subject must see, that a lesson, which in that short space of time conveyed the whole of the knowledge that the pupils had been able to pick up during the hour's exercise, would leave the teacher eleven-twelfths of his time to benefit the other classes. The nurseryman follows this plan with his trees, and with evident success, both in saving time, and room, and labour. When he sows his acorns, one square yard will contain more plants than will ultimately occupy an acre. It is only as they increase in growth, that they are thinned out and transplanted; and such should be the case in communicating knowledge to children. To attempt to teach the whole history at once, is like sowing the whole acre with acorns, and thinning them out during a quarter of a century. The loss of seed in this case is the least of the evils; for the ground would be robbed of its strength, nine-tenths of it would be rendered unnecessarily useless during a large portion of the time; and much of the anxiety, and care, and labour of the nurseryman would be thrown away. Ultimately he would find, that of the many thousands of oaks he had sowed, he had been able to rear no more than the acre could carry. By following out this principle in education, and giving the child as much as he can receive, and no more, of the whole series of truths to be communicated, his mind, at the close of the exercise, will be much more vigorous, the ideas received will be much better understood, more firmly rivetted upon the memory, and much more at the command of the will, while the quantity of knowledge really communicated, is at least equal in amount.—The only thing indeed that renders a contrary plan of procedure even tolerable to a child, is the wise provision of Nature, by which she induces him to throw off, with some degree of ease, the superfluous matter; but had the reception and retention of the whole by each child been demanded by the teacher, the very attempt to do so on the part of the pupil, would not only have been irritating and burdensome, but it would have been extremely hurtful to the mind, by stretching its powers beyond its strength.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAP. VIII.

On Nature's Methods of Teaching her Pupils to make use of their Knowledge.

We come now to another operation of Nature with the young, to which she appears to attach more importance than she does to any of her previous educational processes, and to which she obviously intends that a more than ordinary attention should be paid on our parts. This is the training of her pupils to make use of their knowledge, and to apply the information they possess to guide them in the common affairs of life. This is obviously the great end which she has all along had in view; and to which the cultivation of the mind, and the acquisition of knowledge are merely preparatives. We shall first direct attention to a few of the indications of this principle as they actually appear in ordinary life; and then we shall endeavour to point out some of the laws by which she appears to regulate them.

In the early periods of infancy we can plainly distinguish between certain actions which depend upon instinct, and which are performed by the infant perfectly and at once, without experience, and without teaching;—and others of which the infant at first appears to be incapable, but which it gradually acquires by experience, or more correctly, which it learns by an application of the knowledge which it is daily realizing. Among the former, or instinctive class, we may rank the acts of sucking, swallowing, and crying, which are purely acts of instinct; while among the numerous class belonging to the latter, we include all those actions which are progressively improved, and which are really the result of experience, derived from the application of their acquired knowledge. As an example of these, we may instance the acts of winking with the eyelids on the approach of an object to the eye; the avoiding of a blow; the rejection of what is bitter or unpalatable; the efforts made to possess that which has been found pleasant; and the shunning of those acts for which it has been reproved or punished. All these, and thousands of similar acts, are really the result of a direct application of previous knowledge, and which, without the possession of that knowledge, never are, nor could be performed.

Mankind in infancy being, in the intention of Nature, placed under the care of tender and intelligent parents are not provided with many instinctive faculties. Their physical welfare is at first left altogether to the care of the nurse; but, from a very early period of consciousness, they intellectually become the pupils of Nature. Almost all their actions are the results of experience;—of knowledge acquired, and knowledge applied. Their attainments at the beginning are no doubt few;—but, from the first, they are well marked, and go on with increasing rapidity. The acquisition of knowledge by them, and especially the application of it, are evident to the most cursory observer. For example, we see a child cling to its keeper, and refuse to go to a stranger;—we see it when hungry stretch out its arms, and cry to get to its nurse;—and when it has fallen in its efforts to walk, it will not for some time attempt it again. These, and many more which will occur to the reader, are the results of Nature's teaching;—her suggestions to her pupil for the right application of its knowledge. The child has been taught from experience that it is safe and comfortable with its keeper, and it applies this knowledge by refusing to leave her. It has learned how, and by whom, its hunger is to be satisfied; and it applies this knowledge by seeking to be with its nurse. It has learned by experience, that the attempt to walk is dangerous; and it applies that knowledge by avoiding the danger. Here the child is wholly as yet in the hands of Nature; and it is quite evident, that her design in first enabling the pupil to acquire those portions of knowledge, was, that she might induce him to apply them for his safety and comfort. No doubt the mental powers of the child were cultivated and disciplined by the acquisition of the knowledge, and still more by its application; but this disciplining of the mind, and accumulation of knowledge, were evidently a secondary object, and not the primary one. Health and cheerfulness are gained by tilling the ground; yet the ground is not tilled for the purpose of securing health and cheerfulness. It is for the produce of the harvest. So, in like manner, the cultivation of the child's mind, and the reception of the seeds of knowledge, are merely means employed for a further end,—the harvest of comfort and usefulness to be afterwards reaped. From all this we are directly led to the conclusion, that it is the intention of Nature, that all the knowledge acquired should be put to use; and therefore, that nothing should be taught the young, in the first place at least, except that which is really useful; while the proper use of all that they learn should be diligently pointed out.

It may appear to some, that this truth is so plain and obvious, as to require no further illustration or enforcement.—We sincerely wish that it were so. But long experience justifies us in being sceptical on the point. And as the establishment of this principle, and a thorough knowledge of its working, are perhaps of more value than any other truth in the whole range of educational science, we shall offer a few remarks on its validity and importance, before proceeding to examine the means by which Nature carries it into operation.

That knowledge, when once acquired, is intended by Nature to be put to use, is proved negatively by the well known fact, that almost all our mental acquirements, when not used, are soon lost. They gradually fade from the mind, and are at last blotted from the memory. Hence the disappearance in after life of all the academical and collegiate acquirements of those youths who move in a sphere where their use is not required; and of those portions of the early attainments of even professional men, which are not necessary for their particular pursuits. By the universal operation of this principle, Nature gives fair warning of the folly of useless learning; and plainly indicates, that whenever the benefits which she confers are not put to use as she designed, they will gradually, but most certainly, be withdrawn.

The same fact is also proved positively:—For we find, that the proper use of any portion of our knowledge, is invariably rewarded by its becoming still more familiar. The student who puts a principle in chemistry to the test of experiment, will understand it better, remember it longer, and be able to apply it to useful purposes, much more readily than his companion who merely reflects upon it. And of two individuals, who by a lecture have been taught the duty and the delights of mercy, that one will learn it best, and remember it longest, who, immediately on hearing it, is prompted to relieve a fellow creature from distress, or to save a family from ruin.

This principle of making every thing conduce to the promotion of practical good, seems to pervade all the works of God; and there is no department in Nature, mineral, vegetable, or animal, that does not afford proofs of its existence. Every thing that the Almighty has formed is practically useful; and is arranged in such a manner as to give the clearest indications, that it was designed to be turned to some useful purpose by man. The annual and diurnal motions of the earth in its orbit; the obliquity of its axis; the inequality of its surface, and the disposition and disruption of its strata, all shew the most consummate wisdom, and are severally a call to intelligent man to turn them to use. On these, and on every other department of Nature's works, there is written in legible characters, that it is the use of knowledge, and not the possession of it merely, that is recommended. This she teaches by every operation of her hand, both directly, and by analogy. For could we suppose that the vegetable creation were capable of receiving knowledge, we might conclude from various facts, that this principle was not confined to the animal kingdom alone, but that it regulated the operations of all organic existences. The living vegetable has at least the appearance of acting under its influence; for, as if it knew that light was necessary for its health and growth, it invariably turns towards the light;—as if it knew that certain kinds of decayed matter were better fitted for its nourishment than others, it pushes out new fibrous roots in the direction of the spot where they are to be found;—and even when isolated on a rock, or a wall, at a distance from sufficient soil and moisture, it husbands its scanty means, and sends down from its elevation an extra root to the ground, to collect additional nourishment where it is to be had.

In every department of animal life, also, the principle appears to exist, and exhibits itself in the conduct of all free agents, from the insect to the elephant. The dog that has been kindly treated in a particular house, seldom fails to visit it again; and when he is violently driven from another, the same principle indisposes him to return. It is upon record, that a surgeon who had bandaged the broken leg of a dog, was afterwards visited by his patient, who brought another, requiring a similar operation. The horse, in like manner, is proverbially sagacious in the application of his knowledge. Mismanagement in a groom in one instance, may create a "vice," which may lessen his value during life. This "vice," which is confirmed by practice, is nothing more than the repeated application of his knowledge. Such a "vice," accordingly, is best cured by avoiding the circumstances which originally gave rise to it, till it dies from his memory. Many other instances of a similar kind in the lower animals will readily occur to the reader, all of which lead directly to the conclusion, that, even in the brute creation, Nature not only prompts them to collect information from what happens around them, and to act in correspondence to its indications; but that, in fact, all the knowledge they receive, or are capable of acquiring above instinct, is retained or lost, exactly in proportion as it is, or is not, put to use.

In the case of rational creatures, this great design of Nature is still more distinctly marked,—is intended for more important purposes,—and is carried on by a separate system of internal machinery, part of which at least is peculiar to man. This system of mental machinery consists of two kinds, one of which may, we think, with propriety get the popular name of the "Animal, or Common Sense," and the other has already received the appropriate name of "The Moral Sense," or conscience. To Nature's method of using these principles, for prompting and directing us in the use of our knowledge, we shall now shortly advert.

CHAP. IX.

On Nature's Methods of Applying Knowledge by the Principle of the Animal, or Common Sense.

When an infant, by laying hold of a hot tea-pot burns its hand, it refuses to touch it again;—when a child has been frightened from a park or field, he will not willingly enter it a second time;—and when any thing is thrown in the direction of the head, we instantly stoop, or bend to one side, to evade it. These are instances of the application of knowledge, by the principle of "common sense," which do not belong to instinct; and, in many cases at least, anticipate the exercise of reason. Our object at present, however, is with the principle, and not with its name.

When we analyze these operations, together with their causes, we find, that there are certain portions of knowledge daily and hourly acquired by the senses, which become so interwoven with our sentiments and feelings, that they usually remain unobserved, till some special occasion calls for their application. Now the principle we speak of, if it indeed be a separate principle, is employed by Nature to apply this latent knowledge, and to induce her pupil instantly, and without waiting for the decisions of reason, to perform certain actions, or to pursue a certain line of conduct, which we almost instinctively feel to be useful and safe. No sane child, for example, will deliberately stand in the way of a horse or a carriage at full speed,—or walk over a precipice,—or take burning coals from the fire with his fingers; were he to do so, we would not dignify the act so far as to say that it was "unreasonable," for that would be too mild an epithet,—but we would pronounce it at once to be "contrary to common sense."

In like manner, were an adult to bemire himself in crossing a ditch, instead of making use of the stepping-stones placed there for the purpose; or if he were to stand till he were drenched with a thunder-shower, instead of taking shelter for the time in the neighbouring shed, we would not say that it was "unreasonable," but that it was "contrary to common sense." In short, whenever any thing is done which universal experience shews to be hurtful to ourselves, (not to others) it is invariably denominated an act "contrary to common sense;" but whenever it involves hurt to others, it takes another character, and becomes a breach of the "moral sense."

It is not our design, however, to come out of our way at present, to adapt the name to the principle in Nature of which we are here speaking, and far less shall we attempt to mould the principle into a form suitable to the name. Our business is with the principle itself, as it appears in ourselves and others; and we use the term "common sense," merely because at present we cannot find one more appropriate, or which would suit our purpose so well. If this name shall be found proper for it, it is well;—but if not, we leave it to others to provide a better.

We have said, that Nature prompts to the use of knowledge by means of two distinct principles; the one, which may be denominated the "Animal," or "Common Sense," refers to actions of which we ourselves are the subjects; and the other, known by the term of the "Moral Sense," or conscience, refers to actions of which others are the subjects. It is the former of these that we are at present to investigate.

We must all have observed the promptness with which we avoid any sudden danger, or inconvenience, before we have time to reason about the matter. As, for example, when we stumble, we instantly put forth the proper foot to prevent our fall. This cannot be said to be an act of the reasoning powers, because they have not had time to operate; and it is equally clear that it is not an act of instinct, because infants, who have only begun to walk have not the capacity of doing it. It is evidently another principle which, availing itself of the knowledge which the person has previously acquired by experience, now uses it specially for the occasion.

That this application of our knowledge arises neither from instinct nor from reason, will be obvious from many circumstances of ordinary occurrence.—For example, when any object approaches the eye we instantly shut it;—when any missile is thrown at us, we instantly turn the head aside to evade it;—or when in walking something destroys our equilibrium and we stumble, we instantly bend the body in the proper direction, and to the precise point, necessary to restore our balance, and to prevent our fall.—Now it is obvious, that all these contingencies are provided for by one and the same principle, whatever that principle may be; and that they are acts which do not depend upon instinct, properly so called, is proved from the circumstance, that infants, before they are taught by experience that the eye is so tender, and even adults who have but newly acquired the use of their sight, neither shut their eyes at the approach of objects, nor turn away their heads when a missile is thrown at them.—And we think it is equally clear, that it cannot be the result of reasoning, in the sense in which we generally understand that term, because the mind has no time for consideration, far less for reasoning, during the short moment that occurs between the cause and the effect.

The object which we have chiefly in view at present is, to point out the great end designed by Nature in all these actions, which is simply the application of knowledge. There is the knowledge that objects entering the eye will give pain, and that the shutting of the eye will defend it. This we have shown is not an instinctive operation, but must have been acquired by experience;—and it is this principle, into the nature of which we are now enquiring, that prompted the child in the special case to apply its knowledge by shutting the eye. In like manner, in the case of the missile thrown at the head, there is a previous knowledge of the effect which it will produce, and a knowledge also of the means by which it is to be avoided,—and it is avoided;—and in the case of losing the equilibrium, there is nothing more than the application of a latent knowledge, now suddenly brought into use on the spur of the moment, that by the movement of the foot the body will be supported. The principle, whatever it be, which instigates children and adults to do all this, is the subject of our present enquiry, and which for the present we have denominated the "Animal," or "Common sense." We shall therefore a little more particularly attend to its various indications.

The operation of this principle in the infant has already been pointed out. When it has learned by experience that its nurse is kind, it stretches forth its little hands, and desires to be with the nurse;—when in its first attempt at walking it experiences a fall, it applies this knowledge, by refusing again for some time to walk;—and when it burns its finger at the flame of the candle, the application of that knowledge induces it ever after to avoid both fire and flame.

In after life the same principle continues to operate both independently of reason, and in conjunction with it. In encountering the air of a cold night, we, without reasoning on the matter, wrap ourselves closer in our cloak. When we turn a corner, and meet a sharp frosty wind, we lower the head to protect the uncovered face. When we emerge from the house, and perceive that the dulness of the day indicates rain, we almost instinctively return for a cloak or an umbrella. And the mariner at sunset, when he sees an opening in the sky indicating a storm, immediately takes in sail, and makes all snug for the night. In all these cases we perceive a principle within us, frequently operating along with reason, but sometimes also without it, which prompts us to apply our previous knowledge for our present comfort and advantage.[7] The constant operation of such a principle in our nature, no matter by what name it is called, leads us, as plainly as analogy and natural phenomena can do, to conclude, that it ought to be carefully studied, and assiduously cultivated in the young, during the period usually assigned for their education.

When we carefully trace the operation of this principle in common life, it appears that, in fact, the greater portion of our physical comforts depends upon it. "Experience" is but another name for it. We find some substances warmer, softer, harder, or more workable than others, and we apply this knowledge by substituting one for another. The savage finds the wigwam more convenient, or more easily come at, than a cave or a crevice in a rock, and he builds a wigwam;—he finds a hut more durable than a wigwam, and he substitutes a hut;—he at last finds a cottage still more convenient, and he advances in his desires and his abilities by his former experience, and he builds one.—In every advance, however, it is the application of his previous knowledge that increases his comforts, and tends to perpetuate them; and accordingly, as a proper and a general application of the "moral sense," leads directly to national virtue; so the proper and general application of this principle of "common sense" goes to promote every kind of personal and family comfort, as well as national prosperity. Its ramifications pierce through every design and action of industry and genius. It is the exercise of this principle alone which, in the worldly sense, distinguishes the wise man from the fool; and which gives all the superiority which is possessed by a civilized, over a savage community. It is the chief guardian of our safety, and the parent of every personal and domestic comfort. It is, in short, familiarity with its exercise that imparts confidence to the philosopher, decision to the legislator, dexterity to the artificer, and perfection to the artist. In each case it is the accumulation of knowledge put to use, which makes the distinction between one man and another; and it is by the aggregation of such men that a nation becomes prosperous. It must never therefore be forgotten, that it is not the possession of knowledge, but the use which we make of it, that confers distinction. For no truism is more incontrovertible than this, that knowledge which we cannot or do not use, is really useless.

There is no wonder then that Nature should be at some pains in training her pupils to an exercise on which so much of their happiness and safety depends; and it is of corresponding importance, that we should investigate the means, and the mode by which she usually accomplishes her end. If we can successfully attain this knowledge, we may be enabled to pursue a similar course in the training of the young, and with decided advantage.

When we take any one of the numerous examples of the working of this principle in the adult, and carefully analyze it, we can detect three distinct stages in the operation, before the effect is produced. The first is the knowledge of some useful truth, present to the mind, and at the command of the will;—there is, secondly, an inference drawn from that truth, or portion of our knowledge, or the impression of an inference which was formerly drawn from it, and which, as we have seen in the infant, may remain long after the circumstance from which the lesson was derived has been forgotten;—and there is, thirdly, a special application of that inference or impression to our present circumstances. For example, in the case of the person leaving the house, and suddenly returning to provide himself with an umbrella, there is first the knowledge of a fact, that "the sky is lowering;" then there is an inference drawn from this fact, that "there will most probably be rain;" but the comfort—the whole benefit arising from this knowledge, and from this reasoning upon it,—depends on the third stage of the operation, which is therefore the most important of all, namely, the application of the inference, or lesson, to his present circumstances. A mere knowledge of the fact that the sky lowered, would have remained a barren and a useless truth in the mind, unless he had proceeded to draw the proper inference from it; and the inference itself, after it was drawn, would have done him no good, but must rather have added to his uneasiness, had he not proceeded to the third step of the operation, and applied the whole to the regulation of his conduct, in providing himself with an umbrella or a cloak.

In like manner, in the supposed case of the mariner expecting a storm, there was first the knowledge of the fact, that the "sky was in a certain state." Now of this knowledge every person on board might have been in possession as well as the master himself, without the slightest benefit accruing to themselves or the ship, unless they had been trained, or enabled to draw the proper inference or lesson from it. The mere possession of the knowledge, therefore, would have been of no advantage. But the practised eye, and the previous experience of the master, enabled him to draw the inference, that "there will be a storm." Even this, however, would not have saved the ship and crew, without the third, and the most important step of all,—the application of that inference or lesson to their present condition. It was that which induced him to give the necessary orders to prepare for the storm, and thus to secure the safety both of the ship and of all on board.

Again, in the case of the infant burning its finger, there appears to be something like a similar process, which we can trace much better than the child itself. The child puts its finger to the flame of the candle, and it feels pain; from which it learns, for the first time, that flame burns. This is the knowledge which it has acquired. But there is also an inference drawn from that knowledge, not by reasoning, but by the operation of the principle under consideration, an inference of which it is probable the child itself at the time is unconscious, but the existence of which is sufficiently proved by its uniform conduct afterwards. By the operation of this principle in the child's mind, before he can reason, he has inferred, that if he shall again touch flame, he will again feel pain. He will very probably forget the particular circumstance in which his finger was burned, but the inference then drawn,—the impression made upon the mind, and which corresponds to an inference,—still remains, and is made the chief instrument which Nature employs in this most important part of all her valuable educational processes. The child accordingly is found ever after, not only preserving the particular finger that was burned, but all its fingers and members, from a burning candle; and not from a candle only, but from fire and flame of every kind.

This appears to be the natural order of that process of which we are here speaking; and before leaving it, there are two or three circumstances connected with it, that we ought not to omit noticing, more particularly, because the whole of them appear to hold out additional evidence of the little value which Nature attaches to knowledge for its own sake, and of her decided approval of its acquisition, only, or at least chiefly, when it is reduced to practice.

The first of these circumstances is, that Nature, in all cases, teaches popularly—not philosophically; that is, she does not refuse to teach one part of a connected series of phenomena, because the whole is not yet perceived; nor does she neglect the use of the legitimate application of an ascertained truth, because the principle or law by which it acts remains as yet undiscovered. Her object evidently is, the attainment of the most useful part of the knowledge presented to her pupil, and the practical use of that part; leaving the investigation of the other parts to the will or convenience of the person afterwards. The infant accordingly made use of its knowledge, although it knew nothing about the nature of flame; and the man and the mariner would have done as they did, although they had known nothing at all about the science of meteorology.

The second remark which we would here make is, that Nature, in most cases, appears to put much more value on the inferences, or lessons, drawn from the knowledge we have acquired, than she does upon the knowledge itself. For example, in the case of the infant burning its finger, the circumstance itself will soon be forgotten; but the inference, or the impression acquired by its means, will remain. And when at any subsequent period it avoids fire or flame, its mind is not so much occupied by the abstract truth that flame will burn, as by the lesson learned from that truth, that it should not meddle with it. This inference it now practically applies to its present situation. That the abstract truth,—the knowledge originally derived from the fact,—is included in the lesson, may be quite true; but what we wish at present more particularly to point out is, that it is seldom adverted to by the infant. The inference,—the lesson which the truth suggested,—is all that the child thought of. That alone is the fabric which Nature has been employed in rearing; and the original truth has been used merely as scaffolding for the purpose. The edifice itself, accordingly, having been completed, the scaffolding is allowed to fall, as having answered its design.

The same conclusion may be come to, by attending to the circumstances connected with the operation of the principle in adults.—The person who returned for his great-coat or umbrella after having drawn the inference from the appearance of the sky, thought only of the coming shower; and we could easily suppose a case, where the original indication of the sky might be totally forgotten, while the full impression that it would rain might still continue. In like manner, the mariner, in the bustle of preparation, thinks only of the dreaded storm, while the original circumstance,—the knowledge from which the inference was drawn,—is now unheeded, or entirely forgotten.

The other circumstance to which we would here solicit attention, as proving the same thing, is one to which we formerly alluded. It is the remarkable fact, that knowledge, of whatever kind, when it is practised, becomes more and more familiar and useful; while that which is not acted upon, is soon blotted from the memory and lost. Writing, arithmetic, and spelling, not to speak of grammar, geography, and history, when not exercised in after life, are frequently found of no avail, even at times when they are specially required.—Why is this? They were once known. The knowledge was communicated at a time when the mind and memory were best fitted for receiving and retaining them. But Nature in this, as in every other instance, has been true to herself; and the knowledge which is not used has been blighted, and at last removed from the memory and lost.

From all these circumstances taken together, we are led to conclude, that Nature never conveys knowledge without intending it to be used;—that by a principle in our constitution, which we have denominated "common sense," Nature prompts even infants to employ their knowledge for their own special benefit;—that this principle continues invariably to act, till it is assisted or superseded by reason;—and that the process consists in drawing inferences, or lessons, from known facts, and in practically applying them to present circumstances. All which points the Educationist directly to the conclusion, that the communication of knowledge is one of the means, but not the end, of education;—that the lessons derived from the knowledge communicated, are infinitely more valuable than the knowledge itself;—and that the great design of education is, and ought to be, to train the young to know how to use, and to put to use, not only the knowledge communicated at school, but all the knowledge which they may acquire in their future journey through life.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAP. X.

On Nature's Method of applying Knowledge by means of the Moral Sense, or Conscience.

Nature enables her pupils to apply knowledge by means of the moral sense, or conscience, as well as by the animal, or common sense. There is however this great difference in the manner in which they operate,—that whereas every infringement of the natural or physical laws which regulate the application of knowledge by what we have called the common sense, is invariably followed by its proper punishment,—the consequences of infringing the laws which regulate the moral sense, are neither so immediate, nor at the time so apparent. The child knows, that by putting his finger to the candle, burning and pain will instantly follow;—but the evil consequences of purloining sweet-meats, or telling a lie to avoid punishment, are not so obvious. Does Nature then put less value on moral integrity, than on worldly prudence? Certainly not. But in the latter case she deals with man more as a physical and intellectual being; and in the former, as a moral, a responsible, and an immortal being. The lower animals to a great extent participate with us in the benefits arising from attention to the laws which govern physical enjoyments; but they know nothing of a moral sense, which is peculiar to intelligent and accountable creatures. From this we may safely conclude, that the application of knowledge by means of the moral sense, or conscience, is of infinitely more importance to man than the application of his knowledge by the animal, or common sense.

For the purpose of arriving at accurate conclusions on this subject, in reference to education and the application of knowledge, we shall endeavour to investigate a few of the phenomena connected with the moral sense, as these are exhibited in the young and in adults; and shall, in doing so, attempt to trace the laws by which these phenomena are severally guided.

1. The first thing we would here remark, is, that the operations of the moral sense appear to be resolvable into two classes, which may be termed its legislative and its executive powers. When conscience leads us merely to judge and to decide upon the character of a feeling or an action, whether good or evil, it acts in its legislative capacity; but when it reproves and punishes, or approves and rewards, for actions done, it acts in its executive capacity. These two departments of the moral sense seem quite distinct in their nature and operations; and, as we shall immediately see, they not only exist separately, but they sometimes act independently of each other.

2. Another circumstance connected with conscience is, that her legislative powers do not develope themselves, nor appear to act, till the reasoning powers of the person begin to expand. Then, and then only does the pupil of Nature, who has not had the benefit of previous moral instruction, begin to decide on the merit or demerit of actions. Infants, and children who are left without instruction, appear to have no distinct perception that certain actions are right, and others wrong. In infancy, we frequently perceive the most rebellious outbreakings of ungoverned passion, with tearing, and scratching, and beating the parent, without any indication of compunction, either at the time, or after it has taken place. Even in children of more advanced years, while they remain without moral instruction, and before the reasoning powers are developed, the injuries which they occasion to each other, or which they inflict upon the old, the decrepit, or the helpless, are matters of unmingled glee and gratification, without the slightest sign of conscience interfering to prevent them, or of giving them any uneasiness after the mischief is done. Instead of sorrow, such children are found invariably delighted with the recollection of their tricks; and never fail to recapitulate them to their companions afterwards, with triumph and satisfaction.—But it is not so with the adult. As soon as the reasoning powers are developed, the legislative functions of conscience begin to act, enabling and impelling the person to decide at once on actions, whether they are right or wrong, good or evil. Such a person, therefore, could not strike nor abuse his parents, without knowing that he was doing wrong; nor could he tantalize or injure the aged or the helpless, without conscience putting him upon his guard, as well as reproving and punishing the crime by compunctious feelings after it was committed.

From this we perceive, that the legislative powers of conscience are usually dormant in the child, and do not, when left to Nature, act till the reasoning powers have exhibited themselves; from which we are led to conclude, that it is by an early education,—by moral instruction alone,—that the young are to be guarded against crime, and prepared and furnished to good works.

3. This leads us to observe another remarkable circumstance, corroborative also of the above remark, which is, that although the legislative powers of conscience are but very imperfectly, if at all developed in children, yet the executive powers are never absent, where moral instruction has previously been communicated.—A child of very tender years, and even an infant, may be taught, that certain actions are good and should be performed, while others are evil and must be avoided. This is matter of daily experience; and a little attention to the subject will shew, that moral instruction in the case of the young, acts the same part that the legislative powers of conscience do in the adult. But what we wish at present more particularly to remark is, that whenever such moral instruction has been communicated, Nature at once sanctions it, and is ever ready to use the executive powers of the conscience for the purpose of rendering it effective. When therefore good actions have been pointed out as praiseworthy and deserving of approbation, there is a strong inducement to practise them, and a delightful feeling of satisfaction and self-approval after they have been performed. And when, on the contrary, certain other actions have been denounced as wicked, and which, if indulged in, will be punished either by their parents or by God, the child feels all the hesitation and fear to commit them, that is observable in similar cases among older persons; and, when committed he experiences the same remorse, and terror, and self-reproach, which in the adult follow the perpetration of an aggravated crime. This is a circumstance which must be obvious to every reader; and it distinctly intimates, that the God of Nature intends that the legislative powers of conscience should in all cases be anticipated by the parent and teacher. The moral instruction or the young is to be the rule; the neglect of it, although in some measure provided for, is to be the exception. The lesson is as plain as analogy can teach us, that, while there is written on the heart of man such an outline of the moral law as will leave him without excuse when called to judgment, yet it is not the design of the Creator that, in a matter of such vast importance as the moral perfection of a rational creature, we should trust to that, and, like savages, leave our children to gather information respecting moral good and evil solely from the slowly developed and imperfect dictates of their own nature. The whole phenomena of the natural conscience shew, that although God secures the operation of the legislative powers of conscience to direct the actions of the man when they are really required, yet he intends that they should be anticipated by moral instruction given by the parent. And this is proved by the remarkable fact, that when this instruction is communicated, the executive powers of conscience immediately come into operation, and homologate this instruction, by approving of it, adopting it, and acting upon it.

4. This is still farther obvious from a fourth consideration, which is, that wherever moral instruction has been communicated to the young, the legislative powers of conscience are either altogether superseded, or left dormant.—Every person who in youth has received a regular moral and religious education, and who retains upon his mind the knowledge then communicated, is found through life to act upon that knowledge chiefly, if not entirely. He seldom thinks of the dictates of his natural conscience, and but rarely perceives them. In every decision to which he comes as to what is right or wrong, reference is generally made in his mind, either to the declarations of Scripture, or to the moral instructions which he has formerly received; and upon these he invariably falls back, when any action of a doubtful character is presented for his approval or rejection. From this very remarkable circumstance, we at once ascertain what are the intentions of Nature. She very plainly requires the early moral instruction of the young, by those into whose hands she has placed them; because she is here found to encourage and acknowledge this instruction at the expense of her own legislative powers, which not being now required, are allowed to lie idle.

5. Another circumstance connected with this subject, is the well known fact, that children are found capable of moral instruction long before the time that Nature usually begins to develope the legislative powers of the conscience.—A child, almost as soon as he can be made to know that he has an earthly father, may be taught that he has another Father in heaven; and when he can be induced to feel that a certain line of conduct is necessary to secure the favour of the one, he may also be led to comprehend that certain dispositions and actions will please the other. Now, that a child can be taught and trained to do all this with respect to his parents, is matter of daily experience. As soon as he can understand any thing, and long before he can speak, he may be enabled to distinguish between right and wrong, as well as to do that which is good, and to avoid that which is evil; and in every case of this kind, Nature sanctions the moral instruction communicated, by invariably following it up with the practical operation of the executive powers of conscience, which always approve that which the child thinks is good, and reprove that which he supposes to be wrong. The triumphant gleam of satisfaction which brightens the countenance of a child, and the laughing look and pause for approval when he has done something that he knows to be right, are abundant proofs of the truth of this observation; while his cowering scowl, and fear of reproof or punishment, when he has done that which is wrong, are equal indications of the same thing. Nature, therefore, that has given the capacity of distinguishing between good and evil when thus communicated, and that invariably approves of the operation, and assists in it, has most certainly intended that it should be exercised. This consideration, taken in connection with its advantages to the family, to the child, to the future man, and to society, plainly points out the value and the importance of early religious instruction and moral training.

6. Another circumstance, in connection with the application of knowledge by means of the conscience, should not be overlooked. It is the remarkable fact, that Nature has implanted in the mind of the young a principle, by which they unhesitatingly believe whatever they are told.—A child who has not been abused by frequent deceptions, is a perfect picture of docility. He never for a moment doubts either his parent or his teacher when he tells him what is right and what is wrong. If he be taught that it is a sin to eat flesh on Fridays, he never questions the truth of it; and if told that he may kill spiders, but should not hurl flies, he may wonder at the difference, but he never doubts the correctness of the statement. This disposition in children is applicable to every kind of instruction offered to them;—but the superior importance of moral, to every other kind of truth, and the beneficial effects of the principle when applied to moral and religious training, shew that it is chiefly designed by Nature for aiding the parent and teacher in this most important part of their labours.

7. Another circumstance connected with this subject is, that the executive powers of conscience always act according to the belief of the person, and not according to what would have been the dictates of conscience in the exercise of her legislative functions.—This of itself is a sufficient proof of the separate and independent agency of these two principles. The legislative powers, as at first implanted in the heart of man, there is reason to believe, would, if allowed to act freely, never have been in error; and even still, they are generally a witness for the purity of truth;—but the executive powers invariably act, not according to what is really the truth, but according to what the person himself believes to be right or wrong. The child who was told that it was a sin to eat flesh on a Friday, would be reproved by his conscience were he to indulge his appetite by doing so;—and the conscience of the zealous Musselman, which would smite him for indulging in a sip of wine, would commend and reward him by its approval, for indulging in cruelty and injustice to the unbeliever in his faith. The executive functions of conscience then act independently of the legislative, and frequently in opposition to them. There must be a feeling of wrong, before the executive powers will reprove; and there must be a sense of merit, before they will commend;—but a mistake in either case makes no apparent difference. This is another, and a powerful argument for the early moral instruction of the young; and it shews us also, the greater value which Nature puts upon the application and use of knowledge, than upon its possession. She not only encourages this application in all ordinary cases; but here we find her, for the purpose of maintaining the general principle, lending her assistance in the application and use of the knowledge received, even when the knowledge itself is erroneous, and the application mischievous.

8. Another important circumstance which is worthy of especial notice, is, that conscience is much more readily acted upon by examples, than by precepts.—In communicating a knowledge of duty, this principle in Nature has become proverbial; but it is not less true with respect to the executive powers, in approving or reproving that which is right or wrong. It is the prerogative of conscience to excite us to approve or condemn the conduct of others, as well as our own; and this is regulated, not by strict truth, but by our belief at the time, whether that belief be correct or the contrary. Now the precept, "Thou shalt not kill," would be sufficient to make the executive powers of conscience watchful, in deterring the individual from the crime, or in reproving and punishing him if he committed it. But the mere precept would have but little effect in exhibiting to him the full atrocity of the sin, in comparison with an anecdote or a story which detailed its commission. But even this would not be so powerful as the effect produced by a murder committed in a neighbouring street, and still more were it perpetrated in his own presence. The necessary inference to be drawn from this remarkable fact is, that moral truth is much more effectively taught by example than by precept; and accordingly we find, that at least four-fifths of scripture, which is altogether a moral instrument, consist of narrative, and are given specially, "that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished to every good work."

9. Another circumstance worthy of observation is, that the executive powers of conscience appear to be exceedingly partial when exercised upon actions done by ourselves, in comparison of its decisions upon the same actions when they are committed by others.—When we ourselves perform a good action, the approval of our conscience is more lively and more extensive, than it would have been had the good action been that of another. On the contrary, it would be more ready to perform its functions, and more powerful in impressing upon our minds the demerit or wickedness of an action committed by another, than if we ourselves had committed it. The reason of this is obviously self-love, which partly overbears the natural operations of this principle. Violence of passion and strong desire, when we are tempted to commit a crime, are hostile movements against the dictates of conscience; and they too frequently, by their excess, stifle and drown the still small voice which does speak out, but which, for the moment, is not heard within us.—But nothing of this kind takes place when the crime is committed by others. We are then much more impartial; and conscience is permitted to utter her voice, and to make her impressions without opposition. This impartial decision on the conduct of others, is found to be a great means of preventing us from the future commission of a similar crime; and this affords us another powerful argument in favour of early instruction and moral training. By attending early to this duty, the mind of the child is made up, and sentence has been pronounced on certain acts, before selfishness or the passions have had an opportunity of blinding the mind, or silencing the conscience. By proper moral training the pupil is fortified and prepared for combating his evil inclinations when temptations occur; but without this, he will have to encounter sudden temptations at a great disadvantage.

10. Another circumstance connected with this subject is, that the moral sentiments and feelings above all others, are improved and strengthened by exercise; and are weakened, and often destroyed by disregard or opposition.—Every instance of moral exercise or moral discipline, invigorates the executive powers of conscience, and renders the moral perceptions of the person more acute and tender. Every successful struggle against a temptation, implants in the mind of a child a noble consciousness of dignity, and confers a large amount of moral strength, and a firmer determination to resist others. In this respect, the good derived from the mere knowledge of a duty and its actual performance is immense. A child who is merely told that a certain action is praiseworthy, is by no means so sensible of the fact, or of its value, as he is after he has actually performed it; and when, on the contrary, he is told that a certain action is wrong, he is no doubt prepared to avoid it; but it is not till he has been tempted to its commission, and has successfully overcome the temptation, that he is fully aware of its enormity. When he has successfully resisted the first temptation, he is much better prepared than any exhortation or warning could make him for resisting and repelling a second;—while every successive victory will give strength to the executive powers of the conscience, and will render future conflicts less hazardous, and resistance more easy. For the same reason, an amiable action frequently performed does not pall by repetition, but appears more and more amiable, till the doing of it grows into a habit; and the approval of conscience becoming every day more satisfactory, the person will be stimulated to its frequent and regular observance.

But the opposite of this is equally true.—The continued habit of suppressing the voice of conscience will greatly weaken, and will at last destroy its executive powers. When a person knows that a certain action is wrong, and is tempted to commit it,—conscience will speak out, and for the first time at least it will be listened to. But if this warning be neglected, and the sin be committed, the conscience will be proportionally weakened, and the self-will of the individual will acquire additional strength. When the temptation again presents itself, it is with redoubled power, and it meets with less resistance. It will invariably be found in such cases, that the person felt much more difficulty in resisting the admonitions of conscience in the case of the first temptation, than in that of the second; and he will also feel more during the second than he will during the third. Frequent resistance offered to the executive powers of conscience will at last lay them asleep. The beginning of this downward career is always the most difficult; but when once fairly begun, it grows every day more easy, till the habit of sin becomes like a second nature.

11. There is yet another feature in the exhibition of the moral sense in adults, which ought not to be overlooked by the Educationist in his treatment of the young. We here allude to the remarkable fact, that the conscience scarcely ever refers to consequences connected merely with this world and time, but compels the man, in spite of himself, to fear, that his actions will, in some way or other, have an influence upon his happiness or his misery in another world, and through eternity.—The mere uneasiness arising from the fear of detection and punishment by men, is a perfectly different kind of feeling, and never is, and never ought to be, dignified with the name of conscience. It is the consequence of a mere animal calculation of chances;—similar to the feelings which give rise to the cautious prowling of the hungry lion, or the stealthy advances of the timorous fox. But the forebodings, as well as the gnawings of conscience, extend much farther, and strike much deeper, than these superficial and animal sensations. Conscience in man, as long as it is permitted to act freely, has always a reference to God, to a future judgment, and to eternity, and is but rarely affected by worldly considerations. The valuable lesson to be drawn from this circumstance obviously is, that the parent and teacher ought, in their moral training of the young, to make use of the same principle. The anticipated approbation or displeasure of their earthly parents or teachers, or even the fear of the rod and correction, is not enough. Children are capable of being restrained by much higher motives, and stimulated to duty by nobler and more generous feelings. The greatness, the holiness, the unwearied goodness, and the omnipresence of their heavenly Father, present to the rational and tender affections of the young, a constantly increasing stimulus to obedience and self-controul;—while the fear of mere physical suffering will be found daily to decrease, and may perhaps in some powerful minds at last altogether disappear. The horse and the dog were intended to be trained in the one way;—but rational and intelligent minds were obviously intended to be trained in the other.

Of these facts, connected as they are with the application of knowledge by means of the moral sense, the Educationist must make use for the perfecting of his science. They are the most valuable, and therefore they ought to form the most important branch of his investigations. All the other parts of Nature's teaching were but means;—this is obviously the great end she designed by using them, and therefore it ought to be his also.

In regard to the practical working of this important part of Nature's educational process, we need only remark here, that the application of the pupil's knowledge connected with the moral sense, is precisely the same in form, as in that connected with the common sense. There is always here first, as in the former case, some fundamental truth, generally derived from Scripture, or founded on some moral maxim, and presented in the form of a precept, a promise, a threatening, or an example;—there is next a lesson or inference drawn from this truth;—and there is, lastly, a practical application of that lesson or inference to present circumstances.

For the purpose of illustrating this, let us suppose that a boy who has been trained in imitation of Nature, is tempted by some ungodly acquaintances to join with them in absenting himself from public worship, and in breaking the Sabbath. The moment that such a temptation is suggested to him, a feeling arises in his mind, which will take something like the following form:—"I ought not to absent myself from public worship;"—"I ought not to break the Sabbath;"—"I ought not to keep bad company." Here are three distinct lessons suited to the occasion, obviously derived from his previous knowledge, and which he has been trained either directly or indirectly to draw from "the only rule of duty," the Bible. When, accordingly, the temptation is farther pressed upon him, and the reasons of his refusal are regularly put into form, they appear in something like the following shape and order:—"I must not absent myself from public worship; for thus it is written, 'Forget not the assembling of yourselves together;' and, 'Jesus, as his custom was, went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day.'"—"I must not profane this holy day; for thus it is written, 'Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy,'"—And, "I must not go with these boys; for thus it is written, 'Go not in the way of the ungodly;' and 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.'"

Whoever will investigate the subject closely, will find, that the above is a pretty correct picture of the mental process, wherever temptation is opposed and overcome by means of religious principle;—but it is also worthy of remark, that the form is still nearly the same by whomsoever a temptation is resisted, and whether they do or do not take the Scriptures for their text-book and directory. The only difference in such a case is, that their lessons have been drawn from some other source. For example, another boy exposed to the above temptation might successfully resist it upon the following grounds. He might say, "I must not absent myself from public worship; because I shall then lose the promised reward for taking home the text;"—"I dare not profane the Sabbath; because, if I did, my father would punish me;"—"I will not go with these boys; because I would be ashamed to be seen in their company." In this latter example, we have the same lessons, and the same application, although these lessons have been derived from a more questionable, and a much more variable source. In both cases, however, it is the same operation of Nature, and which we ought always to imitate therefore upon scriptural and solid grounds.

These examples might be multiplied in various forms, and yet they would in every case be found substantially alike. The application of knowledge, whether by the common or the moral sense, is carried forward only in one way, in which the truth, the lesson, and the application, follow each other in natural order, whether they be perceived or not. To this process, therefore, every branch and portion of our knowledge ought to be adapted, as it is obviously the great end designed by Nature in all her previous endeavours. The parent, therefore, or the teacher, who wilfully passes over, or but slightly attends to these plain indications, is really betraying his trust, and deeply injuring the future prospects of his immortal charge.

The several circumstances enumerated in the previous part of this chapter, as connected with the moral sense, are capable of suggesting many important hints for the establishment of education; but there are one or two connected with the subject as a whole, to which we must very shortly allude.

In the first place, from the foregoing facts we are powerfully led to the conclusion, that all kinds of physical good, such as health, strength, beauty, riches, and honours, and even the higher attainments of intellectual sagacity and knowledge, are, in the estimation of Nature, not once to be compared with the very lowest of the moral acquirements. With respect to the former, man shares them, though in a higher degree, with the brute creation;—but morals are altogether peculiar to higher intelligences. To man, in particular, the value of moral discipline is beyond calculation:—For, however much the present ignorance and grossness of men's minds may deceive them in weighing their respective worth, yet it would be easy to shew, that the knowledge and practice of but one additional truth in morals, are of more real value to a child, than a whole lifetime of physical enjoyment. Nature has accordingly implanted in his constitution, a complete system of moral machinery, to assist the parent in this first and most important part of his duty,—that of guiding his children in the paths of religion and virtue. The executive powers of conscience are always alive and active, stimulating or restraining both young and old, wherever the action proposed partakes of the character of right or wrong. And, even where the parental duties in this respect have been neglected, Nature has, in part, graciously provided a remedy. In all such cases, during the years of advancing manhood, the law is gradually and vividly written upon the heart. Its dictates are generally, no doubt, dimmed and defaced by the natural depravity and recklessness of the sinner; but even then, they are sufficiently legible to leave him without excuse for his neglect of their demands.

The preference which Nature gives to moral acquirements, is demonstrated also by another feature in her different modes of applying knowledge by the common and the moral senses. In the attainment of physical good, Nature leaves men, as she does the lower animals, in a great measure to themselves, under the guardianship of the common sense; but, in respect to actions that are morally good or evil, she deals with them in a much more solemn and dignified manner. A transgression of the laws of the natural or common sense, is, without discrimination and without mercy, visited with present and corresponding punishment; plainly indicating, that with respect to these there is to be no future reckoning;—while the trial and final judgment of moral acts are usually reserved for a future, a more solemn, and a more comprehensive investigation.

Another inference which legitimately arises out of the above considerations, as well as from the facts themselves, is, that religion and morals are really intended to be the chief object of attention in the education of the young. This is a circumstance so clearly and so frequently pointed out to us, in our observation of Nature's educational processes, that no person, we think, of a philosophic turn of mind, can consistently refuse his assent to it. The facts are so numerous, and the legitimate inferences to be drawn from them are so plain, that pre-conceived opinions should never induce us either to blink them from fear, or deny them from prejudice. These facts and inferences too, it should be observed, present themselves to our notice in all their own native power and simplicity, invulnerable in their own strength, and, in one sense, altogether independent of revelation. They are, no doubt, efficiently supported in every page of the Christian Record; but, without revelation, they force themselves upon our conviction, and cannot be consistently refuted. We state this fearlessly, from a consideration of numerous facts, to a few of which, selected from among many, we shall, before concluding, very shortly advert.

In the first place, it is obvious to the most cursory observer, that moral attainments and moral greatness are more honoured by Nature, and are, of course, more valuable to man, than the possession of either intellectual or physical good.—Nature has, to the possessor, made virtue its own reward, in that calm consciousness of dignity, self-approval, and peace, which are its natural results; while, even from the mere looker-on, she compels an approval. On the contrary, we find, that the highest intellectual or physical attainments, when coupled with vice, lead directly and invariably to corresponding depths of degradation and misery. No one, we think, can deny this as a general principle; and if it be admitted, the question is settled; for no person acting rationally would seek the lesser good for his child, at the expense of the greater.

Another proof of the same fact is, that Nature has provided for the physical and intellectual education of the young, by means of the animal or "common sense;" while morals are, in a great measure, left to the education of the parents. The principle of common sense, as we have seen, begins its operations and discipline in early infancy, and continues to act through life; but the culture of the moral sense,—by far the most important of the two,—is left during infancy and childhood very much to the affections of the natural guardians of the child, and to the results of their education. Hence it is, that while Nature amply provides for the neglect of this duty, by the developement of the legislative powers of conscience towards manhood, they are comparatively feeble, and in ordinary cases are but little thought of or observed, wherever this duty has timeously been attended to. From all these circumstances we infer, that it is the intention of Nature, that the establishment and culture of religion and morals should in every case form the chief objects of education,—the main business of the family and the school;—an intention which she has pointed out and guarded by valuable rewards on the one hand, and severe penalties on the other. When the duty is faithfully attended to, Nature lends her powerful assistance, by the early developement of the executive powers of conscience, and the virtue of the pupil is the appropriate reward to both parties; but, when this is omitted, the growing depravity of the child becomes at once the reproof and the punishment of the parents, for this wilful violation of Nature's designs.

In conclusion, it may be necessary to remark, that from these latter circumstances, another and a directly opposite inference may be drawn, which we must not allow to pass without observation.—It may be said, that the very postponement of the legislative powers of conscience till the years of manhood, shews, that religion and morals are not designed to be taught till that period arrive. Now, to this there are two answers.—First, if it were correct, it would set aside, and render useless almost all the other indications of Nature on this subject. In accordance with the view taken of the circumstances as above, these indications are perfectly harmonious and effective; but, in the view of the case which this argument supposes, they are all inconsistent and useless.—But, secondly, if this argument proves any thing, it proves too much, and would infer the absurd proposition, that physical and intellectual qualities are superior in value to moral attainments;—a proposition that is contradicted, as we have shewn, by every operation and circumstance in Nature and providence. It is in direct opposition also to all the unsophisticated feelings of human Nature. No thinking person will venture to affirm, that the beauty of the courtezan, the strength of the robber, or the intelligence and sagacity of the swindler, are more to be honoured than the generous qualities of a Wilberforce or a Howard. And therefore it is, that from a calm and dispassionate consideration of these facts, and independently altogether of revelation, we cannot see how any impartial philosophic mind can evade the conclusion, that the chief object to be attended to in the education of the young, and to which every thing else should be strictly subservient, is their regular and early training in religion and morals.

CHAP. XI.

On Nature's Method of Training her Pupils to Communicate their Knowledge.

There is yet a Fourth process in the educational system of Nature, which may be termed supplementary, as it is not intended solely, nor even chiefly, for the good of the pupil himself, but for the community.—This process of Nature consists in the training of her pupil to communicate, by language, not only his own wishes and wants, but also, and perhaps chiefly, the knowledge and experience which he himself has attained. The three previous processes of Nature were in a great measure selfish,—referring to the pupil as an individual, and are of use although he should be alone, and isolated from all others of his species; but this is characteristically social, and to the monk and the hermit is altogether useless.

That this ability to communicate our sentiments is intended by Nature, not for the sole benefit of the individual, but chiefly as an instrument of doing good to others, appears obvious from various circumstances. Its importance in education, and in the training of the young, would of itself, we think, be a sufficient proof of this; but it is rendered unquestionable by the invariable decision of every unbiassed mind, in judging of a person who is constantly speaking of and for himself; and of another whose sole object in conversation, is to exalt and promote the happiness of those around him. The one person, however meritorious otherwise, is pitied or laughed at;—the other is admired and applauded in spite of ourselves.

The benevolence of this arrangement in the educational process of Nature is worthy of especial notice, as it leads us directly to the conclusion, that learning, of whatever kind, is not intended to be a monkish and personal thing, but is really designed by Nature for the benefit of the community at large. Those connected with education, therefore, are here taught, that the training of the young should be so conducted, that while the attainments of the pupil shall in every instance benefit himself, they shall at the same time be of such a kind, and shall be communicated in such a way, as shall advantage the persons with whom he is to mingle, and the community of which he is to form a part. Unless this lesson, taught us by Nature, be attended to, her plan is obviously left incomplete.

In entering upon the consideration of this part of our subject, we cannot but remark the value and the importance which Nature has attached to the higher acquisitions of this anti-selfish portion of her teaching. Language is perverted and abused, when it is generally and chiefly employed for the benefit of the individual himself; and the decision of every candid and well-disposed mind confirms the truth of this assertion. When, on the contrary, it is employed for the benefit of others, or for the good of the public in general, it commands attention, and compels approval. Eloquence, therefore, is obviously intended by Nature for the benefit of communities; and accordingly, she has so disposed matters in the constitution of men's minds, and of society, that communities shall in every instance do it homage. In proof of this, we find, in every age and nation, wherever Nature is not totally debased by art or crime, that the most powerful orator, has almost always been found to be the most influential man. Every other qualification in society has been made to bend to this, and even reason itself is often for the moment obscured, by means of its fascinations. Learning and intellect, riches, popularity, and power, have frequently been made to quail before it; and even virtue itself has for a time been deprived of its influence, when assailed by eloquence. Nay, even in more artificial communities, where Nature has been constrained and moulded anew to suit the tastes and caprices of selfish men, eloquence has still maintained its reputation, and has generally guided the possessor to honour and to power. Amongst the lower and unsophisticated classes of society its influence is almost universal; and in most polished communities, it is still acknowledged as a high attainment, and one of the best indications that has yet been afforded of superior mental culture.

That this is not an erroneous estimate of the mental powers of a finished debater, will be evident from a slight analysis of what he has to achieve in the exercise of his art. He has, while his adversary is speaking, to receive and retain upon his mind, the whole of his argument,—separate its weak and strong points,—and call forth and arrange those views and illustrations which are calculated to overthrow and demolish it. This itself, even when performed in silence, is a prodigious effort of mental strength; but when he commences to speak, and to manage these, with other equally important operations of his own mind at the same moment, the difficulty of succeeding is greatly increased. When he begins to pour forth his refutation in an uninterrupted flow of luminous eloquence;—meeting, combating, and setting aside his opponent's statements and reasonings;—carefully marking, as he goes along, the effect produced upon his hearers, and adapting his arguments to the varying emotions and circumstances of the audience;—withholding, transposing, or abridging the materials he had previously prepared, or seizing new illustrations suggested by passing incidents;—and all this not only without hesitation, and without confusion, but with the most perfect composure and self-controul;—such a man gives evidence of an energy, a grasp, a quickness of thought, which, as an exhibition of godlike power in a creature, has scarcely a parallel in the whole range of Nature's efforts. All kinds and degrees of physical glory, in comparison with this, sink into insignificance.

It is but rare indeed that any country or age produces a Demosthenes, a Pitt, a Thomson, or a Brougham; and such persons have hitherto been considered as gifts of Nature, rather than the legitimate production of educational exercises. But this we conceive to be a mistake. They may perhaps have been self-taught, and self-exercised, as Demosthenes confessedly was; but that teaching, and especially mental and oral exercise, are necessary for the production of one of Nature's chief ornaments, both analogy and experience abundantly shew.[8] Fluency in the use of words is not enough,—copiousness of thought, such as may be of use in the study, is not enough;—for Nature's work, of which we are at present speaking, consists chiefly in the faculty of forming one train of thoughts in the mind, at the same time that the individual is giving expression to another. Every child, accordingly, who holds conversation with his companion, is practising on a limited scale the very exercise which, if carried out by regular gradations, would ultimately lead to that excellence which we have above described. In every case of free unconstrained conversation, the operation of this principle of Nature is apparent; for the idea is present to the mind some time before the tongue gives it utterance, and the person is preparing a second idea, at the moment he is communicating the first. Upon this simple principle the whole art of eloquence, when analyzed, appears to depend. We shall therefore endeavour to trace its operation, and the methods which Nature adopts for the purpose of perfecting it.

That this ability is altogether acquired, and depends wholly upon exercise for its cultivation, is obvious in every stage of its progress, but especially towards its commencement. When Nature first begins to suggest to an infant the use of language, we perceive that it cannot think and speak at the same moment. Long after it has acquired the knowledge of words and names, and even the power of articulating them, it utters but one syllable, or one word at a time. Its language, for a while after it has acquired a pretty extensive acquaintance with nouns and adjectives, is made up of single, or at most double words, with an observable pause between each, as if, after uttering one, it had to collect its thoughts and again prepare for a new effort, before it was able to pronounce the next. This is the child's first step, or rather the child's first attempt, in this important exercise; and it is conspicuous chiefly by the want, even in the least degree, of that power of which we have spoken. By and bye, however, the child is able to put two syllables, or two words together, without the pause;—but not three. That is a work of time, and that again has to become familiar, before four, or more words be attempted. These, however, are at last mastered; and he slowly acquires by practice the ability to utter a short sentence, composed chiefly of nouns, adjectives, and verbs, without interruption, and at last without difficulty.