ON EDUCATION.
THE other day I paid a visit to a gentleman with
whom, though greatly my superior in fortune, I
have long been in habits of an easy intimacy. He
rose in the world by honourable industry; and
married, rather late in life, a lady to whom he had
been long attached, and in whom centered the
wealth of several expiring families. Their earnest
wish for children was not immediately gratified.
At length they were made happy by a son, who,
from the moment he was born, engrossed all their
care and attention. — My friend received me in his
library, where I found him busied in turning over
books of education, of which he had collected all
that were worthy notice, from Xenophon to Locke,
and from Locke to Catharine Macauley. As he
knows I have been engaged in the business of
instruction, he did me the honour to consult me
on the subject of his researches, hoping, he said,
that, out of all the systems before him, we should
be able to form a plan equally complete and comprehensive;
it being the determination of both
himself and his lady to choose the best that could
be had, and to spare neither pains nor expense in
making their child all that was great and good.
I gave him my thoughts with the utmost freedom,
and after I returned home, threw upon paper the
observations which had occurred to me.
The first thing to be considered, with respect to
education, is the object of it. This appears to me
to have been generally misunderstood. Education,
in its largest sense, is a thing of great scope and
extent. It includes the whole process by which a
human being is formed to be what he is, in habits,
principles, and cultivation of every kind. But of
this, a very small part is in the power even of the
parent himself; a smaller still can be directed by
purchased tuition of any kind. You engage for
your child masters and tutors at large salaries;
and you do well, for they are competent to instruct
him: they will give him the means, at
least of acquiring science and accomplishments:
but in the business of education, properly so
called, they can do little for you. Do you ask,
then, what will education your son? Your example
will educate him; your conversation with your
friends; the business he sees you transact; the
likings and dislikings you express; these will
educate him; — the society you live in will educate
him; your domestics will educate him; above
all, your rank and situation in life, your house,
your table, your pleasure-grounds, your hounds
and your stables will educate him. It is not in
your power to withdraw him from the continual
influence of these things, except you were to
withdraw yourself from them also. You speak of
beginning the education of your son. The moment
he was able to form an idea his education
was already begun; the education of circumstances
— insensible education — which, like insensible
perspiration, is of more constant and
powerful effect, and of infinitely more consequence
to the habit, than that which is direct and apparent.
This education goes on at every instant of
time; it goes on like time; you can neither stop
it nor turn its course. What these have a tendency
to make your child, that he will be. Maxims
and documents are good precisely till they are
tried, and no longer; they will teach him to talk,
and nothing more. The
circumstances in which
your son is placed will be even more prevalent
than your example; and you have no right to
expect him to become what you yourself are, but
by the same means. You, that have toiled during
youth, to set your son upon higher ground, and
to enable him to begin where you left off, do not
expect that son to be what you were, — diligent,
modest, active, simple in his tastes, fertile in resources.
You have put him under quite a different
master. Poverty educated you; wealth will
educate him. You cannot suppose the result will
be the same. You must not even expect that he
will be what you now are; for though relaxed
perhaps from the severity of your frugal habits,
you still derive advantage from having formed
them; and, in your heart, you like plain dinners,
and early hours, and old friends, whenever your
fortune will permit you to enjoy them. But it
will not be so with your son: his tastes will be
formed by your present situation, and in no degree
by your former one. But I take great care,
you will say, to counteract these tendencies, and
to bring him up in hardy and simple manners; I
know their value, and am resolved that he shall
acquire no other. Yes, you make him hardy;
that is to say, you take a country-house in a good
air, and make him run, well clothed and carefully
attended, for, it may be, an hour in a clear frosty
winter's day upon your graveled terrace; or perhaps
you take the puny shivering infant from his
warm bed, and dip him in an icy cold bath, — and
you think you have done great matters. And so
you have; you have done all you can. But you
were suffered to run abroad half the day on a
bleak heath, in weather fit and unfit, wading barefoot
through dirty ponds, sometimes losing your
way benighted, scrambling over hedges, climbing
trees, in perils every hour both of life and limb.
Your life was of very little consequence to any
one: even your parents, encumbered with a numerous
family, had little time to indulge the softnesses
of affection, or the solicitude of anxiety;
and to every one else it was of no consequence at
all. It is not possible for you, it would not even
be right for you, in your present situation, to pay
no more attention to your child than was paid to
you. In these mimic experiments of education,
there is always something which distinguishes
them from reality; some weak part left unfortified,
for the arrows of misfortune to find their way
into. Achilles was a young nobleman,
dios Achilleus,
and therefore, though he had Chiron for his
tutor, there was one foot left undipped. You may
throw by Rousseau; your parents practised without
having read it; you may read, but imperious
circumstances forbid you the practice of it.
You are sensible of the advantages of simplicity
of diet; and you make a point of restricting
that of your child to the plainest food, for you are
resolved that he shall not be nice. But this plain
food is of the choicest quality, prepared by your
own cook; his fruit is ripened from you walls;
his cloth, his glasses, all the accompaniments of
the table, are such as are only met with in families
of opulence: the very servants who attend
him are neat, well dressed, and have a certain air
of fashion. You may call this simplicity; but I
say he will be nice, — for it is a kind of simplicity
which only wealth can attain to, and which will
subject him to be disgusted at all common tables.
Besides, he will from time to time partake of
those delicacies which your table abounds with;
you yourself will give him of them occasionally;
you would be unkind if you did not: your servants,
if good-natured, will do the same. Do you
think you can keep the full stream of luxury running
by his lips, and he not taste of it? Vain
imagination!
I would not be understood to inveigh against
wealth, or against the enjoyments of it; they are
real enjoyments, and allied to many elegancies in
manners and in taste; — I only wish to prevent unprofitable
pains and inconsistent expectations.
You are sensible of the benefit of early rising;
and you may, if you please, make it a point that
your daughter shall retire with her governess, and
your son with his tutor, at the hour when you are
preparing to see company. But their sleep, in
the first place, will not be so sweet and undisturbed
amidst the rattle of carriages, and the glare
of tapers glancing through the rooms, as that of
the village child in his quiet cottage, protected
by silence and darkness; and moreover, you may
depend upon it, that as the coercive power of
education is laid aside, they will in a few months
slide into the habitudes of the rest of the family,
whose hours are determined by their company
and situation in life. You have, however, done
good, as far as it goes; it is something gained,
to defer pernicious habits, if we cannot prevent
them.
There is nothing which has so little share in
education as direct precept. To be convinced of
this, we need only reflect that there is no one
point we labour more to establish with children,
than that of their speaking truth; and there is not
any in which we succeed worse. And why?
Because children readily see we have an interest
in it. Their speaking truth is used by us as an
engine of government — "Tell me, my dear child,
when you have broken any thing, and I will not
be angry with you." "Thank you for nothing,"
says the child; "if I prevent you from finding it
out, I am sure you will not be angry:" and nine
times out of ten he can prevent it. He knows
that, in the common intercourses of life, you tell
a thousand falsehoods. But these are necessary
lies on important occasions.
Your child is the best judge how much occasion
he has to tell a lie: he may have as great
occasion for it, as you have to conceal a bad piece
of news from a sick friend, or to hide your vexation
from an unwelcome visitor. That authority
which extends its claims over every action, and
even every thought, which insists upon an answer
to every interrogation, however indiscreet or oppressive
to the feelings, will, in young or old,
produce falsehood; or, if in some few instances
the deeply imbibed fear of future and unknown
punishment should restrain from direct falsehood,
it will produce a habit of dissimulation, which is
still worse. The child, the slave, or the subject,
who, on proper occasions may not say, "I do not
choose to tell," will certainly, by the circumstances
in which you place him, be driven to have recourse
to deceit, even should he not be countenanced
by your example.
I do not mean to assert, that sentiments inculcated
in education have no influence; — they have
much, though not the most: but it is the sentiments
we let drop occasionally, the conversation
they overhear when playing unnoticed in a corner
of the room, which has an effect upon children;
and not what is addressed directly to them in the
tone of exhortation. If you would know precisely
the effect these set discourses have upon your
child, be pleased to reflect upon that which a
discourse from the pulpit, which you have reason
to think merely professional, has upon you. Children
have almost an intuitive discernment between
the maxims you bring forward for their use, and
those by which you direct your own conduct. Be
as cunning as you will, they are always more cunning
than you. Every child knows whom his father
and mother love and see with pleasure, and
whom they dislike; for whom they think themselves
obliged to set out their best plate and
china; whom they think it an honour by admitting
them to their company. Respect nothing so
much as virtue," says Eugenio to his son; "virtue
and talents are the only grounds of distinction."
The child presently has occasion to inquire why
his father pulls off his hat to some people and not
to others; he is told, that outward respect must
be proportioned to different stations in life. This
is a little difficult of comprehension: however, by
dint of explanation, he gets over it tolerably well.
But he sees his father's house in the bustle and
hurry of preparation; common business laid aside,
every body in movement, an unusual anxiety to
please and to shine. Nobody is at leisure to receive
his caresses or attend to his questions; his
lessons are interrupted, his hours deranged. At
length a guest arrives: it is my Lord — , whom
he has heard you speak of twenty times as one
of the most worthless characters upon earth. Your
child, Eugenio, has received a lesson of education.
Resume, if you will, your systems of morality on
the morrow, you will in vain attempt to eradicate
it. "You expect company, mamma, must I be
dressed today?" "No, it is only good Mrs. Such-a-one." Your child has received a lesson of education,
one which he well understands, and will
long remember. You have sent your child to a
public school; but to secure his morals against
the vice which you too justly apprehend abounds
there, you have given him a private tutor, a man
of strict morals and religion. He may help him
to prepare his tasks; but do you imagine it will be
in his power to form his mind? His schoolfellows,
the allowance you give him, the manners of the
age and of the place, will do that; and not the
lectures which he is obliged to hear. If these
are different from what you yourself experienced,
you must not be surprised to see him gradually
recede from the principles, civil and religious,
which you hold, and break off from your connexions,
and adopt manners different from your
own. This is remarkably exemplified amongst
those of the Dissenters who have risen to wealth
and consequence. I believe it would be difficult
to find an instance of families, who for three generations
have kept their carriage and continued
Dissenters.
Education, it is often observed, is an expensive
thing. It is so; but the paying for lessons is the
smallest part of the cost. If you would go to the
price of having your son a worthy man, you must
be so yourself; your friends, your servants, your
company must be all of that stamp. Suppose this
to be the case, much is done: but there will remain
circumstances which perhaps you cannot
alter, that will still have their effect. Do you
wish him to love simplicity? Would you be content
to lay down your coach, to drop your title?
Where is the parent who would do this to educate
his son? You carry him to the workshops of artisans,
and show him different machines and fabrics,
to awaken his ingenuity. The necessity of
getting his bread would awaken it much more
effectually. The single circumstance of having a
fortune to get, or a fortune to spend, will probably
operate more strongly upon his mind, not only
than your precepts, but even than your example.
You wish your child to be modest and unassuming;
you are so, perhaps, yourself, — and you pay
liberally a preceptor for giving him lessons of humility.
You do not perceive, that the very circumstance
of having a man of letters and accomplishments
retained about his person, for his sole
advantage, tends more forcibly to inspire him with
an idea of self-consequence, than all the lessons he
can give him to repress it. "Why do not you look
sad, you rascal?" says the undertaker to his man
in the play of The Funeral; "I give you I know
not how much money for looking sad, and the more
I give you, the gladder I think you are." So will it
be with the wealthy heir. The lectures that are
given him on condescension and affability, only
prove to him upon how much higher ground he
stands than those about him; and the very pains
that are taken with his moral character will make
him proud, by showing him how much he is the
object of attention. You cannot help these things.
Your servants, out of respect to you, will bear with
his petulance; your company, out of respect to
you, will forbear to check his impatience; and
you yourself, if he is clever, will repeat his observations.
In the exploded doctrine of sympathies, you are
directed, if you have cut your finger, to let that
alone, and put your plaster upon the knife. This
is very bad doctrine, I must confess, in philosophy;
but very good in morals. Is a man luxurious,
self-indulgent? do not apply your physic of the
soul to him, but cure his fortune. Is he haughty?
cure his rank, his title. Is he vulgar? cure his
company. Is he diffident or mean-spirited? cure
his poverty, give him consequence — but these
prescriptions go far beyond the family recipes of
education.
What then is the result? In the first place,
that we should contract our ideas of education,
and expect no more from it than it is able to perform.
It can give instruction. There will always
be an essential difference between a human being
cultivated and uncultivated. Education can provide
proper instructors in the various arts and
sciences, and portion out to the best advantage
those precious hours of youth which never will
return. It can likewise give, in a great degree,
personal habits; and even if these should afterwards
give way under the influence of contrary
circumstances, your child will feel the good effects
of them, for the later and the less will he go into
what is wrong. Let us also be assured, that the
business of education, properly so called, is not
transferable. You may engage masters to instruct
your child in this or the other accomplishment,
but you must educate him yourself. You not only
ought to do it, but you must do it, whether you
intend it or no. As education is a thing necessary
for all; for the poor and for the rich, for the
illiterate as well as for the learned; Providence
has not made in dependent upon systems uncertain,
operose, and difficult of investigation. It is
not necessary, with Rousseau or Madame Genlis,
to devote to the education of one child the talents
and the time of a number of grown men; to surround
him with an artificial world; and to counteract,
by maxims, the natural tendencies of the
situation he is placed in in society. Every one
has time to educate his child: the poor man
educates him while working in his cottage — the
man of business while employed in his counting-house.
Do we see a father who is diligent in his profession,
domestic in his habits, whose house is the
resort of well-informed intelligent people — a mother
whose time is usefully filled, whose attention
to her duties secures esteem, and whose amiable
manners attract affection? Do not be solicitous,
respectable couple, about the moral education of
your offspring! do not be uneasy because you cannot
surround them with the apparatus of books and
systems; or fancy you must retire from the world
to devote yourselves to their improvement. In
your world they are brought up much better than
they could be under any plan of factitious education
which you could provide for them: they will
imbibe affection from your caresses; taste from
your conversation; urbanity from the commerce of
your society; and mutual love from your example.
Do not regret that you are not rich enough to
provide tutors and governors, to watch his steps
with sedulous and servile anxiety, and furnish
him with maxims it is morally impossible he
should act upon when grown up. Do not you
see how seldom this over culture produces its
effect, and how many shining and excellent
characters start up every day, from the bosom of
obscurity, with scarcely any care at all?
Are children then to be neglected? Surely not:
but having given them the instruction and accomplishments
which their situation in life requires,
let us reject superfluous solicitude, and
trust that their characters will form themselves
from the spontaneous influence of good examples,
and circumstances which impel them to useful
action.
But the education of your house, important as
it is, is only a part of a more comprehensive system.
Providence takes your child where you
leave him. Providence continues his education
upon a larger scale, and by a process which includes
means far more efficacious. Has your son
entered the world at eighteen, opinionated, haughty,
rash, inclined to dissipation? Do not despair;
he may yet be cured of these faults, if it pleases
Heaven. There are remedies which you could
not persuade yourself to use, if they were in your
power, and which are specific in cases of this
kind. How often do we see the presumptuous,
giddy youth, changed into the wise counsellor,
the considerate, steady friend! How often the
thoughtless, gay girl, into the sober wife, the affectionate
mother! Faded beauty, humbled self-consequence, disappointed ambition, loss of fortune, —
this is the rough physic provided by Providence
to meliorate the temper, to correct the
offensive petulancies of youth, and bring out all
the energies of the finished character. Afflictions
soften the proud; difficulties push forward the
ingenious; successful industry gives consequence
and credit, and developes a thousand latent good
qualities. There is no malady of the mind so inveterate,
which this education of events is not
calculated to cure, if life were long enough; and
shall we not hope, that He, in whose hand are all
the remedial processes of nature, will renew the
discipline in another state, and finish the imperfect
man?
States are educated as individuals — by circumstances:
the prophet may cry aloud, and spare
not; the philosopher may descant on morals;
eloquence may exhaust itself in invective against
the vices of the age: these vices will certainly
follow certain states of poverty or riches, ignorance
or high civilisation. But what these gentle
alternatives fail of doing, may be accomplished by
an unsuccessful war, a loss of trade, or any of
those great calamities by which it pleases Providence
to speak to a nation in such language as
will be heard. If, as a nation, we would be cured
of pride, it must be by mortification; if of luxury,
by a national bankruptcy, perhaps; if of injustice,
or the spirit of domination, by a loss of national
consequence. In comparison of these strong remedies,
a fast, or a sermon, are prescriptions of
very little efficacy.