Knowledge is received by the use of words in two ways,—either by oral speech, or by written language; but in both cases, the reception of the ideas is still governed by reiteration. We shall endeavour to examine the operation in both cases.

Let us suppose that a teacher announces to a class of young children, that "Cain killed his brother Abel,"—and then examines the state of each child's mind in regard to it. All of them heard the words, but some only perhaps are now in possession of the truth communicated. Those who are so, followed the teacher in his announcement, not so much in reiterating the words, as in reiterating the idea,—the truth itself; and therefore it is, that they are now acquainted with the fact. Of those who heard, but have failed to add this truth to their stock of knowledge, there may be two classes;—those who attended to what was said, but failed to interpret the words; and those whose attention was not excited at all. Those who failed to interpret the words, or to extract the idea from them, reiterated the words to themselves, and would perhaps be able to repeat the words again, but they do so in the same manner that a person reads or repeats words in an unknown tongue. The idea,—the truth,—is not yet perceived, and therefore cannot be remembered. The others who remember nothing, have reiterated nothing; their minds remained inactive. They also heard the words, but they failed to listen to them; in the same way as they often see objects, but do not look at them. Here it is evident that every child who reiterated the idea in his own mind, is in possession of the fact communicated; and all who did not do so, even although they reiterated the words, have no addition made to their knowledge; which shews that it is only by this act of the reiteration of the ideas, that any portion of our knowledge is ever acquired.

That this is a correct exhibition of the principle, and a legitimate inference from the phenomena, may be still farther proved by an experiment similar to one formerly recommended. Let the teacher, in the middle of a story, ask some of the inattentive pupils a question respecting some of the persons or things he is speaking about, and force the reiteration of that part of the narrative in the child's mind by getting an answer, and it will be found at the close, that although he may remember nothing else of all that he heard, yet he will most perfectly remember that part about which he was questioned, and respecting which he returned an answer.

The same thing may be ascertained by our own experience, in hearing a lecture or sermon, or even in conversation with a friend. In these cases, as long as our attention is kept up,—that is, as long as we continue to reiterate the ideas that we hear,—we may remember them; but when our minds flag, or wander; in other words, when we cease to reiterate the ideas of the speaker, the sounds enter our ear, but the matter is gone. All that has been said during that period of inattention has been lost; it never has formed, and never can form, part of our knowledge.

Thus we see, that in the act of hearing oral communications, the principle of reiteration of the ideas is obviously necessary for the acquiring of knowledge; and we shall now shew, that it is equally necessary in the act of reading.

Many persons must have witnessed children reading distinctly, and fluently perhaps, who yet were not made one whit wiser by what they read. The act of reading was correctly performed, and yet there was no accession to their knowledge. The cause of this is easily explained. The ideas conveyed by the words have not been reiterated by the mind,—perhaps they were never perceived. For as long as the act of reading is difficult, the words undergo this process first, and the ideas must be gleaned afterwards. Hence it is, that children, when hurried from lesson to lesson before they can read them so easily as to perceive and reiterate the ideas while reading, acquire the habit of decyphering the words alone, and the eye from practice reads mechanically, while the mind at the moment is usually wandering, or is engaged in attending to something else. Nature, as we have before shewed in the act of hearing, does not intend that the mind should pay attention both to the words and the ideas at the same time; and reading being only an artificial substitute for hearing, is made subject to the same law. It is the ideas that Nature induces us to grapple with; and the reading of words like the hearing of language, is merely the means employed to get at them. Hence the necessity of children being taught to read fluently, and with perfect ease, before they leave the school; and the neglect of this is the reason why so many after leaving school, derive so little instruction from the use of books. Of these individuals, experience shews, that many, who on leaving school could not collect ideas by their mode of mechanical reading, yet persevere, and at last teach themselves by long practice to understand what they read; while there are not a few who, in similar circumstances, become discouraged, abandon the practice of reading, and soon forget the art altogether.

Of the correctness of these facts, every one may be convinced, by recollecting what must often have taken place with himself. When at any time the mind is exhausted while reading, we continue to read on, page after page, and when we have finished, we find, that not a single truth has made its way to the memory. Now this did not arise from any difficulty in comprehending the ideas in the book, because it does not make much difference whether the subject has been simple or otherwise; neither did it arise from the want of all mental activity, for the mind was so much engaged as to read every word and every letter in the pages upon which we were occupied. But it arose entirely from the want of that principle of which we are here speaking. The words were read mechanically, and the ideas were either not thought of, or at least they were not reiterated by the mind, and therefore it is that they are lost,—and no effort can ever again recall them. The proof of the accuracy of these views will still be found in the circumstance, that if, while the person is reading, this act of the reiteration of some one or more of the ideas be in any way forced upon him, these ideas thus reiterated will afterwards be remembered, although all the others are lost.

Here then we have arrived at a principle connected with the acquisition of knowledge, by attending to which education may be made most efficient for that purpose; but without which, education must remain a mere mechanical routine of barren exercises. No idea, no truth, we have seen, can ever form part of our knowledge, till it has undergone this particular mental process, which we have called "reiteration." If the idea, or truth, intended to be communicated, be reiterated by the mind,—thought over again,—it will then be remembered:—but if it be not reiterated by the mind, it never can. It is also worthy of remark, that the tenacity with which the memory keeps hold of any idea or truth, depends greatly upon the vigour of the mind at the time, and still more perhaps upon the frequency of its reiteration. If a child, however languid, is forced to this act of reiteration of an idea but once, it will be remembered for a longer or a shorter time; but if his mind be vigorous and lively, and more especially if he can be made repeatedly to reiterate the same idea in his mind at intervals, he will on that account, retain it much more tenaciously, and will have it at the command of the will more readily. Hence the vividness with which the scenes and the circumstances of youth arise upon the mind, and the tenacity with which the memory holds them. These scenes were of daily occurrence; and the small number of remarkable circumstances connected with childhood and youth having few rivals to compete with them in attracting the attention, were witnessed frequently with all the vigour and liveliness of the youthful mind, as yet unburdened with care. They were of course frequently subjected to observation, and as frequently reiterated by the mind, and have on these accounts ever since been vividly pictured by the imagination, and continue familiar to the memory. It also accounts for another circumstance of common occurrence. For when, even in early infancy, any event happened which made a deeper impression upon the mind than usual, that simple circumstance will generally outlive all its neighbours, and will take precedence in point of distinct recollection to the close of life. The reason of this is, not only the deep impression it made upon the mind at the moment, but principally because it had so strongly excited the feelings, that it was oftener thought of then and afterwards;—in other words, this act of reiteration occurred more frequently with respect to it than the others, and therefore it is now better remembered.

This is a principle then of which the Educationist should take advantage. For if Nature invariably communicates knowledge by inducing her pupils to exercise their own minds on the subject taught, it is plain that the teacher should follow the same plan. His pupils cannot remain mentally inactive, and yet learn; neither can the mere routine of verbal exercises either cultivate the mind or increase knowledge. These are but the husks of education, which may tantalize and weaken, but which can never satisfy the cravings of the young mind for information. Their mental food must be of a perfectly different kind, consisting of ideas, and not of words; and these ideas they must receive and concoct by the active use of their own powers. The teacher must no doubt select the food for his pupils, and prepare it for their reception, by breaking it down into morsels, suited to their capacities. But this is all. They must eat and digest it for themselves. The pupil must think over in his own mind, and for himself, all that he is either to know or remember. The ideas read or heard must be reiterated by himself,—thought over again,—if he is ever to profit by them. Without this, no care or pains on the part of the teacher, no exertion on the part of the pupil, will be of any avail. All the knowledge that he seems to acquire in any other way is repudiated by Nature; and however plausible the exercise may appear, it will ultimately be found fruitless and vain.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Note B.

[4] Note C.

[5] Note D.



CHAP. V.

On the Acquisition of Knowledge by the Principle of Individuation.

Nature, as we have seen, has rendered it imperative that the act of reiteration should be performed upon every idea before it can have an entrance into the mind, or be retained by the memory; but as the individual cannot reiterate, or think over, all the ideas suggested to him by the innumerable objects of sensation with which he is surrounded, it next becomes a matter of importance to ascertain the means employed by Nature for enabling her pupils to receive and retain the greatest number of ideas, so that they shall ever afterwards remain at the command of the will. This she accomplishes by the operation of the three other principles to which we have adverted; namely, "Individuation," or "Abstraction," "Grouping," or "Association," and "Classification," or "Analysis."—We shall in this chapter attend to the principle of "Individuation," and endeavour to trace its nature and uses in the acquisition of knowledge by the young.

The first thing in an infant that will be remarked by a close observer of Nature is, that while adding to its knowledge by observation, it always confines its attention to one thing at a time, till it has examined it. Before the period when this principle becomes conspicuous in an infant, the eye, and the other senses are in a great measure inactive, so far as the mind is concerned; and the first indication of the senses really ministering to the mind is the eye chusing an object, and the infant examining that object by itself, without allowing its attention to be distracted by any thing else.

This operation takes place as soon as an infant is capable of observation. It fixes its eye upon an object, generally one that is new to it, and it continues to look upon it till it has collected all the information that this object can give, or which the limited capacity of the infant will enable it to receive. Hence with stationary objects this information is soon acquired; but with moveable objects, or toys, or things which are capable of varying, or multiplying the ideas received by the child, the look is more intense, and the attention is sustained without fatigue for a longer time. Till this information has been received, the child continues to look on; and if the object be removed, the eye still follows it with interest, and gives it up at last with reluctance. That by this concentration of its mind upon one object, the infant is adding to its knowledge, appears evident from the fact, that objects which have already communicated their stock of information, and have become familiar, are less heeded than those that are new or uncommon. Every new thing excites the curiosity of the child, who is not content till that curiosity be gratified. This has been called "the love of novelty;"—but it is not the love of novelty in the very questionable sense in which many understand that term. On the contrary, it is obviously a wise provision of Nature, suited to the capacity and circumstances of children, which is to be taken advantage of, for conveying such crumbs and morsels of knowledge as their limited powers are able to receive; and which should never be abused, by presenting to them an unceasing whirl of names and objects,—a process which fatigues the mind, and leaves them without any specific information. It is the same principle, and is to be considered in the same light, as that which induces the philosopher to confine himself to the investigation of one phenomenon till he understands it. The information which the child is capable of receiving from each of the impressions then made is no doubt small; but it is still information—knowledge.—This is what he is seeking; and, at this stage of his progress, it is only acquired by the concentration of the powers of the mind upon one thing at a time.

The effect of this principle in the infant is worthy of remark.—While the pupil remains under the teaching of Nature, there is no confusion,—no hurry,—no failure. The tasks which she prescribes for him are never oppressive, and are constantly performed with ease and with pleasure.—Although there be no selection made by the parent or teacher for the child to exercise his faculties upon, yet he instinctively selects for himself, without hesitation, and without mistake. All the objects in a room or in a landscape are before him: yet he is never oppressed by their number, nor bewildered by their variety.—His mind is always at ease.—He chooses for himself; but he never selects more for his special observation at one time than he can conveniently attend to. When the objects are new, his attention is restricted to one till it be known; and then, but not till then, as we shall immediately see, he is able, and delights to employ himself in grouping it with others.

In early infancy this attention to one object is protracted and slow, till he gradually acquires sufficient energy of mind by practice.—Every one must have observed how slowly the eye of an infant of two or three months old moves after an object, in comparison with one of ten.—But even in the latter case, when the glance is lively and rapid, the same principle of individuation continues to operate. The information from an unknown object must still be received alone, and without distraction, although by that time the child is capable of receiving it more quickly. He is not now satisfied with viewing an object on one side, but he must view it on all sides. He endeavours by various means to acquire every one of the ideas which it is capable of communicating. His new toy is viewed with delight and wonder; and his eye by exercise can now scan in a moment its different parts.—But this is not enough; he has now learned to make use of his other senses, and he employs them also, for the purpose of becoming better acquainted with the object which he is contemplating. His toy is seized, mouthed, handled, turned, looked at on all sides, till all the information it can communicate has been received;—and then only is it cast aside for something else, which is in its turn to add to his stock of knowledge.

The circumstance to which we would especially call attention at present is, the singleness of thought exercised upon the object, during the time that the child is amused by it.—He attends to nothing else, and he will look at nothing else; and were his attention forced from it for a moment, this is evidently done unwillingly; and, when allowed, it immediately returns to the object. It is also worthy of notice, that if, while he is so engaged, we attempt to teach him something else, or in other words, to induce him to divide his attention upon some other new object, the distraction of his mind is at once apparent; we perceive that it is unnatural; and we find by experience that he does not profit by either. Now, from these indications it must be evident, that any interference with this principle of individuation in teaching any thing for the first time, must always be hurtful:—on the contrary, by attending to the principle, and acting upon it in the training of the young, it must be productive of the happiest effects.—While acted upon, under the guidance of Nature, its efficiency and power are astonishing. It is by means of this principle, that the infant mind, with all its imbecility and want of developement, acquires and retains more real knowledge in the course of a few months, than is sometimes received at school afterwards during as many years.—Few things are more cheering in prospect than the knowledge of this fact; for what may we not expect from the man, when his education while a child shall have been improved, and approximated to that of Nature!

The operation of the principle of individuation, is not confined to the infant, but continues to maintain its place during all the after stages of life, whenever any thing new and uncommon is presented as an object of knowledge. Every thing is new to the infant, and therefore this principle is more conspicuous during the early stages of education.—But it is still equally necessary for the child or the youth in similar circumstances; and Nature compels him, as it were, still to concentrate the powers of his mind upon every new object, till he has received and become familiar with the information it is calculated to furnish.—Every one must have observed the intensity with which a child examines an object which he has never seen before, and the anxiety which he evinces to know all about it.—It requires a considerable effort on his own part, and still greater on the part of others, to detach his mind from the object, till it has surrendered the full amount of information which the young enquirer is seeking. The boy with his new drum will attend to nothing else if he can help it, as long as he has any thing to learn concerning it, and the noises it is capable of producing.—And even when he has tired himself with beating it, he is not satisfied till he has explored its contents, to find out the cause which has created the sounds. The girl with her doll, in the same way, will voluntarily think of nothing else, as long as it can provide her with mental exercise; that is, as long as it can add something new to her present stock of knowledge. And it is here worthy of remark, that the apparent exception in this case, arising from the greater length of time that a doll and a few other similar toys will amuse a child, is in reality a striking confirmation, and illustration of the principle of which we are speaking.—Such toys amuse longer, because it is longer before the variety of which they are capable is exhausted.—The doll is fondled, and scolded, and cradled, and dressed, and undressed in so many different ways, that the craving for new ideas continues for a long period to be amply gratified;—but the effect would be quite different, were the very same doll placed where it could only be looked at. Every new movement with the toy is employed by Nature, for the cultivation of the mental powers, by reiterating the ideas thus imparted, and on which the imagination delights to dwell; and also in receiving a knowledge of individual objects and ideas, which, when once known, are to form the elements of future groupings, and of an endless variety of information.

It is here of importance to recollect, that almost all the information received by children, is of a sensible kind. They can form little or no idea of abstract truths. The mind and the memory must be stored with sensible objects,—first individually, and then by grouping,—before the child can arrive at a capacity for abstraction. Nature's first object, therefore, is to store the memory and imagination of the young with the names and images of things, which, as we have seen, are acquired individually, and, when once known, are remembered for future use. But those things which they have not yet seen, or felt, or heard, or tasted, are totally beyond their conception, and cannot be of any service, either in grouping, or classification.—Hence the great importance of allowing the young mind to act freely in acquiring new ideas by this principle of individuation; as without this, all the lessons into which such ideas shall afterward be introduced, must be in a great measure lost. Even adults can form no idea of an unknown object, except by compounding it of something that they already know. And this is at least equally the case with children; who, till they can group and compare objects which they have seen, can realize no idea of any thing, however simple, that has not previously been subjected to the senses.—Hence, therefore, the importance at this period of a child's education, of confining the attention chiefly to sensible objects, and of not confounding his faculties, by too early an introduction of abstract ideas.

Here then we have been able to detect the method by which Nature selects, and enables her pupils to prepare the materials of which their future knowledge is to be compounded. These materials are the ideas of sensible objects, and their properties and uses; which must be gathered and stored one by one. By inducing them to attempt to seize even two at a time, they will most probably lose both, and their powers of collecting and storing will, by the same attempt, be injured and weakened. It is by means of this principle of individuation, that, with the most intense craving for information, and while placed among innumerable objects calculated to gratify it, the infant and the child remain perfectly collected, without the slightest appearance of distraction of mind, or confusion of ideas. With his thirst of knowledge ardent and constant, it enables him with the greatest delight to add hourly to his stores of knowledge, without difficulty, without irritation, and without fatigue.

The application of these truths to the business of education, we shall attend to in its proper place; in the meantime we may remark, of how much importance it is, that all knowledge communicated to the young be simple, and that for some time it consist chiefly of sensible objects, and their qualities;—objects which they either know, or can have access to. Abstract subjects are not suited for children, till they can group, and classify, and compare the sensible objects with which they are already acquainted. The aim of the teacher, therefore, ought to be, strictly to follow Nature in this early stage of her operations, and to furnish food for his pupils, of the proper kind, and in proper proportions;—keeping the thinking powers constantly in healthful exercise, by giving as many ideas as the mind can reiterate without fatigue; but carefully avoiding all hurry or force, seeing that the powers of the mind are greatly weakened and injured by a multiplicity of objects, particularly when they are presented so rapidly, that the thoughts have not time to settle upon them, nor the mind to reiterate the ideas which they suggest.



CHAP. VI.

On the Application of Knowledge by the Principle of Association, or Grouping.

Another principle which exhibits itself in the acquisition of knowledge by Nature's pupils, is that of "grouping," or associating objects together, after they are individually known. A child, or even an infant, who is frightened, or alarmed, or who suffers any severe injury, remembers the several circumstances, and has the place, the persons, and the things connected with the event, all associated together, and grouped into one scene or picture on the memory. These objects may have been numerous; but by the operation of this principle, they have all been apprehended, and united so powerfully with each other, that no future effort of the child can either separate or obliterate any portion of them; and so comprehensive, that the recollection of any one of the circumstances instantly recalls all the others.

These groupings in the mind of a child, formed chiefly by means of the imagination, are almost wholly compounded of sensible objects; and the only necessary prerequisite for their formation appears to be a knowledge of the individual elements of which they are to be composed. If an unknown object be presented to the mind in connection with the others that are known, it is generally excluded, and the things previously known retained. For example, in the case supposed above, of an accident occurring to a child, there would be thousands of objects present, and all cognisable by the senses; but not one of all these that were unknown, that is, that had not previously undergone the process of individuation, is found to form part of the remembered group.

There is another circumstance connected with the operation of this principle in the young, which is of importance. Almost the whole of a child's knowledge is composed of these groupings. Before the developement of the reasoning powers, by which the individual is enabled to classify the elements of his knowledge, there is no way of remembering these elements in connection with each other, except by this principle. If, therefore, we change the order or relative position of the elements or objects which compose the scene, or group, we draw the attention of the pupil altogether from the former, and create another which is entirely new;—in the same way as the transposition of the figures in any sum, forms another of an entirely different amount. The drawing-room, for example, is seen by the children of the family with the fire-place, the cabinet, the sofas, the tables, and other stationary ornaments, in certain relative positions, and this grouping of those objects is to them in reality all that they know of the room. Any material change in shifting these objects to other places in the apartment, would, to the parent, whose judgment is ripened, produce feelings comparatively slight; but, to the younger branches of the family who group, but cannot as yet classify, it would appear like the complete annihilation of the former apartment. The different arrangement of a few of the articles only, would to them create another, and an entirely different room.

This leads us to observe another circumstance connected with the operation of this principle, in the instruction of the young, which is the remarkable fact, that, by making the child familiar with a very few primitive elements, a parent or teacher may communicate an almost infinite variety of groupings, or stories, for cultivating the mind, and increasing the knowledge of his pupil. Hence it is, that hundreds of agreeable and useful little histories have been composed for children, with no other machinery than a mamma and her child, and the occasional introduction of a doll or a dog, a cat or a canary bird. To the child, there is in these numerous groupings no appearance of sameness, nor want of variety; and although so much circumscribed in their original elements, they never fail to amuse and delight.

The most important circumstance, however, connected with the working of this principle in the education of the young, appears to be the necessity of a previous familiarity with the individual objects, before the child is called upon to group them. If this has been attended to, the grouping of these into any combination will be easy and pleasant;—but if his attention be called from the group, to examine exclusively even but one of its elements, the operation is checked, the mind becomes confused, its powers are weakened, and the grouping has again to commence under serious disadvantages.

To illustrate this point, let us suppose a child introduced to the bustle and sports of a common fair. Here he sees thousands both of familiar and strange objects, all of which are calculated to excite his mind to increased attention; and yet the child, while greatly amused, is still perfectly at his ease. There is not the slightest indication of his being incommoded by the numerous objects about him; no confusion of ideas, no distraction of mind, no mental distress of any kind; but, on the contrary, in the midst of so much to see and to learn, the young looker-on is not only at his ease, but appears to be delighted. The reason of this is, that he is not by any external force compelled to attend to all that he sees; and Nature within directs him to attend to no more than he is able to group, or reiterate in his thoughts. We shall endeavour to examine this condition of the child's mind in such circumstances a little more particularly.

The child in the circumstances supposed, must either be a spectator in general, or an examiner in particular; in other words, he must either employ himself with the principle of combination or grouping, or with the principle of individuation,—but he never attempts to employ himself with both at the same time. If he amuses himself as an observer in general, he is engaged in grouping objects which are already familiar to him; but while he is so engaged, he never directs his attention to any one unknown object for the purpose of examining it for the first time by itself. He passes over all the minute and unknown objects with a glance, and attends only to the grouping or associating of those which are already familiar. Nature induces him, while thus employed, to pass by all these minute and unknown objects; because, if he were to do otherwise, his observation in general would instantly be recalled, and his whole attention would be monopolized by the object which he had resolved to examine, to the exclusion of every other for the time. This, however, is not what he seeks; and he employs himself entirely in the grouping of things which are already known. His mind is left at ease, and in the possession of all its powers; he looks only at those things which please him; and he passes over all the others without effort or difficulty.

But if the boy shall come to something strange and new, which he is desirous of studying more closely, he immediately becomes an examiner in particular; but, at the same moment, he ceases to be an observer in general. The extended business of the fair, and the several groupings of which it is composed, are lost sight of for the moment;—the principle of individuation begins to act, and the operation of the principle of association, or grouping, is at the same moment brought to a stand. The two are incompatible, and cannot act together; and therefore Nature never allows the one to interfere with the other.

To shew the evil effects of overlooking this important law of Nature in the education of a child, we have only to attend to the painful results which would be the consequence of acting contrary to it, even in the vigorous mind of an adult. Let us for this purpose suppose a person of a powerful understanding, and a capacious mind, ushered for the first time, and for only five minutes into a crowded apartment in some eastern caravansary, or eastern bazaar, in which every thing to him was new and strange; and let us also suppose that it was imperatively demanded of him, that he should, in that short space of time, make himself acquainted with all that was going on, and be able, on his retiring, minutely to describe all that he saw. The first moment he entered, and the first strange object that caught his eye, would convince him that the thing was impossible. If, without such a demand, he had been introduced into such a place, and had seen various groups of strange persons differently employed, each engaged in a manner altogether new to him, and the nature of which was wholly unknown, he might look on with perfect composure, and considerable amusement, because he could attend, like the boy in the fair, either to the general mass, to isolated groups, or to individual things. He would in that case attend to no more than he was able to understand; and would placidly allow the other parts of the scene to pass without any particular attention. But the imperative injunction here supposed,—this pressure from without,—this artificial and unnatural demand upon him,—entirely alters the case. If he even attempted to make himself master of all the particulars of the scene in a circumscribed portion of time, he would find himself bewildered and confounded. The very attempt to individualize and to group so many various objects at the same moment, within such a limited period, would be enough to prostrate all the powers of his mind. He might perhaps be able to observe the persons and their costume, because varieties of persons and dresses are daily and constantly objects of observation, and are grouped without difficulty; but of their several employments, of which he was previously ignorant, he could know nothing, and on retiring, he would neither be able to remember nor to describe them. In such an experiment, it would be found, that the more anxious he was to perfect his task and to answer the demand, in the same proportion would he find himself harassed and distressed, and the powers of his mind overstretched and weakened. And if this would be the result of confounding the principles of individuation and grouping in an adult,—a person of good understanding, and of vigorous mind,—how much more hurtful must such a task be, when demanded from children or youths of ordinary capacity, during their attendance at school!

Few we believe will doubt the general accuracy of the above results in the cases supposed;—but some may perhaps question, whether they really do arise from the interference of these two antagonist principles during the experiment. To shew that this is the real cause of the distress felt, and the weakness and prostration of mind produced during it, we have only to institute another experiment which is exactly parallel. Let us suppose the same person, and for the same limited period, ushered into the traveller's room in a well frequented hotel, and let us also suppose, that the very same demand is made imperative, that he shall observe, and again detail when he retires, all that he sees. Let us also suppose, that the number of persons here is equally great, and that their employments are all equally diversified, but that each is familiar to him; and we will at once see that the difficulty of the task is really as nothing. A child could accomplish it. His eye would be able to group the whole in an instant, without effort, and without fatigue. If he saw one party at supper, another at tea, another group at cards, and others amusing themselves at draughts and backgammon; one minute instead of five, would be quite enough to make him master of the whole. On retiring, he would be able to tell the employment of every group in the room; and if any of his acquaintances had made part of the number, he would be able to tell who they were, where they were sitting, and how they were occupied. In doing all this he would find no difficulty; and yet the knowledge he has received is entirely new, and so extensive, that it would take at least ten fold more time to rehearse it, than it took to acquire it. The entire scene also would be permanently imprinted by the imagination upon the memory; and the whole, or any part of it, could be recalled, and reviewed, and rehearsed, at any future period. Here then are two cases, precisely similar in their nature, and undertaken by the very same person, where the results are widely different; and we now see, that the difference arises entirely from the principle of individuation having prepared the way in the one case, while it was not allowed to operate in the other.

From these circumstances taken together, we perceive, that the grouping of objects, when once they are individually familiar, is never a difficult task, but is rather one of gratification and pleasure;—and we also are taught, that the amount of knowledge thus pleasantly communicated to a child may be most extensive and valuable, while the materials necessary for the purpose, being comparatively few, may be previously rendered familiar with very little exertion. It is the confounding of these two principles in the communication of knowledge, that makes learning appear so forbidding to the young, and prevents that cultivation of the mental powers by their exercises which these would otherwise infallibly produce. By keeping each in its proper place, a child will soon acquire a thorough knowledge of the few elements necessary for the purpose; and these, when acquired, may be grouped by the teacher into thousands of forms, for extending the knowledge, and for invigorating the mind of his delighted pupil.

The benevolence and wisdom of this beautiful arrangement in the educational process of Nature, are truly wonderful; and in proportion as it is so, every deviation from it on our parts will be attended with disappointment and evil. If all our ideas were to be acquired and retained by the principle of individuation alone, the memory being without help or resting place, would soon become so overpowered by their number, that our knowledge would be greatly circumscribed, and its use impeded. Of the benefits arising from attention to the principle we have many apt illustrations in ordinary life, among which the various groupings of the ten numeral figures into sums of any amount, and the forming of so many thousands of words by a different arrangement of the letters of the alphabet, are familiar examples. When a child knows the ten numerals, he requires no more teaching to ascertain the precise amount of any one number among all the millions which these figures can represent. The value of such an acquirement can only be appreciated by considering the labour it would cost a child to gain a knowledge of all these sums individually, and the overwhelming burden laid upon his memory if each of the millions of sums had to be remembered by a separate character. By the knowledge and various groupings of only ten such characters, the whole of this mighty burden is removed.

In the art of writing, the same principle is brought into operation with complete success, by the combination, or various groupings of the twenty-six letters of the common Roman alphabet in the formation of words. The value of this adaptation of the principle will be obvious, if we shall suppose, that a person who is acquainted with all the modern European languages, had been compelled to discriminate, and continue to remember, a distinct arbitrary mark or character for the many thousands of words contained in each. We may not be warranted, perhaps, to say that such a task would be impossible; but that it would be inconceivably burdensome can admit of no doubt. We have, indeed, in the writings of the Chinese, although it is but one language, a living monument of the evil effects of the neglect of this principle in literature, and the unceasing inconveniences which daily arise from that empire continuing to persevere in it. There is comparatively but little combination of characters in their words, and the consequences are remarkable. In that extensive empire, the highest rewards, and the chief posts of honour and emolument, are held out to those who are most learned, whatever be their rank or their station; and yet, amidst a population immersed in poverty and wretchedness, not one person in a thousand can master even one of their books; and not one in ten thousand of those who profess to read, is able to peruse them all. The reason of this simply is, the neglect of this natural principle of grouping letters, or the signs of sounds, in their written language. With us, the elements of all the words in all the European languages are only twenty-six; and the child who has once mastered the combination of these, in any one of our books, has the whole of our literature at his command.

The application of this principle to the elements of general knowledge is equally necessary, as its application to written language. The difficulty of remembering the many thousands of unconnected characters in Chinese literature, is an exact emblem of what will always be the case with children in respect to their general knowledge, when this principle of association, or grouping, is neglected. Adults acquire and retain a large portion of their knowledge, as we shall afterwards see, by the principle of classification and analysis; but children are not as yet capable of this; and they must receive their knowledge by the grouping of a few simple elements previously known, or they will not be able to receive and retain knowledge at all. The amount of this knowledge also, it should be kept in mind, is not at all in proportion to the number or the variety of the elements of which that knowledge is composed. We have formerly alluded to this, and it may be farther illustrated by a circumstance of daily occurrence. A seaman when he observes a vessel at a distance knows her class and character in an instant, whether she be a sloop or a brig, a schooner or a ship, and he forms an instantaneous idea of all her parts grouped into a whole. His memory, instead of being harassed in remembering the shape, and place, and position of each of its several parts, is relieved of the whole by the operation of this principle of association. The whole rigging, about which his mind is occupied, is composed of only three elements,—ropes, and spars, and sails,—with each of which he has long ago made himself familiar. All the remaining parts of this kind of knowledge are a mere matter of grouping. By previously observing the varied arrangement of the spars, and ropes, and sails, on the several masts of the different kinds of vessels, he has already grouped them into one whole, and each is remembered by itself without effort, and without mistake. They are retained, as it were, painted by the imagination upon the memory, and may at any after period be recalled and reviewed at pleasure. Hence the sight of a vessel in the distance calls up the former pictures to the mind, and enables the practised eye of the mariner to decide at once as to the kind and character of what he so imperfectly sees.—This helps also to explain the reason why children are so gratified with pictures when presented to the eye; and why they are best pleased when the figures are most simple and distinct, and particularly, when the objects grouped in the picture have previously been familiar. Pictures are indeed a pretty close imitation of Nature in this part of her work; and they are defective chiefly on account of their want of motion and continuity. These last are two great and inimitable characteristics in all the groupings painted upon the memory by the imagination.

From all this it is obvious, that there is an essential difference between a child's acquiring the knowledge of things individually, and acquiring a knowledge of their several associations. The two must never, if possible, be confounded with each other. When they are kept distinct in the education of a child, he has an evident pleasure in attending to either; but as soon as they are allowed to interfere, and more especially when they are systematically blended together in the same exercise, he experiences confusion, irritation, and fatigue. There is no necessity, however, for this ever being the case. All that is required is, that the few individual elements that are to be grouped or associated in a lesson, whether they be objects or ideas, shall previously be made familiar to the pupil. These, when once known, may be brought before the mind of the child in any variety of order or form, and will be received readily and pleasantly, and will be retained by the memory without confusion, and without effort. By attention to these two principles, keeping each in its proper place, and bringing each to aid and uphold the other in its proper order, it will be found, that a child may be taught more real knowledge in one week, than is often communicated in other circumstances in the course of a year.



CHAP. VII.

On the Acquisition of Knowledge by the Principle of Analysis, or Classification.

There is yet another principle brought into operation by Nature to enable her pupils to receive, to retain, and to make use of their knowledge. This is the principle of Classification, or Analysis.[6] The difference between this and the former principle described we think is sufficiently marked. The principle of Association, or Grouping, is carried on chiefly by means of the imagination, and begins to operate as soon as the mind is capable of imagining any thing; but the principle of Classification, or Analysis, is more intimately connected with the judgment. The consequence of this is, that it is but very partially called into action during the early stages of a child's education, and is never able to operate with vigour, till the reasoning powers of the pupil begin to develope themselves.

The characteristic differences between the two principles, and their respective uses in education, may be illustrated by a circumstance of every-day occurrence. For example, a child who from infancy has been brought up in a house of several apartments, gets acquainted with each of the rooms by means of its contents. He has been in the habit of seeing the heavy pieces of furniture in each apartment in a certain place and order, and the room and its furniture, therefore, are identified together, and remain painted upon his imagination exactly as he has been in the habit of seeing them. In this case, the articles of furniture in the room are grouped, and not classified; and are remembered together, not on account of their nature and uses, but purely on account of their position, and their relative arrangement in the room. Most of our readers perhaps, will remember the strange feelings produced in their minds during some period of their childhood, when in the house of their infancy, some material alteration of this kind was effected in one or more of the rooms. A change in the position of a bed, or the abstraction or introduction of a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, or other bulky piece of furniture, causes in the mind of the child an effect much deeper, and more extensive, than in the adult. The former picture of the place never having been observed or contemplated in any other aspect, is painted by the imagination, and fixed upon his memory, by long continued familiarity. But by this change it is suddenly defaced; and the new group, partaking as it will do of some of the elements of the old, produces feelings which are strange and unaccountable, and entirely different from those of his parents, who have been in the habit of contemplating the room and its furniture more by the exercise of the judgment, than of the imagination; that is, more by their uses, than by their appearance.

The cause of this strangeness of feeling in a child, arises from the predominance of the principle of grouping, over that of classification. He has as yet no knowledge of any of the apartments in the house, except what he has received by grouping their contents. When, therefore, their arrangement is materially altered, the reasoning powers not being as yet able to soften down the effect, the former apartment appears to the child as if it had ceased to exist. He can scarcely believe it to be the same. He never thinks of the uses of the articles in the apartment, but only of their appearance;—the first being an act of the judgment,—the latter of the imagination. In a similar manner he thinks of the kitchen and its furniture, not as a part of the household economy, but only in connection with the articles it contains. The dresser, the jack, and the tin covers, are never thought of in connection with their uses; but are identified with the kitchen, merely because they have always been seen there, and seen together. In like manner, the seats, the tables, and the ornaments of the drawing-room, are not connected in the child's mind because they are what are commonly called "drawing-room furniture," for that would imply a degree of reasoning of which he is as yet unacquainted; but they are remembered together, as they have always been observed in that particular place, and are now pictured on the mind, in the position in which they are usually beheld. Their particular locality in the room, and their relative position with respect to each other, are of far more importance in assisting the memory of the child, than any knowledge which he has as yet acquired of their respective uses.

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:

[6] Note E.



CHAP. VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAP. IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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