more steadily he abides by his first views, the more he commands and
obtains respect. But if, unfortunately, he makes a mistake at first,
his obstinacy in errour is not to be easily corrected, for he is not
affected by the general voice of disapprobation, nor by the partial
loss of the common pleasures of sympathy. The vain man, on the
contrary, is in danger, let him form his first notions of right and
wrong ever so justly, of changing them when he happens to be in
society with any persons who do not agree with him in their moral
opinions, or who refuse him that applause which supports his own
feeble self-approbation. We must, in education, endeavour to guard
against these opposite dangers; we must enlighten the understanding,
to give our pupils the power of forming their rules of conduct
rightly, and we must give them sufficient strength of mind to abide by
the principles which they have formed. When we first praise children,
we must be careful to associate pleasure with those things which are
really deserving of approbation. If we praise them for beauty, or for
any happy expressions which entertain us, but which entertain us
merely as the sprightly nonsense of childhood, we create vanity in the
minds of our pupils; we give them false ideas of merit, and, if we
excite them to exertions, they are not exertions directed to any
valuable objects. Praise is a strong stimulus to industry, if it be
properly managed; but if we give it in too large and lavish quantities
early in life, we shall soon find that it loses its effect, and yet
that the _patient_ languishes for want of the excitation which custom
has rendered almost essential to his existence. We say the _patient_,
for this mental languor may be considered entirely as a disease. For
its cure, see the second volume of Zoonomia, under the article Vanity.

Children, who are habituated to the daily and hourly food of praise,
continually require this sustenance unless they are attended to; but
we may gradually break bad habits. It is said, that some animals can
supply themselves at a single draught with what will quench their
thirst for many days. The human animal may, perhaps, by education, be
taught similar foresight and abstinence in the management of his
thirst for flattery. Young people, who live with persons that seldom
bestow praise, do not expect that stimulus, and they are content if
they discover by certain signs, either in the countenance, manner, or
tone of voice, of those whom they wish to please, that they are
tolerably well satisfied. It is of little consequence by what language
approbation is conveyed, whether by words, or looks, or by that
silence which speaks with so much eloquence; but it is of great
importance that our pupils should set a high value upon the
expressions of our approbation. They will value it in proportion to
their esteem and their affection for us; we include in the word
_esteem_, a belief in our justice, and in our discernment. Expressions
of affection, associated with praise, not only increase the pleasure,
but they alter the nature the of that pleasure; and if they gratify
vanity, they at the same time excite some of the best feelings of the
heart. The selfishness of vanity is corrected by this association; and
the two pleasures of sympathy and self-complacency should never, when
we can avoid it, be separated.

Children, who are well educated, and who have acquired an habitual
desire for the approbation of their friends, may continue absolutely
indifferent to the praise of strangers, or of _common_ acquaintance;
nor is it probable that this indifference should suddenly be
conquered, because the greatest part of the pleasure of praise in
their mind, depends upon the esteem and affection which they feel for
the persons by whom it is bestowed. Instead of desiring that our
pupils should entirely repress, in the company of their own family,
the pleasure which they feel from the praise that is given to them by
their friends, we should rather indulge them in this natural expansion
of mind; we should rather permit their youthful vanity to display
itself openly to those whom they most love and esteem, than drive
them, by unreasonable severity, and a cold refusal of sympathy, into
the society of less rigid observers. Those who have an aversion to
vanity, will not easily bear with its uncultivated intemperance of
tongue; but they should consider, that much of what disgusts them, is
owing to the simplicity of childhood, which must be allowed time to
learn that respect for the feelings of others, which teaches us to
restrain our own: but we must not be in haste to restrain, lest we
teach hypocrisy, instead of strength of mind, or real humility. If we
expect that children should excel, and should not know that they
excel, we expect impossibilities; we expect at the same time,
intelligence and stupidity. If we desire that they should be excited
by praise, and that, at the same time, they should feel no pleasure in
the applause which they have earned, we desire things that are
incompatible. If we encourage children to be frank and sincere, and
yet, at the same time, reprove them whenever they naturally express
their opinions of themselves, or the pleasurable feelings of
self-approbation, we shall counteract our own wishes. Instead of
hastily blaming children for the sincere and simple expression of
their self-complacency, or of their desire for the approbation of
others, we should gradually point out to them the truth--that those
who refrain from that display of their own perfections which we call
vanity, in fact are well repaid for the constraint which they put upon
themselves, by the superior degree of respect and sympathy which they
obtain; that vain people effectually counteract their own wishes, and
meet with contempt, instead of admiration. By appealing constantly,
when we praise, to the judgment of the pupils themselves, we shall at
once teach them the habit of re-judging flattery, and substitute, by
insensible degrees, patient, steady confidence in themselves, for the
wavering, weak, impatience of vanity. In proportion as any one's
confidence in himself increases, his anxiety for the applause of
others diminishes: people are very seldom vain of any accomplishments
in which they obviously excel, but they frequently continue to be vain
of those which are doubtful. Where mankind have not confirmed their
own judgment, they are restless, and continually aim either at
convincing others, or themselves, that they are in the right. Hogarth,
who invented a new and original manner of satirizing the follies of
mankind, was not vain of this talent, but was extremely vain of his
historical paintings, which were indifferent performances. Men of
acknowledged literary talents, are seldom fond of amateurs; but, if
they are but half satisfied of their own superiority, they collect the
tribute of applause with avidity, and without discrimination or
delicacy. Voltaire has been reproached with treating strangers rudely
who went to Ferney, to see and admire a philosopher as a prodigy.
Voltaire valued his time more than he did this vulgar admiration; his
visiters, whose understanding had not gone through exactly the same
process, who had not, probably, been satisfied with public applause,
and who set, perhaps, a considerable value upon their own praise,
could not comprehend this appearance of indifference to admiration in
Voltaire, especially when it was well known that he was not insensible
of fame. He was, at an advanced age, exquisitely anxious about the
fate of one of his tragedies; and a public coronation at the theatre
at Paris, had power to inebriate him at eighty-four. Those who have
exhausted the stimulus of wine, may yet be intoxicated by opium. The
voice of numbers appears to be sometimes necessary to give delight to
those who have been fatigued with the praise of individuals; but this
taste for _acclamation_ is extremely dangerous. A multitude of good
judges seldom meet together.

By a slight difference in their manner of reasoning, two men of
abilities, who set out with the same desire for fame, may acquire
different habits of pride, or of vanity; the one may value the number,
the other may appreciate the judgment of his admirers. There is
something not only more wise, but more elevated, in this latter
species of select triumph; the noise is not so great; the music is
better. "If I listened to the music of praise," says an historian, who
obviously was not insensible to its charms, "I was more seriously
satisfied with the approbation of my _judges_. The candour of Dr.
Robertson embraced his disciple. A letter from Mr. Hume overpaid the
labour of ten years."[93] Surely no one can be displeased with this
last generous expression of enthusiasm; we are not so well satisfied
with Buffon, when he ostentatiously displays the epistles of a prince
and an empress.[94]

Perhaps, by pointing out at proper opportunities the difference in our
feelings with respect to vulgar and refined vanity, we might make a
useful impression upon those who have yet their habits to form. The
conversion of vanity into pride, is not so difficult a process as
those, who have not analyzed both, might, from the striking difference
of their appearance, imagine. By the opposite tendencies of education,
opposite characters from the same original dispositions are produced.
Cicero, had he been early taught to despise the applause of the
multitude, would have turned away like the proud philosopher, who
asked his friends what absurdity he had uttered, when he heard the
populace loud in acclamations of his speech; and the cynic, whose
vanity was seen through the holes in his cloak, might, perhaps, by a
slight difference in his education, have been rendered ambitious of
the Macedonian purple.

In attempting to convert vanity into pride, we must begin by
exercising the vain patient in forbearance of present pleasure; it is
not enough to convince his understanding, that the advantages of proud
humility are great; he may be perfectly sensible of this, and may yet
have so little command over himself, that his loquacious vanity may
get the better, from hour to hour, of his better judgment. Habits are
not to be instantaneously conquered by reason; if we do not keep this
fact in our remembrance, we shall be frequently disappointed in
education; and we shall, perhaps, end by thinking that reason can do
nothing, if we begin by thinking that she can do every thing. We must
not expect that a vain child should suddenly break and forget all his
past associations; but we may, by a little early attention, prevent
much of the trouble of curing, or converting, the disease of vanity.

When children first begin to learn accomplishments, or to apply
themselves to literature, those who instruct, are apt to encourage
them with too large a portion of praise; _the smallest quantity of
stimulus that can produce the exertion we desire, should be used_; if
we use more, we waste our power, and injure our pupil. As soon as
habit has made any exertion familiar, and consequently easy, we may
withdraw the original excitation, and the exertion will still
continue. In learning, for instance, a new language, at first, whilst
the pupil is in the midst of the difficulties of regular and irregular
verbs, and when, in translation, a dictionary is wanted at every
moment, the occupation itself cannot be very agreeable; but we are
excited by the hope that our labour will every day diminish, and that
we shall at last enjoy the entertainment of reading useful and
agreeable books. Children, who have not learnt by experience the
pleasures of literature, cannot feel this hope as strongly as we do,
we, therefore, excite them by praise; but by degrees they begin to
feel the pleasure of success and occupation; when these are felt, we
may and ought to withdraw the unnecessary excitements of praise. If we
continue, we mislead the child's mind, and, whilst we deprive him of
his natural reward, we give him a factitious taste. When any moral
habit is to be acquired, or when we wish that our pupil should cure
himself of any fault, we must employ at first strong excitement, and
reward with warmth and eloquence of approbation; when the fault is
conquered, when the virtue is acquired, the extraordinary excitement
should be withdrawn, and all this should not be done with an air of
mystery and artifice; the child should know all that we do, and why
we do it; the sooner he learns how his own mind is managed, the
better--the sooner he will assist in his own education.

Every body must have observed, that languor of mind succeeds to the
intoxication of vanity; if we can avoid the intoxication, we shall
avoid the languor. Common sayings often imply those sensible
observations which philosophers, when they theorize only, express in
other words. We frequently hear it said to a child, "Praise spoils
you; my praise did you harm; you can't bear praise well; you grow
conceited; you become idle; you are good for nothing, because you have
been too much flattered." All these expressions show, that the
consequences of over-stimulating the mind by praise, have been vaguely
taken notice of in education; but no general rules have been deduced
from these observations. With children of different habits and
temperaments, the same degree of excitement acts differently, so that
it is scarcely possible to fix upon any positive quantity fit for all
dispositions--the quantity must be relative; but we may, perhaps, fix
upon a criterion by which, in most cases, the proportion may be
ascertained. The golden rule,[95] which an eminent physician has given
to the medical world for ascertaining the necessary and useful
quantity of stimulus for weak and feverish patients, may, with
advantage, be applied in education. Whenever praise produces the
intoxication of vanity, it is hurtful; whenever the appearances of
vanity diminish in consequence of praise, we may be satisfied that it
does good, that it increases the pupil's confidence in himself, and
his strength of mind. We repeat, that persons who have confidence in
themselves, may be proud, but are never vain; that vanity cannot
support herself without the concurring flattery of others; pride is
satisfied with his own approbation. In the education of children who
are more inclined to pride than to vanity, we must present large
objects to the understanding, and large motives must be used to excite
voluntary exertion. If the understanding of proud people be not early
cultivated, they frequently fix upon some false ideas of honour or
dignity, to which they are resolute martyrs through life. Thus the
high-born Spaniards, if we may be allowed to reason from the imperfect
history of national character. The Spaniards, who associate the ideas
of dignity and indolence, would rather submit to the evils of poverty,
than to the imaginary disgrace of working for their bread. Volney, and
the baron de Tott, give us some curious instances of the pride of the
Turks, which prevents them from being taught any useful arts by
foreigners. To show how early false associations are formed and
supported by pride, we need but recollect the anecdote of the child
mentioned by de Tott.[96] The baron de Tott bought a pretty toy for a
present for a little Turkish friend, but the child was too proud to
seem pleased with the toy; the child's grandfather came into the room,
saw, and was delighted with the toy, sat down on the carpet, and
played with it until he broke it. We like the second childhood of the
grandfather better than the premature old age of the grandson.

The self-command which the fear of disgrace insures, can produce
either great virtues, or great vices. Revenge and generosity are, it
is said, to be found in their highest state amongst nations and
individuals characterized by pride. The early objects which are
associated with the idea of honour in the mind, are of great
consequence; but it is of yet more consequence to teach proud minds
early to bend to the power of reason, or rather to glory in being
governed by reason. They should be instructed, that the only possible
means of maintaining their opinions amongst persons of sense, is to
support them by unanswerable arguments. They should be taught, that,
to secure respect, they must deserve it; and their self-denial, or
self-command, should never obtain that tacit admiration which they
most value, except where it is exerted for useful and rational
purposes. The constant custom of appealing, in the last resort, to
their own judgment, which distinguishes the proud from the vain, makes
it peculiarly necessary that the judgment, to which so much is
trusted, should be highly cultivated. A vain man may be tolerably well
conducted in life by a sensible friend; a proud man ought to be able
to conduct himself perfectly well, because he will not accept of any
assistance. It seems that some proud people confine their benevolent
virtues within a smaller sphere than others; they value only their own
relations, their friends, their country, or whatever is connected with
themselves. This species of pride may be corrected by the same means
which are used to increase sympathy.[97] Those who, either from
temperament, example, or accidental circumstances, have acquired the
habit of repressing and commanding their emotions, must be carefully
distinguished from the selfish and insensible. In the present times,
when the affectation of sensibility is to be dreaded, we should rather
encourage that species of pride which disdains to display the
affections of the heart. "You Romans triumph over your tears, and call
it virtue! I triumph in my tears," says Caractacus; his tears were
respectable, but in general the Roman triumph would command the most
sympathy.

Some people attribute to pride all expressions of confidence in one's
self: these may be offensive to common society, but they are sometimes
powerful over the human mind, and where they are genuine, mark
somewhat superior in character. Much of the effect of lord Chatham's
eloquence, much of his transcendent influence in public, must be
attributed to the confidence which he showed in his own superiority.
"I trample upon impossibilities!" was an exclamation which no
inferiour mind would dare to make. Would the house of commons have
permitted any one but lord Chatham to have answered an oration by
"Tell me, gentle shepherd, where?" The danger of failing, the hazard
that he runs of becoming ridiculous who verges upon the moral sublime,
is taken into our account when we judge of the action, and we pay
involuntary tribute to courage and success: but how miserable is the
fate of the man who mistakes his own powers, and upon trial is unable
to support his assumed superiority; mankind revenge themselves without
mercy upon his ridiculous pride, eager to teach him the difference
between insolence and magnanimity. Young people inclined to over-rate
their own talents, or to under-value the abilities of others, should
frequently have instances given to them from real life, of the
mortifications and disgrace to which imprudent boasters expose
themselves. Where they are able to demonstrate their own abilities,
they run no risk in speaking with decent confidence; but where their
success depends, in any degree, either upon fortune or opinion, they
should never run the hazard of presumption. Modesty prepossesses
mankind in favour of its possessor, and has the advantage of being
both graceful and safe: this was perfectly understood by the crafty
Ulysses, who neither raised his eyes, nor stretched his sceptered
hand, "when he first rose to speak." We do not, however, recommend
this artificial modesty; its trick is soon discovered, and its
sameness of dissimulation presently disgusts. Prudence should prevent
young people from hazardous boasting; and good nature and good sense,
which constitute real politeness, will restrain them from obtruding
their merits to the mortification of their companions: but we do not
expect from them total ignorance of their own comparative merit. The
affectation of humility, when carried to the extreme, to which all
affectation is liable to be carried, appears full as ridiculous as
troublesome, and offensive as any of the graces of vanity, or the airs
of pride. Young people are cured of presumption by mixing with
society, but they are not so easily cured of any species of
affectation.

In the chapter on female accomplishments, we have endeavoured to point
out, that the enlargement of understanding in the fair sex, which must
result from their increasing knowledge, will necessarily correct the
feminine foibles of vanity and affectation.

Strong, prophetic, eloquent praise, like that which the great lord
Chatham bestowed on his son, would rather inspire in a generous soul
noble emulation, than paltry vanity. "On this boy," said he, laying
his hand upon his son's head, "descends my mantle, with a double
portion of my spirit!" Phillip's praise of his son Alexander, when the
boy rode the unmanageable horse,[98] is another instance of the kind
of praise capable of exciting ambition.

As to ambition, we must decide what species of ambition we mean,
before we can determine whether it ought to be encouraged or
repressed; whether it should be classed amongst virtues or vices; that
is to say, whether it adds to the happiness or the misery of human
creatures. "The inordinate desire of fame," which often destroys the
lives of millions when it is connected with ideas of military
enthusiasm, is justly classed amongst the "_diseases of volition_:"
for its description and cure we refer to Zoonomia, vol. ii. Achilles
will there appear to his admirers, perhaps, in a new light.

The ambition to rise in the world, usually implies a mean, sordid
desire of riches, or what are called honours, to be obtained by the
common arts of political intrigue, by cabal to win popular favour, or
by address to conciliate the patronage of the great. The experience of
those who have been governed during their lives by this passion, if
passion it may be called, does not show that it can confer much
happiness either in the pursuit or attainment of its objects. See Bubb
Doddington's Diary, a most useful book; a journal of the petty
anxieties, and constant dependence, to which an ambitious courtier is
necessarily subjected. See also Mirabeau's "Secret History of the
Court of Berlin," for a picture of a man of great abilities degraded
by the same species of low unprincipled competition. We may find in
these books, it is to be hoped, examples which will strike young and
generous minds, and which may inspire them with contempt for the
objects and the means of vulgar ambition. There is a more noble
ambition, by which the enthusiastic youth, perfect in the theory of
all the virtues, and warm with yet unextinguished benevolence, is apt
to be seized; his heart beats with the hope of immortalizing himself
by noble actions; he forms extensive plans for the improvement and the
happiness of his fellow creatures; he feels the want of power to carry
these into effect; power becomes the object of his wishes. In the
pursuit, in the attainment of this object, how are his feelings
changed! M. Necker, in the preface to his work on French finance,[99]
paints, with much eloquence, and with an appearance of perfect truth,
the feelings of a man of virtue and genius, before and after the
attainment of political power. The moment when a minister takes
possession of his place, surrounded by crowds and congratulations, is
well described; and the succeeding moment, when clerks with immense
portfolios enter, is a striking contrast. Examples from romance can
never have such a powerful effect upon the mind, as those which are
taken from real life; but in proportion to the just and lively
representation of situations, and passions resembling reality,
fictions may convey useful moral lessons. In the Cyropædia there is an
admirable description of the day spent by the victorious Cyrus, giving
audience to the unmanageable multitude, after the taking of Babylon
had accomplished the fullness of his ambition.[100]

It has been observed, that these examples of the insufficiency of the
objects of ambition to happiness, seldom make any lasting impression
upon the minds of the ambitious. This may arise from two causes; from
the reasoning faculty's not having been sufficiently cultivated, or
from the habits of ambition being formed before proper examples are
presented to the judgment for comparison. Some ambitious people, when
they reason coolly, acknowledge and feel the folly of their pursuits;
but still, from the force of habit, they act immediately in obedience
to the motives which they condemn: others, who have never been
accustomed to reason firmly, believe themselves to be in the right in
the choice of their objects; and they cannot comprehend the arguments
which are used by those who have not the same way of thinking as
themselves. If we fairly place facts before young people, who have
been habituated to reason, and who have not yet been inspired with the
passion, or enslaved by the habits of vulgar ambition, it is probable,
that they will not be easily effaced from the memory, and that they
will influence the conduct through life.

It sometimes happens to men of a sound understanding, and a
philosophic turn of mind, that their ambition decreases with their
experience. They begin with some ardor, perhaps, an ambitious pursuit;
but by degrees they find the pleasure of the occupation sufficient
without the fame, which was their original object. This is the same
process which we have observed in the minds of children with respect
to the pleasures of literature, and the taste for sugar-plums.

Happy the child who can be taught to improve himself without the
stimulus of sweetmeats! Happy the man who can preserve activity
without the excitements of ambition!

FOOTNOTES:

[93] Gibbon. Memoirs of his Life and Writings, page 148.--Perhaps
Gibbon had this excellent line of Mrs. Barbauld's in his memory:

    "And pay a life of hardships with a line."

[94] See Peltier's state of Paris in the years 1795 and 1796.

[95] See Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 99.

[96] V. De Tott's Memoirs, p. 138, a note.

[97] V. Sympathy.

[98] V. Plutarch.

[99] Necker de l'Administration des Finances de la France, vol. i. p.
98.

[100] Cyropædia, vol. ii. page 303.

CHAPTER XII.

BOOKS.

The first books which are now usually put into the hands of a child,
are Mrs. Barbauld's Lessons; they are by far the best books of the
kind that have ever appeared; those only who know the difficulty and
the importance of such compositions in education, can sincerely
rejoice, that the admirable talents of such a writer have been
employed in such a work. We shall not apologize for offering a few
remarks on some passages in these little books, because we are
convinced that we shall not offend.

Lessons for children from three to four years old, should, we think,
have been lessons for children from four to five years old; few read,
or ought to read, before that age.

"Charles shall have a pretty new lesson."

In this sentence the words pretty and new are associated; but they
represent ideas which ought to be kept separate in the mind of a
child. The love of novelty is cherished in the minds of children by
the common expressions that we use to engage them to do what we
desire. "You shall have a new whip, a new hat," are improper modes of
expression to a child. We have seen a boy who had literally twenty new
whips in one year, and we were present when his father, to comfort him
when he was in pain, went out to buy him a _new_ whip, though he had
two or three scattered about the room.

The description, in the first part of Mrs. Barbauld's Lessons, of the
naughty boy who tormented the robin, and who was afterwards supposed
to be eaten by bears, is more objectionable than any in the book: the
idea of killing is in itself very complex, and, if explained, serves
only to excite terror; and how can a child be made to comprehend why a
cat _should_ catch mice, and not kill birds? or why should this
species of honesty be expected from an animal of prey?

"I want my dinner."

Does Charles take it for granted, that what he eats is his own, and
that he _must_ have his dinner? These and similar expressions are
words of course; but young children should not be allowed to use them:
if they are permitted to assume the tone of command, the feelings of
impatience and ill temper quickly follow, and children become the
little tyrants of a family. Property is a word of which young people
have general ideas, and they may, with very little trouble, be
prevented from claiming things to which they have no right. Mrs.
Barbauld has judiciously chosen to introduce a little boy's daily
history in these books; all children are extremely interested for
Charles, and they are very apt to expect that every thing which
happens to him, is to happen to them; and they believe, that every
thing he does, is right; therefore, his biographer should, in another
edition, revise any of his expressions which may mislead the future
tribe of his little imitators.

"Maid, come and dress Charles."

After what we have already said with respect to servants, we need only
observe, that this sentence for Charles should not be read by a child;
and that in which the maid is said to bring home a gun, &c. it is easy
to strike a pencil line across it. All the passages which might have
been advantageously omitted in these excellent little books, have been
carefully obliterated before they were put into the hands of children,
by a mother who knew the danger of early false associations.

"Little boys don't eat butter."

"No body wears a hat in the house."

This is a very common method of speaking, but it certainly is not
proper towards children. Affirmative sentences should always express
real facts. Charles must know that some little boys do eat butter;
and that some people wear their hats in their houses. This mode of
expression, "No body does that!" "Every body does this!" lays the
foundation for prejudice in the mind. This is the language of fashion,
which, more than conscience, makes cowards of us all.

"I want some wine."

Would it not be better to tell Charles, in reply to this speech, that
wine is not good for him, than to say, "Wine for little boys! I never
heard of such a thing!" If Charles were to be ill, and it should be
necessary to give him wine; or were he to see another child drink it,
he would lose confidence in what was said to him. We should be very
careful of our words, if we expect our pupils to have confidence in
us; and if they have not, we need not attempt to educate them.

"The moon shines at night, when the sun is gone to bed."

When the sun is out of sight, would be more correct, though not so
pleasing, perhaps, to the young reader. It is very proper to teach a
child, that when the sun disappears, when the sun is below the
horizon, it is the time when most animals go to rest; but we should
not do this by giving so false an idea, as that the sun is gone to
bed. Every thing relative to the system of the universe, is above the
comprehension of a child; we should, therefore, be careful to prevent
his forming erroneous opinions. We should wait for a riper period of
his understanding, before we attempt positive instruction upon
abstract subjects.

The enumeration of the months in the year, the days in the week, of
metals, &c. are excellent lessons for a child who is just beginning to
learn to read. The classification of animals into quadrupeds, bipeds,
&c. is another useful specimen of the manner in which children should
be taught to generalize their ideas. The pathetic description of the
poor timid hare running from the hunters, will leave an impression
upon the young and humane heart, which may, perhaps, save the life of
many a hare. The poetic beauty and eloquent simplicity of many of Mrs.
Barbauld's Lessons, cultivate the imagination of children, and their
taste, in the best possible manner.

The description of the white swan with her long arched neck, "winning
her easy way" through the waters, is beautiful; so is that of the
nightingale singing upon her lone bush by moon-light. Poetic
descriptions of real objects, are well suited to children; apostrophe
and personification they understand; but all allegoric poetry is
difficult to manage for them, because they mistake the poetic
attributes for reality, and they acquire false and confused ideas.
With regret children close Mrs. Barbauld's little books, and parents
become yet more sensible of their value, when they perceive that none
can be found immediately to supply their place, or to continue the
course of agreeable ideas which they have raised in the young pupil's
imagination.

"Evenings at Home," do not immediately join to Lessons for Children
from three to four years old; and we know not where to find any books
to fill the interval properly. The popular character of any book is
easily learned, and its general merit easily ascertained; this may
satisfy careless, indolent tutors, but a more minute investigation is
necessary to parents who are anxious for the happiness of their
family, or desirous to improve the art of education. Such parents will
feel it to be their duty to look over every page of a book before it
is trusted to their children; it is an arduous task, but none can be
too arduous for the enlightened energy of parental affection. We are
acquainted with the mother of a family, who has never trusted any book
to her children, without having first examined it herself with the
most scrupulous attention; her care has been repaid with that success
in education, which such care can alone ensure. We have several books
before us marked by her pencil, and volumes which, having undergone
some necessary operations by her scissors, would, in their mutilated
state, shock the sensibility of a nice librarian. But shall the
education of a family be sacrificed to the beauty of a page, or even
to the binding of a book? Few books can safely be given to children
without the previous use of the pen, the pencil, and the scissors. In
the books which we have before us, in their corrected state, we see
sometimes a few words blotted out, sometimes half a page, sometimes
many pages are cut out. In turning over the leaves of "The Children's
Friend," we perceive, that the different ages at which different
stories should be read, have been marked; and we were surprised to
meet with some stories marked for six years old, and some for sixteen,
in the same volume. We see that different stories have been marked
with the initials of different names by this cautious mother, who
considered the temper and habits of her children, as well as their
ages.

As far as these notes refer peculiarly to her own family, they cannot
be of use to the public; but the principles which governed a judicious
parent in her selection, must be capable of universal application.

It may be laid down as a first principle, that we should preserve
children from the knowledge of any vice, or any folly, of which the
idea has never yet entered their minds, and which they are not
necessarily disposed to learn by early example. Children who have
never lived with servants, who have never associated with ill educated
companions of their own age, and who, in their own family, have heard
nothing but good conversation, and seen none but good examples, will,
in their language, their manners, and their whole disposition, be not
only free from many of the faults common amongst children, but they
will absolutely have no idea that there are such faults. The language
of children who have heard no language but what is good, must be
correct. On the contrary, children who hear a mixture of low and high
vulgarity before their own habits are fixed, must, whenever they
speak, continually blunder; they have no rule to guide their judgment
in their selection from the variety of dialects which they hear;
probably they may often be reproved for their mistakes, but these
reproofs will be of no avail, whilst the pupils continue to be puzzled
between the example of the nursery and of the drawing-room. It will
cost much time and pains to correct these defects, which might have
been with little difficulty prevented. It is the same with other bad
habits. Falsehood, caprice, dishonesty, obstinacy, revenge, and all
the train of vices which are the consequences of mistaken or neglected
education, which are learned by bad example, and which are not
inspired by nature, need scarcely be known to children whose minds
have from their infancy been happily regulated. Such children should
sedulously be kept from contagion. No books should be put into the
hands of this happy class of children, but such as present the best
models of virtue: there is no occasion to shock them with caricatures
of vice. Such caricatures they will even understand to be well drawn,
because they are unacquainted with any thing like the originals.
Examples to deter them from faults to which they have no propensity,
must be useless, and may be dangerous. For the same reason that a book
written in bad language, should never be put into the hands of a child
who speaks correctly, a book exhibiting instances of vice, should
never be given to a child who thinks and acts correctly. The love of
novelty and of imitation, is so strong in children, that even for the
pleasure of imitating characters described in a book, or actions which
strike them as singular, they often commit real faults.

To this danger of catching faults by sympathy, children of the
greatest simplicity are, perhaps, the most liable, because they least
understand the nature and consequences of the actions which they
imitate.

During the age of imitation, children should not be exposed to the
influence of any bad examples until their habits are formed, and until
they have not only the sense to choose, but the fortitude to abide
by, their own choice. It may be said, that "children must know that
vice exists; that, even amongst their own companions, there are some
who have bad dispositions; they cannot mix even in the society of
children, without seeing examples which they ought to be prepared to
avoid."

These remarks are just with regard to pupils who are intended for a
public school, and no great nicety in the selection of their books is
necessary; but we are now speaking of children who are to be brought
up in a private family. Why should they be prepared to mix in the
society of children who have bad habits or bad dispositions? Children
should not be educated for the society of children; nor should they
live in that society during their education. We must not expect from
them premature prudence, and all the social virtues, before we have
taken any measures to produce these virtues, or this tardy prudence.
In private education, there is little chance that one errour should
balance another; the experience of the pupil is much confined; the
examples which he sees, are not so numerous and various as to
counteract each other. Nothing, therefore, must be expected from the
counteracting influence of opposing causes; nothing should be trusted
to chance. Experience must preserve one uniform tenour; and examples
must be selected with circumspection. The less children associate with
companions of their own age, the less they know of the world; the
stronger their taste for literature; the more forcible will be the
impression that will be made upon them by the pictures of life, and
the characters and sentiments which they meet with in books. Books for
such children, ought to be _sifted_ by an academy[101] of enlightened
parents.

Without particular examples, the most obvious truths are not brought
home to our business. We shall select a few examples from a work of
high and deserved reputation, from a work which we much admire,
"Berquin's Children's Friend." We do not mean to criticise this work
as a literary production; but simply to point out to parents, that,
even in the best books for children, much must still be left to the
judgment of the preceptor; much in the choice of stories, and
particular passages suited to different pupils.

In "The Children's Friend," there are several stories well adapted to
one class of children, but entirely unfit for another. In the story
called the Hobgoblin, Antonia, a little girl "who has been told a
hundred foolish stories by her maid, particularly one about a
black-faced goblin," is represented as making a lamentable outcry at
the sight of a chimney-sweeper; first she runs for refuge to the
kitchen, the last place to which she should run; then to the pantry;
thence she jumps out of the window, "half dead with terror," and, in
the elegant language of the translator, _almost splits her throat with
crying out Help! Help!_--In a few minutes she discovers her errour, is
heartily ashamed, and "ever afterwards Antonia was the first to laugh
at silly stories, told by silly people, of hobgoblins and the like, to
frighten her."

For children who have had the misfortune to have heard the hundred
foolish stories of a foolish maid, this apparition of the
chimney-sweeper is well managed; though, perhaps, ridicule might not
effect so sudden st cure in all cases as it did in that of Antonia. By
children who have not acquired terrors of the black-faced goblin, and
who have not the habit of frequenting the kitchen and the pantry, this
story should never be read.

"The little miss deceived by her maid," who takes her mamma's keys out
of her drawers, and who steals sugar and tea for her maid, that she
may have the pleasure of playing with a cousin whom her mother had
forbidden her to see, is not an example that need be introduced into
any well regulated family. The picture of Amelia's misery, is drawn by
the hand of a master. Terror and pity, we are told by the tragic
poets, purify the mind; but there are minds that do not require this
species of purification. Powerful antidotes are necessary to combat
powerful poisons; but where no poison has been imbibed, are not
antidotes more dangerous than useful?

The stories called "The Little Gamblers; Blind Man's Buff; and Honesty
the best Policy," are stories which may do a great deal of good to bad
children, but they should never be given to those of another
description. The young gentlemen who cheat at cards, and who pocket
silver fish, should have no admittance any where. It is not necessary
to put _children_ upon their guard against associates whom they are
not likely to meet; nor need we introduce The Vulgar and Mischievous
School-Boy, to any but school-boys. Martin, who throws squibs at
people in the street, who fastens rabbits' tails behind their backs,
who fishes for their wigs, who sticks up pins in his friends' chairs,
who carries a hideous mask in his pocket to frighten little children,
and who is himself frightened into repentance by a spectre with a
speaking trumpet, is a very objectionable, though an excellent
dramatic character. The part of the spectre is played by the groom;
this is ill contrived in a drama for children; grooms should have
nothing to do with their entertainments; and Cæsar, who is represented
as a pleasing character, should not be supposed to make the postillion
a party in his inventions.

"_A good heart compensates for many indiscretions_," is a dangerous
title for a play for young people; because _many_ is an indefinite
term; and in settling how many, the calculations of parents and
children may vary materially. This little play is so charmingly
written, the character of the imprudent and generous Frederick is so
likely to excite imitation, that we must doubly regret his intimacy
with the coachman, his running away from school, and drinking beer at
an ale-house in a fair. The coachman is an excellent old man; he is
turned away for having let master Frederick mount his box, assume the
whip, and overturn a handsome carriage. Frederick, touched with
gratitude and compassion, gives the old man all his pocket money, and
sells a watch and some books to buy clothes for him. The motives of
Frederick's conduct are excellent, and, as they are misrepresented by
a treacherous and hypocritical cousin, we sympathize more strongly
with the hero of the piece; and all his indiscretions appear, at
least, amiable defects. A nice observer[102] of the human heart says,
that we are never inclined to to cure ourselves of any defect which
makes us agreeable. Frederick's real virtues will not, probably,
excite imitation so much as his imaginary excellences. We should take
the utmost care not to associate in the mind the ideas of imprudence
and of generosity; of hypocrisy and of prudence: on the contrary, it
should be shown that prudence is necessary to real benevolence; that
no virtue is more useful, and consequently more respectable, than
justice. These homely truths will never be attended to as the
counter-check moral of an interesting story; stories which require
such morals, should, therefore, be avoided.

It is to be hoped, that select parts of The Children's Friend,[103]
translated by some able hand, will be published hereafter for the use
of private families. Many of the stories, to which we have ventured to
object, are by no means unfit for school-boys, to whom the characters
which are most exceptionable cannot be new. The vulgarity of language
which we have noticed, is not to be attributed to M. Berquin, but to
his wretched translator. L'Ami des Enfans, is, in French, remarkably
elegantly written. The Little Canary Bird, Little George, The
Talkative Little Girl, The Four Seasons, and many others, are
excellent both in point of style and dramatic effect; they are exactly
suited to the understandings of children; and they interest without
any improbable events, or unnatural characters.

In fiction it is difficult to avoid giving children false ideas of
virtue, and still more difficult to keep the different virtues in
their due proportions. This should be attended to with care in all
books for young people; nor should we sacrifice the understanding to
the enthusiasm of eloquence, or the affectation of sensibility.
Without the habit of reasoning, the best dispositions can give us no
solid security for happiness; therefore, we should early cultivate the
reasoning faculty, instead of always appealing to the imagination. By
sentimental persuasives, a child may be successfully governed for a
time, but that time will be of short duration, and no power can
continue the delusion long.

In the dialogue upon this maxim, "that a competence is best," the
reasoning of the father is not a match for that of the son; by using
less eloquence, the father might have made out his case much better.
The boy sees that many people are richer than his father, and
perceiving that their riches procure a great number of conveniences
and comforts for them, he asks why his father, who is as good as these
opulent people, should not also be as rich. His father tells him, that
he is rich, that he has a large garden, and a fine estate; the boy
asks to see it, and his father takes him to the top of a high hill,
and, showing him an extensive prospect, says to him, "All this is my
estate." The boy cross questions his father, and finds out that it is
not his estate, but that he may enjoy the pleasure of looking at it;
that he can buy wood when he wants it for firing; venison, without
hunting the deer himself; fish, without fishing; and butter, without
possessing all the cows that graze in the valley; therefore he calls
himself master of the woods, the deer, the herds, the huntsmen, and
the labourers that he beholds. This is[104] poetic philosophy, but it
is not sufficiently accurate for a child; it would confound his ideas
of property, and it would be immediately contradicted by his
experience. The father's reasoning is perfectly good, and well adapted
to his pupil's capacity, when he asks, "whether he should not require
a superfluous appetite to enjoy superfluous dishes at his meals." In
returning from his walk, the boy sees a mill that is out of repair, a
meadow that is flooded, and a quantity of hay spoiled; he observes,
that the owners of these things must be sadly vexed by such accidents,
and his father congratulates himself upon their not being his
property. Here is a direct contradiction; for a few minutes before he
had asserted that they belonged to him. Property is often the cause of
much anxiety to its possessor; but the question is, whether the pains,
or the pleasures of possessing it, predominate; if this question could
not be fully discussed, it should not be partially stated. To silence
a child in argument is easy, to convince him is difficult; sophistry
or wit should never be used to confound the understanding. Reason has
equal force from the lips of the giant and of the dwarf.

These minute criticisms may appear invidious; but it is hoped that
they will be considered only as illustrations of general principles;
illustrations necessary to our subject. We have chosen M. Berquin's
work because of its universal popularity; probably all the examples
which have been selected, are in the recollection of most readers, or
at least it is easy to refer to them, because "The Children's Friend"
is to be found in every house where there are any children. The
principles by which we have examined Berquin, may be applied to all
books of the same class. Sandford and Merton, Madame de Silleri's
Theatre of Education, and her Tales of the Castle, Madame de la Fite's
Tales and Conversations, Mrs. Smith's Rural Walks, with a long list of
other books for children, which have considerable merit, would deserve
a separate analysis, if literary criticism were our object. A critic
once, with indefatigable ill-nature, picked out all the faults of a
beautiful poem, and presented them to Apollo. The god ordered a
bushel of his best Parnassian wheat to be carefully winnowed, and he
presented the critic with the chaff. Our wish is to separate the small
portion of what is useless, from the excellent nutriment contained in
the books we have mentioned.

With respect to sentimental stories,[105] and books of mere
entertainment, we must remark, that they should be sparingly used,
especially in the education of girls. This species of reading,
cultivates what is called the heart prematurely; lowers the tone of
the mind, and induces indifference for those common pleasures and
occupations which, however trivial in themselves, constitute by far
the greatest portion of our daily happiness. Stories are the novels of
childhood. We know, from common experience, the effects which are
produced upon the female mind by immoderate novel reading. To those
who acquire this taste, every object becomes disgusting which is not
in an attitude for poetic painting; a species of moral picturesque is
sought for in every scene of life, and this is not always compatible
with sound sense, or with simple reality. Gainsborough's Country Girl,
as it has been humorously[106] remarked, "is a much more picturesque
object, than a girl neatly dressed in a clean white frock; but for
this reason, are all children to go in rags?" A tragedy heroine,
weeping, swooning, dying, is a moral picturesque object; but the
frantic passions, which have the best effect upon the stage, might,
when exhibited in domestic life, appear to be drawn upon too large a
scale to please. The difference between reality and fiction, is so
great, that those who copy from any thing but nature, are continually
disposed to make mistakes in their conduct, which appear ludicrous to
the impartial spectator. Pathos depends on such nice circumstances,
that domestic, sentimental distresses, are in a perilous situation;
the sympathy of their audience, is not always in the power of the fair
performers. Frenzy itself may be turned to farce.[107] "Enter the
princess mad in white satin, and her attendant mad in white linen."

Besides the danger of creating a romantic taste, there is reason to
believe, that the species of reading to which we object, has an effect
directly opposite to what it is intended to produce. It diminishes,
instead of increasing, the sensibility of the heart; a combination of
romantic imagery, is requisite to act upon the associations of
sentimental people, and they are virtuous only when virtue is in
perfectly good taste. An eloquent philosopher[108] observes, that in
the description of scenes of distress in romance and poetry, the
distress is always made _elegant_; the imagination, which has been
accustomed to this delicacy in fictitious narrations, revolts from the
disgusting circumstances which attend real poverty, disease and
misery; the emotions of pity, and the exertions of benevolence, are
consequently repressed precisely at the time when they are necessary
to humanity.

With respect to pity, it is a spontaneous, natural emotion, which is
strongly felt by children, but they cannot properly be said to feel
benevolence till they are capable of reasoning. Charity must, in them,
be a very doubtful virtue; they cannot be competent judges as to the
general utility of what they give. Persons of the most enlarged
understanding, find it necessary to be extremely cautious in
charitable donations, lest they should do more harm than good.
Children cannot see beyond the first link in the chain which holds
society together; at the best, then, their charity can be but a
partial virtue. But in fact, children have nothing to give; they think
that they give, when they dispose of property of their parents; they
suffer no privation from this sort of generosity, and they learn
ostentation, instead of practising self-denial. Berquin, in his
excellent story of "The Little Needle Woman," has made the children
give their own work; here the pleasure of employment is immediately
connected with the gratification of benevolent feelings; their pity is
not merely passive, it is active and useful.

In fictitious narratives, affection for parents, and for brothers and
sisters, is often painted in agreeable colours, to excite the
admiration and sympathy of children. Caroline, the charming little
girl, who gets upon a chair to wipe away the tears that trickle down
her eldest sister's cheek when her mother is displeased with her,[109]
forms a natural and beautiful picture; but the desire to imitate
Caroline must produce affectation. All the simplicity of youth, is
gone the moment children perceive that they are extolled for the
expression of fine feelings, and fine sentiments. Gratitude, esteem
and affection, do not depend upon the table of consanguinity; they are
involuntary feelings, which cannot be raised at pleasure by the voice
of authority; they will not obey the dictates of interest; they
secretly despise the anathemas of sentiment. Esteem and affection, are
the necessary consequences of a certain course of conduct, combined
with certain external circumstances, which are, more or less, in the
power of every individual. To arrange these circumstances prudently,
and to pursue a proper course of conduct steadily, something more is
necessary than the transitory impulse of sensibility, or of
enthusiasm.

There is a class of books which amuse the imagination of children,
without acting upon their feelings. We do not allude to fairy tales,
for we apprehend that these are not now much read; but we mean voyages
and travels; these interest young people universally. Robinson Crusoe,
Gulliver, and the Three Russian Sailors, who were cast away upon the
coast of Norway, are general favourites. No child ever read an account
of a shipwreck, or even a storm, without pleasure. A desert island is
a delightful place, to be equalled only by the skating land of the
rein-deer, or by the valley of diamonds in the Arabian Tales. Savages,
especially if they be cannibals, are sure to be admired, and the more
hair-breadth escapes the hero of the tale has survived, and the more
marvellous his adventures, the more sympathy he excites.[110]

Will it be thought to proceed from a spirit of contradiction, if we
remark, that this species of reading should not early be chosen for
boys of an enterprising temper, unless they are intended for a
sea-faring life, or for the army? The taste for adventure, is
absolutely incompatible with the sober perseverance necessary to
success in any other liberal professions. To girls, this species of
reading cannot be as dangerous as it is to boys; girls must very soon
perceive the impossibility of their rambling about the world in quest
of adventures; and where there appears an obvious impossibility in
gratifying any wish, it is not likely to become, or at least to
continue, a torment to the imagination. Boys, on the contrary, from
the habits of their education, are prone to admire, and to imitate,
every thing like enterprise and heroism. Courage and fortitude, are
the virtues of men, and it is natural that boys should desire, if they
believe that they possess these virtues, to be placed in those great
and extraordinary situations which can display them to advantage. The
taste for adventure, is not repressed in boys by the impossibility of
its indulgence; the world is before them, and they think that fame
promises the highest prize to those who will most boldly venture in
the lottery of fortune. The rational probability of success, few young
people are able, fewer still are willing, to calculate; and the
calculations of prudent friends, have little power over their
understandings, or at least, over their imagination, the part of the
understanding which is most likely to decide their conduct.--From
general maxims, we cannot expect that young people should learn much
prudence; each individual admits the propriety of the rule, yet
believes himself to be a privileged exception. Where any prize is
supposed to be in the gift of fortune, every man, or every young man,
takes it for granted that he is a favourite, and that it will be
bestowed upon him. The profits of commerce and of agriculture, the
profits of every art and profession, can be estimated with tolerable
accuracy; the value of activity, application and abilities, can be
respectively measured by some certain standard. Modest, or even
prudent people, will scruple to rate themselves in all of these
qualifications superior to their neighbours; but every man will allow
that, in point of good fortune, at any game of chance, he thinks
himself upon a fair level with every other competitor.

When a young man deliberates upon what course of life he shall follow,
the patient drudgery of a trade, the laborious mental exertions
requisite to prepare him for a profession, must appear to him in a
formidable light, compared with the alluring prospects presented by an
adventuring imagination. At this time of life, it will be too late
suddenly to change the taste; it will be inconvenient, if not
injurious, to restrain a young man's inclinations by force or
authority; it will be imprudent, perhaps fatally imprudent, to leave
them uncontroled. Precautions should therefore be taken long before
this period, and the earlier they are taken, the better. It is not
idle refinement to assert, that the first impressions which are made
upon the imagination, though they may be changed by subsequent
circumstances, yet are discernible in every change, and are seldom
entirely effaced from the mind, though it may be difficult to trace
them through all their various appearances. A boy, who at seven years
old, longs to be Robinson Crusoe, or Sinbad the sailor, may at
seventeen, retain the same taste for adventure and enterprise, though
mixed so as to be less discernible, with the incipient passions of
avarice and ambition; he has the same dispositions modified by a
slight knowledge of real life, and guided by the manners and
conversation of his friends and acquaintance. Robinson Crusoe and
Sinbad, will no longer be his favourite heroes; but he will now admire
the soldier of fortune, the commercial adventurer, or the nabob, who
has discovered in the east the secret of Aladdin's wonderful lamp; and
who has realized the treasures of Aboulcasem.

The history of realities, written in an entertaining manner, appears
not only better suited to the purposes of education, but also more
agreeable to young people than improbable fictions. We have seen the
reasons why it is dangerous to pamper the taste early with mere books
of entertainment; to voyages and travels, we have made some
objections. Natural history, is a study particularly suited to
children: it cultivates their talents for observation, applies to
objects within their reach, and to objects which are every day
interesting to them. The histories of the bee, the ant, the
caterpillar, the butterfly, the silk-worm, are the first things that
please the taste of children, and these are the histories of
realities.

Amongst books of mere entertainment, no one can be so injudicious, or
so unjust, as to class the excellent "Evenings at Home." Upon a close
examination, it appears to be one of the best books for young people
from seven to ten years old, that has yet appeared. We shall not
pretend to enter into a minute examination of it; because, from what
we have already said, parents can infer our sentiments, and we wish to
avoid tedious, unnecessary detail. We shall, however, just observe,
that the lessons on natural history, on metals, and on chemistry, are
particularly useful, not so much from the quantity of knowledge which,
they contain, as by the agreeable manner in which it is communicated:
the mind is opened to extensive views, at the same time that nothing
above the comprehension of children is introduced. The mixture of
moral and, scientific lessons, is happily managed so as to relieve
the attention; some of the moral lessons, contain sound argument, and
some display just views of life. "Perseverance against Fortune;" "The
Price of Victory;" "Eyes and no Eyes," have been generally admired as
much by parents as by children.

There is a little book called "Leisure Hours," which contains a great
deal of knowledge suited to young people; but they must observe, that
the style is not elegant; perhaps, in a future edition, the style may
be revised. The "Conversations d'Emile," are elegantly written, and
the character of the mother and child admirably well preserved. White
of Selborne's Naturalist's Calendar, we can recommend with entire
approbation: it is written in a familiar, yet elegant style; and the
journal form, gives it that air of reality which is so agreeable and
interesting to the mind. Mr. White will make those who have observed,
observe the more, and will excite the spirit of observation in those
who never before observed.

Smellie's Natural History, is a useful, entertaining book; but it
_must_ be carefully looked over, and many pages and half pages must be
entirely sacrificed. And here one general caution may be necessary. It
is hazarding too much, to make children promise not to read parts of
any book which is put into their hands; when the book is too valuable,
in the parent's estimation, to be cut or blotted, let it not be given
to children when they are alone; in a parent's presence, there is no
danger, and the children will acquire the habit of reading the
passages that are selected without feeling curiosity about the rest.
As young people grow up, they will judge of the selections that have
been made for them; they will perceive why such a passage was fit for
their understanding at one period, which they could not have
understood at another. If they are never forced to read what is
tiresome, they will anxiously desire to have passages selected for
them; and they will not imagine that their parents are capricious in
these selections; but they will, we speak from experience, be
sincerely grateful to them for the time and trouble bestowed in
procuring their literary amusements.

When young people have established their character for truth and exact
integrity, they should be entirely trusted with books as with every
thing else. A slight pencil line at the side of a page, will then be
all that is necessary to guide them to the best parts of any book.
Suspicion would be as injurious, as too easy a faith is imprudent:
confidence confirms integrity; but the habits of truth must be formed
before dangerous temptations are presented. We intended to have given
a list of books, and to have named the pages in several authors, which
have been found interesting to children from seven to nine or ten
years old. The Reviews; The Annual Registers; Enfield's Speaker;
_Elegant Extracts_; The Papers of the Manchester Society; The French
Academy of Sciences; Priestley's History of Vision; and parts of the
Works of Franklin, of Chaptal, Lavoisier and Darwin, have supplied us
with our best materials. Some periodical papers from the World,
Rambler, Guardian, and Adventurer, have been chosen: these are books
with which all libraries are furnished. But we forbear to offer any
list; the passages we should have mentioned, have been found to please
in one family; but we are sensible, that as circumstances vary, the
choice of books for different families, ought to be different. Every
parent must be capable of selecting those passages in books which are
most suited to the age, temper, and taste of their children. Much of
the success, both of literary and moral education, will depend upon
our seizing the happy moments for instruction; moments when knowledge
immediately applies to what children are intent upon themselves; the
step which is to be taken by the understanding, should immediately
follow that which has already been secured. By watching the turn of
mind, and by attending to the conversation of children, we may
perceive exactly what will suit them in books; and we may preserve the
connection of their ideas without fatiguing their attention. A
paragraph read aloud from the newspaper of the day, a passage from any
book which parents happen to be reading themselves, will catch the
attention of the young people in a family, and will, perhaps, excite
more taste and more curiosity, than could be given by whole volumes
read at times when the mind is indolent or intent upon other
occupations.

The custom of reading aloud for a great while together, is extremely
fatiguing to children, and hurtful to their understandings; they learn
to read on without the slightest attention or thought; the more
fluently they read, the worse it is for them; for their preceptors,
whilst words and sentences are pronounced with tolerable emphasis,
never seem to suspect that the reader can be tired, or that his mind
may be absent from his book. The monotonous tones which are acquired
by children who read a great deal aloud, are extremely disagreeable,
and the habit cannot easily be broken: we may observe, that children
who have not acquired bad customs, always read as they speak, when
they understand what they read; but the moment when they come to any
sentence which they do not comprehend, their voice alters, and they
read with hesitation, or with false emphasis: to these signals a
preceptor should always attend, and the passage should be explained
before the pupil is taught to read it in a musical tone, or with the
proper emphasis: thus children should be taught to read by the
understanding, and not merely by the ear. Dialogues, dramas, and well
written narratives, they always read _well_, and these should be their
exercises in the art of reading: they should be allowed to put down
the book as soon as they are tired; but an attentive tutor will
perceive when they ought to be stopped, _before_ the utmost point of
fatigue. We have heard a boy of nine years old, who had never been
taught elocution by any reading master, read simple pathetic passages,
and natural dialogues in "Evenings at Home," in a manner which would
have made even Sterne's critic forget his stop-watch.

By reading much at a time, it is true that a great number of books
are run through in a few years; but this is not at all our object; on
the contrary, our greatest difficulty has been to find a sufficient
number of books fit for children to read. If they early acquire a
strong taste for literature, no matter how few authors they may have
perused. We have often heard young people exclaim, "I'm glad I have
not read such a book--I have a great pleasure to come!"--Is not this
better than to see a child yawn over a work, and count the number of
tiresome pages, whilst he says, "I shall have got through this book by
and by; and what must I read when I have done this? I believe I never
shall have read all I am to read! What a number of tiresome books
there are in the world! I wonder what can be the reason that I must
read them all! If I were but allowed to skip the pages that I don't
understand, I should be much happier, for when I come to any thing
entertaining in a book, I can keep myself awake, and then I like
reading as well as any body does."

Far from forbidding to skip the incomprehensible pages, or to close
the tiresome volume, we should exhort our pupils never to read one
single page that tires, or that they do not fully understand. We need
not fear, that, because an excellent book is not interesting at one
period of education, it should not become interesting at another; the
child is always the best judge of what is suited to his present
capacity. If he says, "Such a book tires me," the preceptor should
never answer with a forbidding, reproachful look, "I am surprised at
that, it is no great proof of your taste; the book, which you say
tires you, is written by one of the best authors in the English
language." The boy is sorry for it, but he cannot help it; and he
concludes, if he be of a timid temper, that he has no taste for
literature, since the best authors in the English language tire him.
It is in vain to tell him, that the book is "universally allowed to be
very entertaining."

    "If it be not such to me,
    What care I how fine it be!"

The more encouraging and more judicious parent would answer upon a
similar occasion, "You are very right not to read what tires you, my
dear; and I am glad that you have sense enough to tell me that this
book does not entertain you, though it is written by one of the best
authors in the English language. We do not think at all the worse of
your taste and understanding; we know that the day will come when this
book will probably entertain you; put it by until then, I advise you."

It may be thought, that young people who read only those parts of
books which are entertaining, or those which are selected for them,
are in danger of learning a taste for variety, and desultory habits,
which may prevent their acquiring accurate knowledge upon any subject,
and which may render them incapable of that literary application,
without which nothing can be well learned. We hope the candid
preceptor will suspend his judgment, until we can explain our
sentiments upon this subject more fully, when we examine the nature of
invention and memory.[111]

The secret fear, that stimulates parents to compel their children to
constant application to certain books, arises from the opinion, that
much chronological and historical knowledge must at all events be
acquired during a certain number of years. The knowledge of history is
thought a necessary accomplishment in one sex, and an essential part
of education in the other. We ought, however, to distinguish between
that knowledge of history and of chronology which is really useful,
and that which is acquired merely for parade. We must call that useful
knowledge, which enlarges the view of human life and of human nature,
which teaches by the experience of the past, what we may expect in
future. To study history as it relates to these objects, the pupil
must have acquired much previous knowledge; the habit of reasoning,
and the power of combining distant analogies. The works of Hume, of
Robertson, Gibbon, or Voltaire, can be properly understood only by
well informed and highly cultivated understandings. Enlarged views of
policy, some knowledge of the interests of commerce, of the progress
and state of civilization and literature in different countries, are
necessary to whoever studies these authors with real advantage.
Without these, the finest sense, and the finest writing, must be
utterly thrown away upon the reader. Children, consequently, under the
name of fashionable histories, often read what to them is absolute
nonsense: they have very little motive for the study of history, and
all that we can say to keep alive their interest, amounts to the
common argument, "that such information will be useful to them
hereafter, when they hear history mentioned in conversation."

Some people imagine, that the memory resembles a store-house, in which
we should early lay up facts; and they assert, that, however useless
these may appear at the time when they are laid up, they will
afterwards be ready for service at our summons. One allusion may be
fairly answered by another, since it is impossible to oppose allusion
by reasoning. In accumulating facts, as in amassing riches, people
often begin by believing that they value wealth only for the use they
shall make of it; but it often happens, that during the course of
their labours, they learn habitually to set a value upon the coin
itself, and they grow avaricious of that which they are sensible has
little intrinsic value. Young people who have accumulated a vast
number of facts, and names, and dates, perhaps intended originally to
make some good use of their treasure; but they frequently forget their
laudable intentions, and conclude by contenting themselves with the
display of their nominal wealth. Pedants and misers forget the real
use of wealth and knowledge, and they accumulate without rendering
what they acquire useful to themselves or to others.

A number of facts are often stored in the mind, which lie there
useless, because they cannot be found at the moment when they are
wanted. It is not sufficient, therefore, in education, to store up
knowledge; it is essential to arrange facts so that they shall be
ready for use, as materials for the imagination, or the judgment, to
select and combine. The power of retentive memory is exercised too
much, the faculty of recollective memory is exercised too little, by
the common modes of education. Whilst children are reading the history
of kings, and battles, and victories; whilst they are learning tables
of chronology and lessons of geography by rote, their inventive and
their reasoning faculties are absolutely passive; nor are any of the
facts which they learn in this manner, associated with circumstances
in real life. These trains of ideas may with much pains and labour be
fixed in the memory, but they must be recalled precisely in the order
in which they were learnt by rote, and this is not the order in which
they may be wanted: they will be conjured up in technical succession,
or in troublesome multitudes.--Many people are obliged to repeat the
alphabet before they can recollect the relative place of any given
letter; others repeat a column of the multiplication table before they
can recollect the given sum of the number they want. There is a common
rigmarole for telling the number of days in each month in the year;
those who have learnt it by heart, usually repeat the whole of it
before they can recollect the place of the month which they want; and
sometimes in running over the lines, people miss the very month which
they are thinking of, or repeat its name without perceiving that they
have named it. In the same manner, those who have learned historical
or chronological facts in a technical mode, must go through the whole
train of their rigmarole associations before they can hit upon the
idea which they want. Lord Bolingbroke mentions an acquaintance of
his, who had an amazing collection of facts in his memory, but
unfortunately he could never produce one of them in the proper moment;
he was always obliged to go back to to some fixed landing place, from
which he was accustomed to take his flight. Lord Bolingbroke used to
be afraid of asking him a question, because when once he began, he
went off like a larum, and could not be stopped; he poured out a
profusion of things which had nothing to do with the point in
question; and it was ten to one but he omitted the only circumstance
that would have been really serviceable. Many people who have
tenacious memories, and who have been ill educated, find themselves in
a similar condition, with much knowledge baled up, an incumbrance to
themselves and to their friends. The great difference which appears in
men of the same profession, and in the same circumstances, depends
upon the application of their knowledge more than upon the quantity of
their learning.

With respect to a knowledge of history and chronologic learning, every
body is now nearly upon a level; this species of information cannot be
a great distinction to any one; a display of such common knowledge, is
considered by literary people, and by men of genius especially, as
ridiculous and offensive. One motive, therefore, for loading the minds
of children with historic dates and facts, is likely, even from its
having universally operated, to cease to operate in future. Without
making it a laborious task to young people, it is easy to give them
such a knowledge of history, as will preserve them from the shame of
ignorance, and put them upon a footing with men of good sense in
society, though not, perhaps, with men who have studied history for
the purpose of shining in conversation. For our purpose, it is not
necessary early to study voluminous philosophic histories; these
should be preserved for a more advanced period of their education. The
first thing to be done, is to seize the moment when curiosity is
excited by the accidental mention of any historic name or event. When
a child hears his father talk of the Roman emperors, or of the Roman
people, he naturally inquires who these people were; some short
explanation may be given, so as to leave curiosity yet unsatisfied.
The prints of the Roman emperors' heads, and Mrs. Trimmer's prints of
the remarkable events in the Roman and English history, will entertain
children. Madame de Silleri, in her Adela and Theodore, describes
historical hangings, which she found advantageous to her pupils. In a
prince's palace, or a nobleman's palace, such hangings would be
suitable decorations, or in a public seminary of education it would be
worth while to prepare them: private families would, perhaps, be
alarmed at the idea of expense, and at the idea, that their house
could not readily be furnished in proper time for the instruction of
children. As we know the effect of such apprehensions of difficulty,
we forbear from insisting upon historical hangings, especially as we
think that children should not, by any great apparatus for teaching
them history, be induced to set an exorbitant value upon this sort of
knowledge, and should hence be excited to cultivate their memories
without reasoning or reflecting. If any expedients are thought
necessary to fix historic facts early in the mind, the entertaining
display of Roman emperors, and British kings and queens, may be made,
as madame de Silleri recommends, in a magic lantern, or by the Ombres
Chinoises. When these are exhibited, there should be some care taken
not to introduce any false ideas. Parents should be present at the
spectacle, and should answer each eager question with prudence. "Ha!
here comes queen Elizabeth!" exclaims the child; "was she a good
woman?" A foolish show-man would answer, "Yes, master, she was the
greatest queen that ever sat upon the English throne!" A sensible
mother would reply, "My dear, I cannot answer that question; you will
read her history yourself, you will judge by her actions, whether she
was, or was not, a good woman." Children are often extremely impatient
to settle the precise merit and demerit of every historical personage,
with whose names they become acquainted; but this impatience should
not be gratified by the short method of referring to the characters
given of these persons in any common historical abridgment. We should
advise all such characters to be omitted in books for children; let
those who read, form a judgment for themselves: this will do more
service to the understanding, than can be done by learning by rote the
opinion of any historian. The good and bad qualities; the decisive,
yet contradictory, epithets, are so jumbled together in these
characters, that no distinct notion can be left in the reader's mind;
and the same words recur so frequently in the characters of different
kings, that they are read over in a monotonous voice, as mere
concluding sentences, which come of course, at the end of every reign.
"King Henry the Fifth, was tall and slender, with a long neck,
engaging aspect, and limbs of the most elegant turn. **********. His
valour was such as no danger could startle, and no difficulty could
oppose. He managed the dissentions amongst his enemies with such
address as spoke him consummate in the arts of the cabinet. He was
chaste, temperate, modest, and devout, scrupulously just in his
administration, and severely exact in the discipline of his army, upon
which he knew his glory and success in a great measure depended. In a
word, it must be owned that he was without an equal in the arts of
war, policy, and government. His great qualities were, however,
somewhat obscured by his ambition, and his natural propensity to
cruelty."

Is it possible that a child of seven or eight years old can acquire
any distinct, or any just ideas, from the perusal of this character of
Henry the fifth? Yet it is selected as one of the best drawn
characters from a little abridgment of the history of England, which
is, in general, as well done as any we have seen. Even the least
exceptionable historic abridgments require the corrections of a
patient parent. In abridgments for children, the facts are usually
interspersed with what the authors intend for moral reflections, and
easy explanations of political events, which are meant to be suited
to _the meanest capacities_. These reflections and explanations do
much harm; they instil prejudice, and they accustom the young
unsuspicious reader to swallow absurd reasoning, merely because it is
often presented to him. If no history can be found entirely free from
these defects, and if it be even impossible to correct any completely,
without writing the whole over again, yet much may be done by those
who hear children read. Explanations can be given at the moment when
the difficulties occur. When the young reader pauses to think, allow
him to think, and suffer him to question the assertions which he meets
with in books, with freedom, and that minute accuracy which is only
tiresome to those who cannot reason. The simple morality of childhood
is continually puzzled and shocked at the representation of the crimes
and the virtues of historic heroes. History, when divested of the
graces of eloquence, and of that veil which the imagination is taught
to throw over antiquity, presents a disgusting, terrible list of
crimes and calamities: murders, assassinations, battles, revolutions,
are the memorable events of history. The love of glory atones for
military barbarity; treachery and fraud are frequently dignified with
the names of prudence and policy; and the historian, desirous to
appear moral and sentimental, yet compelled to produce facts, makes
out an inconsistent, ambiguous system of morality. A judicious and
honest preceptor will not, however, imitate the false tenderness of
the historian for the dead; he will rather consider what is most
advantageous to the living; he will perceive, that it is of more
consequence that his pupils should have distinct notions of right and
wrong, than that they should have perfectly by rote all the Grecian,
Roman, English, French, all the fifty volumes of the Universal
History. A preceptor will not surely attempt, by any sophistry, to
justify the crimes which sometimes obtain the name of heroism; when
his ingenious indignant pupil verifies the astonishing numeration of
the hundreds and thousands that were put to death by a conqueror, or
that fell in one battle, he will allow this astonishment and
indignation to be just, and he will rejoice that it is strongly felt
and expressed.

Besides the false characters which are sometimes drawn of individuals
in history, national characters are often decidedly given in a few
epithets, which prejudice the mind, and convey no real information.
Can a child learn any thing but national prepossession, from reading
in a character of the English nation, that "boys, before they can
speak, discover that they know the proper guards in boxing with their
fists; a quality that, perhaps, is peculiar to the English, and is
seconded by a strength of arm that few other people can exert? _This_
gives their soldiers an infinite superiority in all battles that are
to be decided by the bayonet screwed upon the musket."[112] Why should
children be told, that the Italians are _naturally_ revengeful; the
French _naturally_ vain and perfidious, excessively credulous and
litigious; that the Spaniards are _naturally_ jealous and
haughty?[113] The patriotism of an enlarged and generous mind cannot,
surely, depend upon the early contempt inspired for foreign
nations.--We do not speak of the education necessary for naval and
military men--with this we have nothing to do; but surely it cannot be
necessary to teach national prejudices to any other class of young
men. If these prejudices are ridiculed by sensible parents, children
will not be misled by partial authors; general assertions will be of
little consequence to those who are taught to reason; they will not be
overawed by nonsense wherever they may meet with it.

The words whig and tory, occur frequently in English history, and
liberty and tyranny are talked of--the influence of the crown--the
rights of the people. What are children of eight or nine years old to
understand by these expressions? and how can a tutor explain them,
without inspiring political prejudices? We do not mean here to enter
into any political discussion; we think, that children should not be
taught the principles of their preceptors, whatever they may be; they
should judge for themselves, and, until they are able to judge, all
discussion, all explanations, should be scrupulously avoided. Whilst
they are children, the plainest chronicles are for them the best
histories, because they express no political tenets and dogmas. When
our pupils grow up, at whatever age they may be capable of
understanding them, the best authors who have written on each side of
the question, the best works, without any party considerations, should
be put into their hands; and let them form their own opinions from
facts and arguments, uninfluenced by passion, and uncontrolled by
authority.

As young people increase their collection of historic facts, some
arrangement will be necessary to preserve these in proper order in the
memory. Priestley's Biographical Chart, is an extremely ingenious
contrivance for this purpose; it should hang up in the room where
children read, or rather where they live, for we hope no room will
ever be dismally consecrated to their studies. Whenever they hear any
celebrated name mentioned, or when they meet with any in books, they
will run to search for these names in the biographical chart; and
those who are used to children, will perceive, that the pleasure of
this search, and the joy of the discovery, will fix biography and
chronology easily in their memories. Mortimer's Student's Dictionary,
and Brookes's Gazetteer, should, in a library or room which children
usually inhabit, be always within the reach of children. If they are
always consulted at the very moment they are wanted, much may be
learned from them; but if there be any difficulty in getting at these
dictionaries, children forget, and lose all interest in the things
which they wanted to know. But if knowledge becomes immediately
useful, or entertaining to them, there is no danger of their
forgetting. Who ever forgets Shakespeare's historical plays? The
arrangements contrived and executed by others, do not always fix
things so firmly in our remembrance, as those which we have had some
share in contriving and executing ourselves.

One of our pupils has drawn out a biographical chart upon the plan of
Priestley's, inserting such names only as he was well acquainted with;
he found, that in drawing out this chart, a great portion of general
history and biography was fixed in his memory. Charts, in the form of
Priestley's, but without the names of the heroes, &c. being inserted,
would, perhaps, be useful for schools and private families.

There are two French historical works, which we wish were well
translated for the advantage of those who do not understand French.
The chevalier Meheghan's Tableau de l'Histoire Moderne, which is
sensibly divided into epochs; and Condillac's View of Universal
History, comprised in five volumes, in his "Cours d'Etude pour
l'Instruction du Prince de Parme." This history carries on, along with
the records of wars and revolutions, the history of the progress of
the human mind, of arts, and sciences; the view of the different
governments of Europe, is full and concise; no prejudices are
instilled; yet the manly and rational eloquence of virtue, gives life
and spirit to the work. The concluding address, from the preceptor to
his royal pupil, is written with all the enlightened energy of a man
of truth and genius. We do not recommend Condillac's history as an
elementary work; for this it is by no means fit; but it is one of the
best histories that a young man of fifteen or sixteen can read.

It is scarcely possible to conceive, that several treatises on
grammar, the art of reasoning, thinking, and writing, which are
contained in M. Condillac's course of study, were designed by him for
elementary books, for the instruction of a child from seven to ten
years old. It appears the more surprising that the abbé should have
so far mistaken the capacity of childhood, because, in his judicious
preface, he seems fully sensible of the danger of premature
cultivation, and of the absurdity of substituting a knowledge of words
for a knowledge of things. As M. Condillac's is a work of high
reputation, we may be allowed to make a few remarks on its practical
utility, and this may, perhaps, afford us an opportunity of explaining
our ideas upon the use of metaphysical, poetical, and critical works,
in early education. We do not mean any invidious criticism upon
Condillac, but in "Practical Education" we wish to take our examples
and illustrations from real life. The abbé's course of study, for a
boy of seven years old, begins with metaphysics. In his preface he
asserts, that the arts of speaking, reasoning, and writing, differ
from one another only in degrees of accuracy, and in the more or less
perfect connection of ideas. He observes, that attention to the manner
in which we acquire, and in which we arrange our knowledge, is
necessary equally to those who would learn, and to those who would
teach, with success. These remarks are just; but does not he draw an
erroneous conclusion from his own principles, when he infers, that the
first lessons which we should teach a child, ought to be metaphysical?
He has given us an abstract of those which he calls preliminary
lessons, on the operations of the soul, on attention, judgment,
imagination, &c.--he adds, that he thought it useless to give to the
public the conversations and explanations which he had with his pupil
on these subjects. Both parents and children must regret the
suppression of these explanatory notes; as the lessons appear at
present, no child of seven years old can understand, and few
preceptors can or will make them what they ought to be. In the first
lesson on the different species of ideas, the abbé says,

"The idea, for instance, which I have of Peter, is singular, or
individual; and as the idea of man is general relatively to the ideas
of a nobleman and a citizen, it is particular as it relates to the
idea of animal."[114]

"Relatively to the ideas of a nobleman and a citizen." What a long
explanation upon these words there must have been between the abbé and
the prince! The whole view of society must have been opened at once,
or the prince must have swallowed prejudices and metaphysics together.
To make these things familiar to a child, Condillac says, that we must
bring a few or many examples; but where shall we find examples? Where
shall we find proper words to express to a child ideas of political
relations mingled with metaphysical subtleties?

Through this whole chapter, on particular and general ideas, the abbé
is secretly intent upon a dispute began or revived in the thirteenth
century, and not yet finished, between the Nominalists and the
Realists; but a child knows nothing of this.

In the article "On the Power of Thinking," an article which he
acknowledges to be a little difficult, he observes, that the great
point is to make the child comprehend what is meant by attention; "for
as soon as he understands that, all the rest," he assures us, "will be
easy." Is it then of less consequence, that the child should learn the
habit of attention, than that he should learn the meaning of the word?
Granting, however, that the definition of this word is of consequence,
that definition should be made proportionably clear. The tutor, at
least, must understand it, before he can hope to explain it to his
pupil. Here it is:

"*** when amongst many sensations which you experience at the same
time, _the direction of the organs_ makes you take notice of one, so
that you do not observe the others any longer, this sensation becomes
what we call _attention_."[115]

This is not accurate; it is not clear whether the direction of the
organs be the cause, or the effect, of attention; or whether it be
only a concomitant of the sensation. Attention, we know, can be
exercised upon abstract ideas; for this objection M. Condillac has
afterwards a provisional clause, but the original definition remains
defective, because the direction of the organs is not, though it be
stated as such, essential: besides, we are told only, that the
sensation described becomes (devient) what we call attention. What
attention actually is, we are still left to discover. The matter is
made yet more difficult; for when we are just fixed in the belief,
that attention depends "upon our remarking one sensation, and not
remarking others which we may have at the same time," we are in the
next chapter given to understand, that "in comparison we may have _a
double attention, or two attentions_, which are only two sensations,
which make themselves be taken notice of equally, and consequently
comparison consists only of sensations."[116]

The doctrine of simultaneous ideas here glides in, and we concede
unawares all that is necessary to the abbé's favourite system, "that
sensation becomes successively attention, memory, comparison,
judgment, and reflection;[117] and that the art of reasoning is
reducible to a series of identic propositions." Without, at present,
attempting to examine this system, we may observe, that in education
it is more necessary to preserve the mind from prejudice, than to
prepare it for the adoption of any system. Those who have attended to
metaphysical proceedings, know, that if a few apparently trifling
concessions be made in the beginning of the business, a man of
ingenuity may force us, in the end, to acknowledge whatever he
pleases. It is impossible that a child can foresee these consequences,
nor is it probable that he should have paid such accurate attention to
the operations of his own mind, as to be able to detect the fallacy,
or to feel the truth, of his tutor's assertions. A metaphysical
catechism may readily be taught to children; they may learn to answer
almost as readily as Trenck answered in his sleep to the guards who
regularly called to him every night at midnight. Children may answer
expertly to the questions, "What is attention? What is memory? What is
imagination? What is the difference between wit and judgment? How many
sorts of ideas have you, and which are they?" But when they are
perfect in their responses to all these questions, how much are they
advanced in real knowledge?

Allegory has mixed with metaphysics almost as much as with poetry;
personifications of memory and imagination are familiar to us; to each
have been addressed odes and sonnets, so that we almost believe in
their individual existence, or at least we are become jealous of the
separate attributes of these ideal beings. This metaphysical mythology
may be ingenious and elegant, but it is better adapted to the
pleasures of poetry than to the purposes of reasoning. Those who have
been accustomed to respect and believe in it, will find it difficult
soberly to examine any argument upon abstract subjects; their
favourite prejudices will retard them when they attempt to advance in
the art of reasoning. All accurate metaphysical reasoners have
perceived, and deplored, the difficulties which the prepossessions of
education have thrown in their way; and they have been obliged to
waste their time and powers in fruitless attempts to vanquish these in
their own minds, or in those of their readers. Can we wish in
education to perpetuate similar errors, and to transmit to another
generation the same artificial imbecility? Or can we avoid these
evils, if with our present habits of thinking and speaking, we attempt
to teach metaphysics to children of seven years old?

A well educated, intelligent young man, accustomed to accurate
reasoning, yet brought up without any metaphysical prejudices, would
be a treasure to a metaphysician to cross examine: he would be eager
to hear the unprejudiced youth's evidence, as the monarch, who had
ordered a child to be shut up, without hearing one word of any human
language, from infancy to manhood, was impatient to hear what would be
the first word that he uttered. But though we wish extremely well to
the experiments of metaphysicians, we are more intent upon the
advantage which our unprejudiced pupils would themselves derive from
their judicious education: probably they would, coming fresh to the
subject, make some discoveries in the science of metaphysics: they
would have no paces[118] to show; perhaps they might advance a step or
two on this difficult ground.

When we object to the early initiation of novices into metaphysical
mysteries, we only recommend it to preceptors not to teach; let pupils
learn whatever they please, or whatever they can, without reading any
metaphysical books, and without hearing any opinions, or learning any
definitions by rote; children may reflect upon their own feelings, and
they should be encouraged to make accurate observations upon their own
minds. Sensible children will soon, for instance, observe the effect
of habit, which enables them to repeat actions with ease and facility,
which they have frequently performed. The association of ideas, as it
assists them to remember particular things, will soon be noticed,
though not, perhaps, in scientific words. The use of the association
of pain or pleasure, in the form of what we call reward and
punishment, may probably be early perceived. Children will be
delighted with these discoveries if they are suffered to make them,
and they will apply this knowledge in their own education. Trifling
daily events will recall their observations, and experience will
confirm, or correct, their juvenile theories. But if metaphysical
books, or dogmas, are forced upon children in the form of lessons,
they will, as such, be learned by rote, and forgotten.

To prevent parents from expecting as much as the abbé Condillac does
from the comprehension of pupils of six or seven years old upon
abstract subjects, and to enable preceptors to form some idea of the
perfect simplicity in which children, unprejudiced upon metaphysical
questions, would express themselves, we give the following little
dialogues, word for word, as they passed:

1780. _Father._ Where do you think?

_A----._ (Six and a half years old.) In my mouth.

_Ho----._ (Five years and a half old.) In my stomach.

_Father._ Where do you feel that you are glad, or sorry?

_A----._ In my stomach.

_Ho----._ In my eyes.

_Father._ What are your senses for?

_Ho----._ To know things.

Without any previous conversation, Ho---- (five years and a half old)
said to her mother, "I think you will be glad my right foot is sore,
because you told me I did not lean enough upon my left foot." This
child seemed, on many occasions, to have formed an accurate idea of
the use of punishment, considering it always as pain given to cure us
of some fault, or to prevent us from suffering more pain in future.

April, 1792. H----, a boy nine years and three quarters old, as he was
hammering at a work-bench, paused for a short time, and then said to
his sister, who was in the room with him, "Sister, I observe that when
I don't look at my right hand when I hammer, and only think where it
ought to hit, I can hammer much better than when I look at it. I don't
know what the reason of that is; unless it is because I think in my
head."

_M----._ I am not sure, but I believe that we do think in our heads.

_H----._ Then, perhaps, my head is divided into two parts, and that
one thinks for one arm, and one for the other; so that when I want to
strike with my right arm, I think where I want to hit the wood, and
then, without looking at it, I can move my arm in the right direction;
as when my father is going to write, he sometimes sketches it.

_M----._ What do you mean, my dear, by sketching it?

_H----._ Why, when he moves his hand (flourishes) without touching the
paper with the pen. And at first, when I want to do any thing, I
cannot move my hand as I mean; but after being used to it, then I can
do much better. I don't know why.

After going on hammering for some time, he stopped again, and said,
"There's another thing I wanted to tell you. Sometimes I think to
myself, that it is right to think of things that are sensible, and
then when I want to set about thinking of things that are sensible, I
_cannot_; I can only think of that over and over again."

_M----._ You can only think of what?

_H----._ Of those words. They seem to be said to me over and over
again, till I'm quite tired, "That it is right to think of things that
have some sense."

The childish expressions in these remarks have not been altered,
because we wished to show exactly how children at this age express
their thoughts. If M. Condillac had been used to converse with
children, he surely would not have expected, that any boy of seven
years old could have understood his definition of attention, and his
metaphysical preliminary lessons.

After these preliminary lessons, we have a sketch of the prince of
Parma's subsequent studies. M. Condillac says, that his royal highness
(being not yet eight years old) was now "perfectly well acquainted
with the system of intellectual operations. He comprehended already
the production of his ideas; he saw the origin and the progress of the
habits which he had contracted, and he perceived how he could
substitute just ideas for the false ones which had been given to him,
and good habits instead of the bad habits which he had been suffered
to acquire. He had become so quickly familiar with all these things,
that he retraced their connection without effort, quite
playfully."[119]

This prince must have been a prodigy! After having made him reflect
upon his own infancy, the abbé judged that the infancy of the world
would appear to his pupil "the most curious subject, and the most easy
to study." The analogy between these two infancies seems to exist
chiefly in words; it is not easy to gratify a child's curiosity
concerning the infancy of the world. Extracts from L'Origine des Loix,
by M. Goguet, with explanatory notes, were put into the prince's
hands, to inform him of what happened in the commencement of society.
These were his evening studies. In the mornings he read the French
poets, Boileau, Moliere, Corneille, and Racine. Racine, as we are
particularly informed, was, in the space of one year, read over a
dozen times. Wretched prince! Unfortunate Racine! The abbé
acknowledges, that at first these authors were not understood with the
same ease as the preliminary lessons had been: every word stopped the
prince, and it seemed as if every line were written in an unknown
language. This is not surprising, for how is it possible that a boy
of seven or eight years old, who could know nothing of life and
manners, could taste the wit and humour of Moliere; and, incapable as
he must have been of sympathy with the violent passions of tragic
heroes and heroines, how could he admire the lofty dramas of Racine?
We are willing to suppose, that the young prince of Parma was quick,
and well informed for his age; but to judge of what is practicable, we
must produce examples from common life, instead of prodigies.

S----, a boy of nine years old, of whose abilities the reader will be
able to form some judgment from anecdotes in the following pages,
whose understanding was not wholy uncultivated, when he was between
nine and ten years old, expressed a wish to read some of Shakespeare's
plays. King John was given to him. After the book had been before him
for one winter's evening, he returned it to his father, declaring that
he did not understand one word of the play; he could not make out what
the people were about, and he did not wish to read any more of it. His
brother H----, at twelve years old, had made an equally ineffectual
attempt to read Shakespeare; he was also equally decided and honest in
expressing his dislike to it; he was much surprised at seeing his
sister B----, who was a year or two older than himself, reading
Shakespeare with great avidity, and he frequently asked what it was in
that book that could entertain her. Two years afterwards, when H----
was between fourteen and fifteen, he made another trial, and he found
that he understood the language of Shakespeare without any difficulty.
He read all the historical plays with the greatest eagerness, and
particularly seized the character of Falstaff. He gave a humorous
description of the figure and dress which he supposed Sir John should
have, of his manner of sitting, speaking, and walking. Probably, if
H---- had been pressed to read Shakespeare at the time when he did not
understand it, he might never have read these plays with real
pleasure during his whole life. Two years increase prodigiously the
vocabulary and the ideas of young people, and preceptors should
consider, that what we call literary taste, cannot be formed without a
variety of knowledge. The productions of our ablest writers cannot
please, until we are familiarized to the ideas which they contain, or
to which they allude.[120]

Poetry is usually supposed to be well suited to the taste and capacity
of children. In the infancy of taste and of eloquence, rhetorical
language is constantly admired; the bold expression of strong feeling,
and the simple description of the beauties of nature, are found to
interest both cultivated and uncultivated minds. To understand
descriptive poetry, no previous knowledge is required, beyond what
common observation and sympathy supply; the analogies and transitions
of thought, are slight and obvious; no labour of attention is
demanded, no active effort of the mind is requisite to follow them.
The pleasures of simple sensation are, by descriptive poetry, recalled
to the imagination, and we live over again our past lives without
increasing, and without desiring to increase, our stock of knowledge.
If these observations be just, there must appear many reasons, why
even that species of poetry which they can understand, should not be
the early study of children; from time to time it may be an agreeable
amusement, but it should not become a part of their daily occupations.
We do not want to retrace perpetually in their memories a few musical
words, or a few simple sensations; our object is to enlarge the sphere
of our pupil's capacity, to strengthen the habits of attention, and to
exercise all the powers of the mind. The inventive and the reasoning
faculties must be injured by the repetition of vague expressions, and
of exaggerated description, with which most poetry abounds. Childhood
is the season for observation, and those who observe accurately, will
afterwards be able to describe accurately: but those, who merely read
descriptions, can present us with nothing but the pictures of
pictures. We have reason to believe, that children, who have not been
accustomed to read a vast deal of poetry, are not, for that reason,
less likely to excel in poetic language. The reader will judge from
the following explanations of Gray's Hymn to Adversity, that the boy
to whom they were addressed, was not much accustomed to read even the
most popular English poetry; yet this is the same child, who a few
months afterwards, wrote the translation from Ovid, of the Cave of
Sleep, and who gave the extempore description of a summer's evening in
tolerably good language.

Jan. 1796. S---- (nine years old) learned by heart the Hymn to
Adversity. When he came to repeat this poem, he did not repeat it
well, and he had it not perfectly by heart. His father suspected that
he did not understand it, and he examined him with some care.

_Father._ "Purple tyrants!" Why purple?

_S----._ Because purple is a colour something like red and black; and
tyrants look red and black.

_Father._ No. Kings were formerly called tyrants, and they wore purple
robes: the purple of the ancients is supposed to be not the colour
which we call purple, but that which we call scarlet.

    "When first thy sire to send on earth
    Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
    To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
    And bade to form her infant mind."

When S---- was asked who was meant in these lines by "thy sire," he
frowned terribly; but after some deliberation, he discovered that "thy
sire" meant Jove, the father, or sire of Adversity: still he was
extremely puzzled with "the heavenly birth." First he thought that the
heavenly birth was the birth of Adversity; but upon recollection, the
heavenly birth was to be trusted to Adversity, therefore she could not
be trusted with the care of herself. S---- at length discovered, that
Jove must have had two daughters, and he said he supposed that Virtue
must have been one of these daughters, and that she must have been
sister to Adversity, who was to be her nurse, and who was to form her
infant mind: he now perceived that the expression, "Stern, rugged
nurse," referred to Adversity; before this, he said, he did not know
who it meant, whose "rigid lore" was alluded to in these two lines, or
who bore it with patience.

    "Stern, rugged nurse, thy rigid lore
    With patience many a year she bore."

The following stanza S---- repeated a second time, as if he did not
understand it.

    "Scared at thy frown, terrific fly
    Self pleasing follies, idle brood,
    Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy,
    And leave us leisure to be good.
    Light they disperse, and with them go
    The summer friend, the flattering foe;
    By vain prosperity receiv'd,
    To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd."

_Father._ Why does the poet say _wild_ laughter?

_S----._ It means, not reasonable.

_Father._ Why is it said,

    "By vain prosperity receiv'd,
    To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd?"

_S----._ Because the people, I suppose, when they were in prosperity
before, believed them before, but I think that seems confused.

    "Oh gently on thy suppliant's head,
    Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand."

S---- did not seem to comprehend the first of these two lines; and
upon cross examination, it appeared that he did not know the meaning
of the word _suppliant_; he thought it meant "a person who supplies
us."

    "Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
    Nor circled by the vengeful band,
    As by the impious thou art seen."

It may appear improbable, that a child who did not know the meaning
of the word suppliant, should understand the Gorgon terrors, and the
vengeful band, yet it was so: S---- understood these lines distinctly;
he said, "Gorgon terrors, yes, like the head of Gorgon." He was at
this time translating from Ovid's Metamorphoses; and it happened that
his father had explained to him the ideas of the ancients concerning
the furies; besides this, several people in the family had been
reading Potter's Æschylus, and the furies had been the subject of
conversation. From such accidental circumstances as these, children
often appear, in the same instant almost, to be extremely quick, and
extremely slow of comprehension; a preceptor who is well acquainted
with all his pupil's previous knowledge, can rapidly increase his
stock of ideas by turning every accidental circumstance to account:
but if a tutor persists in forcing a child to a regular course of
study, all his ideas must be collected, not as they are wanted in
conversation or in real life, but as they are wanted to get through a
lesson or a book. It is not surprising, that M. Condillac found such
long explanations necessary for his young pupil in reading the
tragedies of Racine; he says, that he was frequently obliged to
translate the poetry into prose, and frequently the prince could
gather only some general idea of the whole drama, without
understanding the parts. We cannot help regretting, that the
explanations have not been published for the advantage of future
preceptors; they must have been almost as difficult as those for the
preliminary lessons. As we are convinced that the art of education can
be best improved by the registering of early experiments, we are very
willing to expose such as have been made, without fear of fastidious
criticism or ridicule.

May 1, 1796. A little poem, called "The Tears of Old May-day,"
published in the second volume of the World, was read to S----. Last
May-day the same poem had been read to him; he then liked it much,
and his father wished to see what effect it would have upon this
second reading. The pleasure of novelty was worn off, but S---- felt
new pleasure from his having, during the last year, acquired a great
number of new ideas, and especially some knowledge of ancient
mythology, which enabled him to understand several allusions in the
poem which had before been unintelligible to him. He had become
acquainted with the muses, the graces, Cynthia, Philomel, Astrea, who
are all mentioned in this poem; he now knew something about the
Hesperian fruit, Amalthea's horn, choral dances, Libyan Ammon, &c.
which are alluded to in different lines of the poem: he remembered the
explanation which his father had given him the preceding year, of a
line which alludes to the island of Atalantis:

    "Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove,
    Their forests floating on the wat'ry plain;
    Then famed for arts, and laws deriv'd from Jove,
    My Atalantis sunk beneath the main."

S----, whose imagination had been pleased with the idea of the
fabulous island of Atalantis, recollected what he had heard of it; but
he had forgotten the explanation of another stanza of this poem, which
he had heard at the same time:

    "To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride,
    Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine;
    Nor fresh blown garlands village maids provide,
    A purer offering at her rustic shrine."

S---- forgot that he had been told that London was formerly called
Augusta; that Potosi's mines contained silver; and that pouring the
tribute from Potosi's mines, alludes to the custom of hanging silver
tankards upon the May-poles in London on May-day; consequently the
beauty of this stanza was entirely lost upon him. A few circumstances
were now told to S----, which imprinted the explanation effectually in
his memory: his father told him, that the publicans, or those who keep
public houses in London, make it a custom to lend their silver
tankards to the poor chimney-sweepers and milk-maids, who go in
procession through the streets on May-day. The confidence that is put
in the honesty of these poor people, pleased S----, and all these
circumstances fixed the principal idea more firmly in his mind.

The following lines could please him only by their sound, the first
time he heard them:

    "Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born,
      The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise,
    With time coeval, and the star of morn,
      The first, the fairest daughter of the skies.

    "Then, when at heaven's prolific mandate sprung
      The radiant beam of new-created day,
    Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung,
      Hail'd the glad dawn, and angel's call'd me May.

    "Space in her empty regions heard the sound,
      And hills and dales, and rocks and valleys rung;
    The sun exulted in his glorious round,
      And shouting planets in their courses sung."

The idea which the ancients had of the music of the spheres was here
explained to S----, and some general notion was given to him of the
_harmonic numbers_.

What a number of new ideas this little poem served to introduce into
the mind! These explanations being given precisely at the time when
they were wanted, fixed the ideas in the memory in their proper
places, and associated knowledge with the pleasures of poetry. Some of
the effect of a poem must, it is true, be lost by interruptions and
explanations; but we must consider the general improvement of the
understanding, and not merely the cultivation of poetic taste. In the
instance which we have just given, the pleasure which the boy received
from the poem, seemed to increase in proportion to the exactness with
which it was explained. The succeeding year, on May-day 1797, the same
poem was read to him for the third time, and he appeared to like it
better than he had done upon the first reading. If, instead of
perusing Racine twelve times in one year, the young prince of Parma
had read any one play or scene at different periods of his education,
and had been led to observe the increase of pleasure which he felt
from being able to understand what he read better each succeeding time
than before, he would probably have improved more rapidly in his taste
for poetry, though he might not have known Racine by rote quite so
early as at eight years old.

We considered parents almost as much as children, when we advised that
a great deal of poetry should not be read by very young pupils; the
labour and difficulty of explaining it can be known only to those who
have tried the experiment. The Elegy in a country church-yard, is one
of the most popular poems, which is usually given to children to learn
by heart; it cost at least a quarter of an hour to explain to
intelligent children, the youngest of whom was at the time nine years
old, the first stanza of that elegy. And we have heard it asserted by
a gentleman not unacquainted with literature, that perfectly to
understand l'Allegro and Il Penseroso, requires no inconsiderable
portion of ancient and modern knowledge. It employed several hours on
different days to read and explain Comus, so as to make it
intelligible to a boy of ten years, who gave his utmost attention to
it. The explanations on this poem were found to be so numerous and
intricate, that we thought it best not to produce them here.
Explanations which are given by a reader, can be given with greater
rapidity and effect, than any which a writer can give to children: the
expression of the countenance is advantageous, the sprightliness of
conversation keeps the pupils awake, and the connection of the parts
of the subject can be carried on better in speaking and reading, than
it can be in written explanations. Notes are almost always too formal,
or too obscure; they explain what was understood more plainly before
any illustration was attempted, or they leave us in the dark the
moment we want to be enlightened. Wherever parents or preceptors can
supply the place of notes and commentators, they need not think their
time ill bestowed. If they cannot undertake these troublesome
explanations, they can surely reserve obscure poems for a later period
of their pupil's education. Children, who are taught at seven or eight
years old to repeat poetry, frequently get beautiful lines by rote,
and speak them fluently, without in the least understanding the
meaning of the lines. The business of a poet is to please the
imagination, and to move the passions: in proportion as his language
is sublime or pathetic, witty or satirical, it must be unfit for
children. Knowledge cannot be detailed, or accurately explained, in
poetry; the beauty of an allusion depends frequently upon the
elliptical mode of expression, which passing imperceptibly over all
the intermediate links in our associations, is apparent only when it
touches the ends of the chain. Those who wish to instruct, must pursue
the opposite system.

In Doctor Wilkins's Essay on Universal Language, he proposes to
introduce a note similar to the common note of admiration, to give the
reader notice when any expression is used in an ironical or in a
metaphoric sense. Such a note would be of great advantage to children:
in reading poetry, they are continually puzzled between the obvious
and the metaphoric sense of the words.[121] The desire to make
children learn a vast deal of poetry by heart, fortunately for the
understanding of the rising generation, does not rage with such
violence as formerly. Dr. Johnson successfully laughed at infants
lisping out, "Angels and ministers of grace, defend us." His reproof
was rather ill-natured, when he begged two children who were produced,
to repeat some lines to him, "Can't the pretty dears repeat them both
together?" But this reproof has probably prevented many exhibitions of
the same kind.

Some people learn poetry by heart for the pleasure of quoting it in
conversation; but the talent for quotation, both in conversation and
in writing, is now become so common, that it cannot confer
immortality.[122] Every person has by rote certain passages from
Shakespeare and Thomson, Goldsmith and Gray: these trite quotations
fatigue the literary ear, and disgust the taste of the public. To this
change in the fashion of the day, those who are influenced by fashion,
will probably listen with more eagerness, than to all the reasons that
have been offered. But to return to the prince of Parma. After reading
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, &c. the young prince's taste was
formed, as we are assured by his preceptor, and he was now fit for the
study of grammar. So much is due to the benevolent intentions of a man
of learning and genius, who submits to the drudgery of writing an
elementary book on grammar, that even a critic must feel unwilling to
examine it with severity. M. Condillac, in his attempt to write a
rational grammar, has produced, if not a grammar fit for children, a
philosophical treatise, which a well educated young person will read
with great advantage at the age of seventeen or eighteen. All that is
said of the natural language of signs, of the language of action, of
pantomimes, and of the institution of M. l'Abbé l'Epée for teaching
languages to the deaf and dumb, is not only amusing and instructive to
general readers, but, with slight alterations in the language, might
be perfectly adapted to the capacity of children. But when the Abbé
Condillac goes on to "Your highness knows what is meant by a system,"
he immediately forgets his pupils age. The reader's attention is
presently deeply engaged by an abstract disquisition on the relative
proportion, represented by various circles of different extent, of the
wants, ideas, and language of savages, shepherds, commercial and
polished nations, when he is suddenly awakened to the recollection,
that all this is addressed to a child of eight years old: an allusion
to the prince's little chair, completely rouses us from our reverie.

"As your little chair is made in the same form as mine, which is
higher, so the system of ideas is fundamentally the same amongst
savage and civilized nations; it differs only in degrees of extension,
as after one and the same model, seats of different heights have been
made."[123]

Such mistakes as these, in a work intended for a child, are so
obvious, that they could not have escaped the penetration of a great
man, had he known as much of the practice as he did of the theory of
the art of teaching.

To analyze a thought, and to show the construction of language, M.
Condillac, in this volume on grammar, has chosen for an example a
passage from an _Eloge_ on Peter Corneille, pronounced before the
French academy by Racine, on the reception of Thomas Corneille, who
succeeded to Peter. It is in the French style of academical panegyric,
a representation of the chaotic state in which Corneille found the
French theatre, and of the light and order which he diffused through
the dramatic world by his creative genius. A subject less interesting,
or more unintelligible to a child, could scarcely have been selected.
The lecture on the anatomy of Racine's thought, lasts through fifteen
pages; according to all the rules of art, the dissection is ably
performed, but most children will turn from the operation with
disgust.

The Abbé Condillac's treatise on the art of writing, immediately
succeeds to his grammar. The examples in this volume are much better
chosen; they are interesting to all readers; those especially from
madame de Sevigné's letters, which are drawn from familiar language
and domestic life. The enumeration of the figures of speech, and the
classification of the flowers of rhetoric, are judiciously suppressed;
the catalogue of the different sorts of _turns_, phrases proper for
maxims and principles, turns proper for sentiment, ingenious turns and
quaint turns, stiff turns and easy turns, might, perhaps, have been
somewhat abridged. The observations on the effect of unity in the
whole design, and in all the subordinate parts of a work, though they
may not be new, are ably stated; and the remark, that the utmost
propriety of language, and the strongest effect of eloquence and
reasoning, result from the greatest possible attention to the
connection of our ideas, is impressed forcibly upon the reader
throughout this work.

How far works of criticism in general are suited to children, remains
to be considered. Such works cannot probably suit their taste, because
the taste for systematic criticism cannot arise in the mind until many
books have been read; until the various species of excellence suited
to different sorts of composition, have been perceived, and until the
mind has made some choice of its own. It is true, that works of
criticism may teach children to talk well of what they read; they will
be enabled to repeat what good judges have said of books. But this is
not, or ought not to be, the object. After having been thus
officiously assisted by a connoisseur, who points out to them the
beauties of authors, will they be able afterwards to discover beauties
without his assistance? Or have they as much pleasure in being told
what to admire, what to praise, and what to blame, as if they had been
suffered to feel and to express their own feelings naturally? In
reading an interesting play, or beautiful poem, how often has a man of
taste and genius execrated the impertinent commentator, who
interrupts him by obtruding his ostentatious notes--"The reader will