{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36774/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36774","id":"gutenberg_36774","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36774","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Teaching & Education","Education","Education, Higher","Women -- Education"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Katherine Ward, Jonathan Ingram, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TEACHER\n\nESSAYS AND ADDRESSES ON EDUCATION\n\n\nBY GEORGE HERBERT PALMER AND ALICE FREEMAN PALMER\n\n\n  BOSTON AND NEW YORK\n  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY\n  The Riverside Press Cambridge\n  1908\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY GEORGE HERBERT PALMER\n  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n  _Published November 1908_\n\n  SECOND IMPRESSION\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe papers of this volume fall into three groups, two of the three being\nwritten by myself. From my writings on education I have selected only\nthose which may have some claim to permanent interest, and all but two\nhave been tested by previous publication. Those of the first group deal\nwith questions about which we teachers, eager about our immeasurable art\nbeyond most professional persons, never cease to wonder and debate: What\nis teaching? How far may it influence character? Can it be practiced on\npersons too busy or too poor to come to our class-rooms? To subjects of\nwhat scope should it be applied? And how shall we content ourselves with\nits necessary limitations? Under these diverse headings a kind of\nphilosophy of education is outlined. The last two papers, having been\ngiven as lectures and stenographically reported, I have left in their\noriginal colloquial form. A group of papers on Harvard follows, preceded\nby an explanatory note, and the volume closes with a few papers by Mrs.\nPalmer. She and I often talked of preparing together a book on\neducation. Now, alone, I gather up these fragments.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n          I. PROBLEMS OF SCHOOL AND COLLEGE\n     I. The Ideal Teacher                                            3\n    II. Ethical Instruction in the Schools                          31\n   III. Moral Instruction in the Schools                            49\n    IV. Self-Cultivation in English                                 72\n     V. Doubts About University Extension                          105\n    VI. Specialization                                             123\n   VII. The Glory of the Imperfect                                 143\n\n          II. HARVARD PAPERS\n  VIII. The New Education                                          173\n    IX. Erroneous Limitations of the Elective System               200\n     X. Necessary Limitations of the Elective System               239\n    XI. College Expenses                                           272\n   XII. A Teacher of the Olden Time                                283\n\n          III. PAPERS BY ALICE FREEMAN PALMER\n  XIII. Three Types of Women's Colleges                            313\n   XIV. Women's Education in the Nineteenth Century                337\n    XV. Women's Education at the World's Fair                      351\n   XVI. Why Go to College?                                         364\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nPROBLEMS OF SCHOOL AND COLLEGE\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nTHE IDEAL TEACHER\n\n\nIn America, a land of idealism, the profession of teaching has become\none of the greatest of human employments. In 1903-04 half a million\nteachers were in charge of sixteen million pupils. Stating the same\nfacts differently, we may say that a fifth of our entire population is\nconstantly at school; and that wherever one hundred and sixty men,\nwomen, and children are gathered, a teacher is sure to be among them.\n\nBut figures fail to express the importance of the work. If each year an\nequal number of persons should come in contact with as many lawyers, no\nsuch social consequences would follow. The touch of the teacher, like\nthat of no other person, is formative. Our young people are for long\nperiods associated with those who are expected to fashion them into men\nand women of an approved type. A charge so influential is committed to\nnobody else in the community, not even to the ministers; for though\nthese have a more searching aim, they are directly occupied with it but\none day instead of six, but one hour instead of five. Accordingly, as\nthe tract of knowledge has widened, and the creative opportunities\ninvolved in conducting a young person over it have correspondingly\nbecome apparent, the profession of teaching has risen to a notable\nheight of dignity and attractiveness. It has moved from a subordinate to\na central place in social influence, and now undertakes much of the work\nwhich formerly fell to the church. Each year divinity schools attract\nfewer students, graduate and normal schools more. On school and college\ninstruction the community now bestows its choicest minds, its highest\nhopes, and its largest sums. During the year 1903-04 the United States\nspent for teaching not less than $350,000,000.\n\nSuch weighty work is ill adapted for amateurs. Those who take it up for\nbrief times and to make money usually find it unsatisfactory. Success is\nrare, the hours are fixed and long, there is repetition and monotony,\nand the teacher passes his days among inferiors. Nor are the pecuniary\ngains considerable. There are few prizes, and neither in school nor in\ncollege will a teacher's ordinary income carry him much above want.\nCollege teaching is falling more and more into the hands of men of\nindependent means. The poor can hardly afford to engage in it. Private\nschools, it is true, often show large incomes; but they are earned by\nthe proprietors, not the teachers. On the whole, teaching as a trade is\npoor and disappointing business.\n\nWhen, however, it is entered as a profession, as a serious and difficult\nfine art, there are few employments more satisfying. All over the\ncountry thousands of men and women are following it with a passionate\ndevotion which takes little account of the income received. A trade aims\nprimarily at personal gain; a profession at the exercise of powers\nbeneficial to mankind. This prime aim of the one, it is true, often\nproperly becomes a subordinate aim of the other. Professional men may\neven be said to offer wares of their own--cures, conversions, court\nvictories, learning--much as traders do, and to receive in return a kind\nof reward. But the business of the lawyer, doctor, preacher, and teacher\nnever squares itself by equivalent exchange. These men do not give so\nmuch for so much. They give in lump and they get in lump, without\nprecise balance. The whole notion of bargain is inapplicable in a sphere\nwhere the gains of him who serves and him who is served coincide; and\nthat is largely the case with the professions. Each of them furnishes\nits special opportunity for the use of powers which the possessor takes\ndelight in exercising. Harvard College pays me for doing what I would\ngladly pay it for allowing me to do. No professional man, then, thinks\nof giving according to measure. Once engaged, he gives his best, gives\nhis personal interest, himself. His heart is in his work, and for this\nno equivalent is possible; what is accepted is in the nature of a fee,\ngratuity, or consideration, which enables him who receives it to\nmaintain a certain expected mode of life. The real payment is the work\nitself, this and the chance to join with other members of the profession\nin guiding and enlarging the sphere of its activities.\n\nThe idea, sometimes advanced, that the professions might be ennobled by\npaying them powerfully, is fantastic. Their great attraction is their\nremoval from sordid aims. More money should certainly be spent on\nseveral of them. Their members should be better protected against want,\nanxiety, neglect, and bad conditions of labor. To do his best work one\nneeds not merely to live, but to live well. Yet in that increase of\nsalaries which is urgently needed, care should be used not to allow the\nattention of the professional man to be diverted from what is\nimportant,--the outgo of his work,--and become fixed on what is merely\nincidental,--his income. When a professor in one of our large\nuniversities, angered by the refusal of the president to raise his\nsalary on his being called elsewhere, impatiently exclaimed, \"Mr.\nPresident, you are banking on the devotion of us teachers, knowing that\nwe do not willingly leave this place,\" the president properly replied,\n\"Certainly, and no college can be managed on any other principle.\"\nProfessional men are not so silly as to despise money; but after all, it\nis interest in their work, and not the thought of salary, which\npredominantly holds them.\n\nAccordingly in this paper I address those only who are drawn to teaching\nby the love of it, who regard it as the most vital of the Fine Arts, who\nintend to give their lives to mastering its subtleties, and who are\nready to meet some hardships and to put up with moderate fare if they\nmay win its rich opportunities.\n\nBut supposing such a temper, what special qualifications will the work\nrequire? The question asked thus broadly admits no precise answer; for\nin reality there is no human excellence which is not useful for us\nteachers. No good quality can be thought of which we can afford to\ndrop. Some day we shall discover a disturbing vacuum in the spot which\nit left. But I propose a more limited problem: what are those\ncharacteristics of the teacher without which he must fail, and what\nthose which, once his, will almost certainly insure him success? Are\nthere any such essentials, and how many? On this matter I have pondered\nlong; for, teaching thirty-nine years in Harvard College, I have each\nyear found out a little more fully my own incompetence. I have thus\nbeen forced to ask myself the double question, through what lacks do\nI fail, and in what direction lie the roots of my small successes? Of\nlate years I think I have hit on these roots of success and have\ncome to believe that there are four of them,--four characteristics which\nevery teacher must possess. Of course he may possess as many more as\nhe likes,--indeed, the more the better. But these four appear\nfundamental. I will briefly name them.\n\nFirst, a teacher must have an aptitude for vicariousness; and second, an\nalready accumulated wealth; and third, an ability to invigorate life\nthrough knowledge; and fourth, a readiness to be forgotten. Having\nthese, any teacher is secure. Lacking them, lacking even one, he is\nliable to serious failure. But as here stated they have a curiously\ncabalistic sound and show little relation to the needs of any\nprofession. They have been stated with too much condensation, and have\nbecome unintelligible through being too exact. Let me repair the error\nby successively expanding them.\n\nThe teacher's art takes its rise in what I call an aptitude for\nvicariousness. As year by year my college boys prepare to go forth into\nlife, some laggard is sure to come to me and say, \"I want a little\nadvice. Most of my classmates have their minds made up about what they\nare going to do. I am still uncertain. I rather incline to be a teacher,\nbecause I am fond of books and suspect that in any other profession I\ncan give them but little time. Business men do not read. Lawyers only\nconsult books. And I am by no means sure that ministers have read all\nthe books they quote. On the whole it seems safest to choose a\nprofession in which books will be my daily companions. So I turn toward\nteaching. But before settling the matter I thought I would ask how you\nregard the profession.\" \"A noble profession,\" I answer, \"but quite unfit\nfor you. I would advise you to become a lawyer, a car conductor, or\nsomething equally harmless. Do not turn to anything so perilous as\nteaching. You would ruin both it and yourself; for you are looking in\nexactly the wrong direction.\"\n\nSuch an inquirer is under a common misconception. The teacher's task is\nnot primarily the acquisition of knowledge, but the impartation of\nit,--an entirely different matter. We teachers are forever taking\nthoughts out of our minds and putting them elsewhere. So long as we are\ncontent to keep them in our possession, we are not teachers at all. One\nwho is interested in laying hold on wisdom is likely to become a\nscholar. And while no doubt it is well for a teacher to be a fair\nscholar,--I have known several such,--that is not the main thing. What\nconstitutes the teacher is the passion to make scholars; and again and\nagain it happens that the great scholar has no such passion whatever.\n\nBut even that passion is useless without aid from imagination. At every\ninstant of the teacher's life he must be controlled by this mighty\npower. Most human beings are contented with living one life and\ndelighted if they can pass that agreeably. But this is far from enough\nfor us teachers. We incessantly go outside ourselves and enter into the\nmany lives about us,--lives dull, dark, and unintelligible to any but an\neye like ours. And this is imagination, the sympathetic creation in\nourselves of conditions which belong to others. Our profession is\ntherefore a double-ended one. We inspect truth as it rises fresh and\ninteresting before our eager sight. But that is only the beginning of\nour task. Swiftly we then seize the lines of least intellectual\nresistance in alien minds and, with perpetual reference to these, follow\nour truth till it is safely lodged beyond ourselves. Each mind has its\npeculiar set of frictions. Those of our pupils can never be the same as\nours. We have passed far on and know all about our subject. For us it\nwears an altogether different look from that which it has for beginners.\nIt is their perplexities which we must reproduce and--as if a rose\nshould shut and be a bud again--we must reassume in our developed and\naccustomed souls something of the innocence of childhood. Such is the\nexquisite business of the teacher, to carry himself back with all his\nwealth of knowledge and understand how his subject should appear to the\nmeagre mind of one glancing at it for the first time.\n\nAnd what absurd blunders we make in the process! Becoming immersed in\nour own side of the affair, we blind ourselves and readily attribute to\nour pupils modes of thought which are not in the least theirs. I\nremember a lesson I had on this point, I who had been teaching ethics\nhalf a lifetime. My nephew, five years old, was fond of stories from the\nOdyssey. He would creep into bed with me in the morning and beg for\nthem. One Sunday, after I had given him a pretty stiff bit of adventure,\nit occurred to me that it was an appropriate day for a moral. \"Ulysses\nwas a very brave man,\" I remarked. \"Yes,\" he said, \"and I am very\nbrave.\" I saw my opportunity and seized it. \"That is true,\" said I. \"You\nhave been gaining courage lately. You used to cry easily, but you don't\ndo that nowadays. When you want to cry now, you think how like a baby it\nwould be to cry, or how you would disturb mother and upset the house;\nand so you conclude not to cry.\" The little fellow seemed hopelessly\npuzzled. He lay silent a minute or two and then said, \"Well no, Uncle, I\ndon't do that. I just go sh-sh-sh, and I don't.\" There the moral crisis\nis stated in its simplicity; and I had been putting off on that holy\nlittle nature sophistications borrowed from my own battered life.\n\nBut while I am explaining the blunders caused by self-engrossment and\nlack of imagination, let me show what slight adjustments will sometimes\ncarry us past depressing difficulties. One year when I was lecturing on\nsome intricate problems of obligation, I began to doubt whether my class\nwas following me, and I determined that I would make them talk. So the\nnext day I constructed an ingenious ethical case and, after stating it\nto the class, I said, \"Supposing now the state of affairs were thus and\nthus, and the interests of the persons involved were such and such, how\nwould you decide the question of right,--Mr. Jones.\" Poor Jones rose in\nconfusion. \"You mean,\" he said, \"if the case were as you have stated it?\nWell, hm, hm, hm,--yes,--I don't think I know, sir.\" And he sat down. I\ncalled on one and another with the same result. A panic was upon them,\nand all their minds were alike empty. I went home disgusted, wondering\nwhether they had comprehended anything I had said during the previous\nfortnight, and hoping I might never have such a stupid lot of students\nagain. Suddenly it flashed upon me that it was I who was stupid. That is\nusually the case when a class fails; it is the teacher's fault. The next\nday I went back prepared to begin at the right end. I began, \"Oh, Mr.\nJones.\" He rose, and I proceeded to state the situation as before. By\nthe time I paused he had collected his wits, had worked off his\nsuperfluous flurry, and was ready to give me an admirable answer.\nIndeed in a few minutes the whole class was engaged in an eager\ndiscussion. My previous error had been in not remembering that they, I,\nand everybody, when suddenly attacked with a big question, are not in\nthe best condition for answering. Occupied as I was with my end of the\nstory, the questioning end, I had not worked in that double-ended\nfashion which alone can bring the teacher success; in short, I was\ndeficient in vicariousness,--in swiftly putting myself in the weak one's\nplace and bearing his burden.\n\nNow it is in this chief business of the artistic teacher, to labor\nimaginatively himself in order to diminish the labors of his slender\npupil, that most of our failures occur. Instead of lamenting the\nimperviousness of our pupils, we had better ask ourselves more\nfrequently whether we have neatly adjusted our teachings to the\nconditions of their minds. We have no right to tumble out in a mass\nwhatever comes into our heads, leaving to that feeble folk the work of\nfinding in it what order they may. Ours it should be to see that every\nbeginning, middle, and end of what we say is helpfully shaped for\nreadiest access to those less intelligent and interested than we. But\nthis is vicariousness. _Noblesse oblige._ In this profession any one who\nwill be great must be a nimble servant, his head full of others' needs.\n\nSome discouraged teacher, glad to discover that his past failures have\nbeen due to the absence of sympathetic imagination, may resolve that he\nwill not commit that blunder again. On going to his class to-morrow he\nwill look out upon his subject with his pupils' eyes, not with his own.\nLet him attempt it, and his pupils will surely say to one another, \"What\nis the matter to-day with teacher?\" They will get nothing from that\nexercise. No, what is wanted is not a resolve, but an aptitude. The time\nfor using vicariousness is not the time for acquiring it. Rather it is\nthe time for dismissing all thoughts of it from the mind. On entering\nthe classroom we should leave every consideration of method outside the\ndoor, and talk simply as interested men and women in whatever way comes\nmost natural to us. But into that nature vicariousness should long ago\nhave been wrought. It should be already on hand. Fortunate we if our\ngreat-grandmother supplied us with it before we were born. There are\npersons who, with all good will, can never be teachers. They are not\nmade in that way. Their business it is to pry into knowledge, to engage\nin action, to make money, or to pursue whatever other aim their powers\ndictate; but they do not readily think in terms of the other person.\nThey should not, then, be teachers.\n\nThe teacher's habit is well summed in the Apostle's rule, \"Look not\nevery man on his own things, but every man also\"--it is double--\"on\nthe things of others.\" And this habit should become as nearly as\npossible an instinct. Until it is rendered instinctive and passes\nbeyond conscious direction, it will be of little worth. Let us then,\nas we go into society, as we walk the streets, as we sit at table,\npractice altruistic limberness and learn to escape from ourselves. A\ntrue teacher is always meditating his work, disciplining himself for his\nprofession, probing the problems of his glorious art, and seeing\nillustration of them everywhere. In only one place is he freed from\nsuch criticism, and that is in his classroom. Here in the moment of\naction he lets himself go, unhampered by theory, using the nature\nacquired elsewhere, and uttering as simply as possible the fulness of\nhis mind and heart. Direct human intercourse requires instinctive\naptitudes. Till altruistic vicariousness has become our second\nnature, we shall not deeply influence anybody.\n\nBut sympathetic imagination is not all a teacher needs. Exclusive\naltruism is absurd. On this point too I once got instruction from the\nmouths of babes and sucklings. The children of a friend of mine,\nchildren of six and four, had just gone to bed. Their mother overheard\nthem talking when they should have been asleep. Wondering what they\nmight need, she stepped into the entry and listened. They were\ndiscussing what they were here in the world for. That is about the size\nof problems commonly found in infant minds. The little girl suggested\nthat we are probably in the world to help others. \"Why, no indeed,\nMabel,\" said her big brother, \"for then what would others be here for?\"\nPrecisely! If anything is only fit to give away, it is not fit for that.\nWe must know and prize its goodness in ourselves before generosity is\neven possible.\n\nPlainly, then, beside his aptitude for vicariousness, our ideal teacher\nwill need the second qualification of an already accumulated wealth.\nThese hungry pupils are drawing all their nourishment from us, and have\nwe got it to give? They will be poor, if we are poor; rich if we are\nwealthy. We are their source of supply. Every time we cut ourselves off\nfrom nutrition, we enfeeble them. And how frequently devoted teachers\nmake this mistake! dedicating themselves so to the immediate needs of\nthose about them that they themselves grow thinner each year. We all\nknow the \"teacher's face.\" It is meagre, worn, sacrificial, anxious,\npowerless. That is exactly the opposite of what it should be. The\nteacher should be the big bounteous being of the community. Other people\nmay get along tolerably by holding whatever small knowledge comes their\nway. A moderate stock will pretty well serve their private turn. But\nthat is not our case. Supplying a multitude, we need wealth sufficient\nfor a multitude. We should then be clutching at knowledge on every\nside. Nothing must escape us. It is a mistake to reject a bit of truth\nbecause it lies outside our province. Some day we shall need it. All\nknowledge is our province.\n\nIn preparing a lecture I find I always have to work hardest on the\nthings I do not say. The things I am sure to say I can easily get up.\nThey are obvious and generally accessible. But they, I find, are not\nenough. I must have a broad background of knowledge which does not\nappear in speech. I have to go over my entire subject and see how the\nthings I am to say look in their various relations, tracing out\nconnections which I shall not present to my class. One might ask what is\nthe use of this? Why prepare more matter than can be used? Every\nsuccessful teacher knows. I cannot teach right up to the edge of my\nknowledge without a fear of falling off. My pupils discover this fear,\nand my words are ineffective. They feel the influence of what I do not\nsay. One cannot precisely explain it; but when I move freely across my\nsubject as if it mattered little on what part of it I rest, they get a\nsense of assured power which is compulsive and fructifying. The subject\nacquires consequence, their minds swell, and they are eager to enter\nregions of which they had not previously thought.\n\nEven, then, to teach a small thing well we must be large. I asked a\nteacher what her subject was, and she answered, \"Arithmetic in the\nthird grade.\" But where is the third grade found? In knowledge, or in\nthe schools? Unhappily it is in the schools. But if one would be a\nteacher of arithmetic, it must be arithmetic she teaches and not third\ngrade at all. We cannot accept these artificial bounds without damage.\nInstead of accumulated wealth they will bring us accumulated poverty,\nand increase it every day. Years ago at Harvard we began to discuss the\nestablishment of a Graduate School; and I, a young instructor, steadily\nvoted against it. My thought was this: Harvard College, in spite of what\nthe public imagines, is a place of slender resources. Our means are\ninadequate for teaching even undergraduates. But graduate instruction is\nvastly more expensive; courses composed of half a dozen students take\nthe time of the ablest professors. I thought we could not afford this.\nWhy not leave graduate instruction to a university which gives itself\nentirely to that task? Would it not be wiser to spend ourselves on the\nlower ranges of learning, covering these adequately, than to try to\nspread ourselves over the entire field?\n\nDoubting so, I for some time opposed the coming of a Graduate School.\nBut a luminous remark of our great President showed me the error of my\nways. In the course of debate he said one evening, \"It is not primarily\nfor the graduates that I care for this school; it is for the\nundergraduates. We shall never get good teaching here so long as our\ninstructors set a limit to their subjects. When they are called on to\nfollow these throughout, tracing them far off toward the unknown, they\nmay become good teachers; but not before.\"\n\nI went home meditating. I saw that the President was right, and that I\nwas myself in danger of the stagnation he deprecated. I changed my vote,\nas did others. The Graduate School was established; and of all the\ninfluences which have contributed to raise the standard of scholarship\nat Harvard, both for teachers and taught, that graduate work seems to me\nthe greatest. Every professor now must be the master of a field of\nknowledge, and not of a few paths running through it.\n\nBut the ideal teacher will accumulate wealth, not merely for his pupils'\nsake, but for his own. To be a great teacher one must be a great\npersonality, and without ardent and individual tastes the roots of our\nbeing are not fed. For developing personal power it is well, therefore,\nfor each teacher to cultivate interests unconnected with his official\nwork. Let the mathematician turn to the English poets, the teacher of\nclassics to the study of birds and flowers, and each will gain a\nlightness, a freedom from exhaustion, a mental hospitality, which can\nonly be acquired in some disinterested pursuit. Such a private subject\nbecomes doubly dear because it is just our own. We pursue it as we will;\nwe let it call out our irresponsible thoughts; and from it we ordinarily\ncarry off a note of distinction lacking in those whose lives are too\ntightly organized.\n\nTo this second qualification of the teacher, however, I have been\nobliged to prefix a condition similar to that which was added to the\nfirst. We need not merely wealth, but an already accumulated wealth. At\nthe moment when wealth is wanted it cannot be acquired. It should have\nbeen gathered and stored before the occasion arose. What is more\npitiable than when a person who desires to be a benefactor looks in his\nchest and finds it empty? Special knowledge is wanted, or trained\ninsight, or professional skill, or sound practical judgment; and the\nteacher who is called on has gone through no such discipline as assures\nthese resources. I am inclined to think that women are more liable to\nthis sort of bankruptcy than men. Their sex is more sympathetic than\nours and they spend more hastily. They will drop what they are doing and\nrun if a baby cries. Excellence requires a certain hardihood of heart,\nwhile quick responsiveness is destructive of the larger giving. He who\nwould be greatly generous must train himself long and tenaciously,\nwithout much attention to momentary calls. The plan of the Great\nTeacher, by which he took thirty years for acquisition and three for\nbestowal, is not unwise, provided that we too can say, \"For their sakes\nI sanctify myself.\"\n\nBut the two qualifications of the teacher already named will not alone\nsuffice. I have known persons who were sympathetically imaginative, and\nwho could not be denied to possess large intellectual wealth, who still\nfailed as teachers. One needs a third something, the power to invigorate\nlife through learning. We do not always notice how knowledge naturally\nbuffets. It is offensive stuff, and makes young and wholesome minds\nrebel. And well it may; for when we learn anything, we are obliged to\nbreak up the world, inspect it piecemeal, and let our minds seize it bit\nby bit. Now about a fragment there is always something repulsive. Any\none who is normally constituted must draw back in horror, feeling that\nwhat is brought him has little to do with the beautiful world he has\nknown. Where was there ever a healthy child who did not hate the\nmultiplication table? A boy who did not detest such abstractions as\nseven times eight would hardly be worth educating. By no ingenuity can\nwe relieve knowledge of this unfortunate peculiarity. It must be taken\nin disjointed portions. That is the way attention is made. In\nconsequence each of us must be to some extent a specialist, devoting\nhimself to certain sides of the world and neglecting others quite as\nimportant. These are the conditions under which we imperfect creatures\nwork. Our sight is not world-wide. When we give our attention to one\nobject, by that very act we withdraw it from others. In this way our\nchildren must learn and have their expansive natures subdued to\npedagogic exigencies.\n\nBecause this belittlement through the method of approach is inevitable,\nit is all-important that the teacher should possess a supplemental\ndignity, replacing the oppressive sense of pettiness with stimulating\nintimations of high things in store. Partly on this account a book is an\nimperfect instructor. Truth there, being impersonal, seems untrue,\nabstract, and insignificant. It needs to shine through a human being\nbefore it can exert its vital force on a young student. Quite as much\nfor vital transmission as for intellectual elucidation, is a teacher\nemployed. His consolidated character exhibits the gains which come from\nstudy. He need not point them out. If he is a scholar, there will appear\nin him an augustness, accuracy, fulness of knowledge, a buoyant\nenthusiasm even in drudgery, and an unshakable confidence that others\nmust soon see and enjoy what has enriched himself; and all this will\nquickly convey itself to his students and create attention in his\nclassroom. Such kindling of interest is the great function of the\nteacher. People sometimes say, \"I should like to teach if only pupils\ncared to learn.\" But then there would be little need of teaching. Boys\nwho have made up their minds that knowledge is worth while are pretty\nsure to get it, without regard to teachers. Our chief concern is with\nthose who are unawakened. In the Sistine Chapel Michael Angelo has\ndepicted the Almighty moving in clouds over the rugged earth where lies\nthe newly created Adam, hardly aware of himself. The tips of the fingers\ntouch, the Lord's and Adam's, and the huge frame loses its inertness and\nrears itself into action. Such may be the electrifying touch of the\nteacher.\n\nBut it must be confessed that not infrequently, instead of invigorating\nlife through knowledge, we teachers reduce our classes to complete\npassivity. The blunder is not altogether ours, but is suggested by\ncertain characteristics of knowledge itself: for how can a learner begin\nwithout submitting his mind, accepting facts, listening to authority, in\nshort becoming obedient? He is called on to put aside his own notions\nand take what truth dictates. I have said that knowledge buffets,\nforcing us into an almost slavish attitude, and that this is resented by\nvigorous natures. In almost every school some of the most original,\naggressive, and independent boys stand low in their classes, while at\nthe top stand \"grinds,\"--objects of horror to all healthy souls.\n\nNow it is the teacher's business to see that the onslaught of\nknowledge does not enfeeble. Between the two sides of knowledge,\ninformation and intelligence, he is to keep the balance true. While a\nboy is taking in facts, facts not allowed to be twisted by any fancy\nor carelessness, he is all the time to be made to feel that these facts\noffer him a field for critical and constructive action. If they leave\nhim inactive, docile, and plodding, there is something wrong with\nthe teaching. Facts are pernicious when they subjugate and do not\nquicken the mind that grasps them. Education should unfold us and\ntruth together; and to enable it to do so the learner must never be\nallowed to sink into a mere recipient. He should be called on to\nthink, to observe, to form his own judgments, even at the risk of error\nand crudity. Temporary one-sidedness and extravagance is not too high a\nprice to pay for originality. And this development of personal\nvigor, emphasized in our day by the elective system and independent\nresearch, is the great aim of education. It should affect the lower\nranges of study as truly as the higher. The mere contemplation of\ntruth is always a deadening affair. Many a dull class in school and\ncollege would come to life if simply given something to do. Until the\nmind reacts for itself on what it receives, its education is hardly\nbegun.\n\nThe teacher who leads it so to react may be truly called \"productive,\"\nproductive of human beings. The noble word has recently become\nGermanized and corrupted, and is now hardly more than a piece of\neducational slang. According to the judgments of to-day a teacher may be\nunimaginative, pedantic, dull, and may make his students no less so; he\nwill still deserve a crown of wild olive as a \"productive\" man if he\nneglects his classroom for the printing press. But this is to put first\nthings second and second things first. He who is original and fecund,\nand knows how to beget a similar spirit in his students, will naturally\nwish to express himself beyond his classroom. By snatching the fragments\nof time which his arduous work allows, he may accomplish much worthy\nwriting and probably increase too his worth for his college, his\nstudents, and himself. But the business of book-making is, after all,\ncollateral with us teachers. Not for this are we employed, desirable\nthough it is for showing the kind of mind we bear. Many of my most\nproductive colleagues have printed little or nothing, though they have\nleft a deep mark on the life and science of our time. I would encourage\npublication. It keeps the solitary student healthy, enables him to find\nhis place among his fellows, and more distinctly to estimate the\ncontributions he is making to his subject. But let him never neglect his\nproper work for that which must always have in it an element of\nadvertising.\n\nToo long I have delayed the fourth, the disagreeable, section of my\npaper. Briefly it is this: a teacher must have a readiness to be\nforgotten. And what is harder? We may be excellent persons, may be daily\ndoing kindnesses, and yet not be quite willing to have those kindnesses\noverlooked. Many a man is ready to be generous, if by it he can win\npraise. The love of praise,--it is almost our last infirmity; but there\nis no more baffling infirmity for the teacher. If praise and recognition\nare dear to him, he may as well stop work. Dear to him perhaps they must\nbe, as a human being; but as a teacher, he is called on to rise above\nordinary human conditions. Whoever has followed me thus far will\nperceive the reason. I have shown that a teacher does not live for\nhimself, but for his pupil and for the truth which he imparts. His aim\nis to be a colorless medium through which that truth may shine on\nopening minds. How can he be this if he is continually interposing\nhimself and saying, \"Instead of looking at the truth, my children, look\nat me and see how skilfully I do my work. I thought I taught you\nadmirably to-day. I hope you thought so too.\" No, the teacher must keep\nhimself entirely out of the way, fixing young attention on the proffered\nknowledge and not on anything so small as the one who brings it. Only so\ncan he be vicarious, whole-hearted in invigorating the lives committed\nto his charge.\n\nMoreover, any other course is futile. We cannot tell whether those whom\nwe are teaching have taken our best points or not. Those best points,\nwhat are they? We shall count them one thing, our pupils another. We\ngather what seems to us of consequence and pour it out upon our classes.\nBut if their minds are not fitted to receive it, the little creatures\nhave excellent protective arrangements which they draw down, and all we\npour is simply shed as if nothing had fallen; while again we say\nsomething so slight that we hardly notice it, but, happening to be just\nthe nutritive element which that small life then needs, it is caught up\nand turned into human fibre. We cannot tell. We work in the dark. Out\nupon the waters our bread is cast, and if we are wise we do not attempt\nto trace its return.\n\nOn this point I received capital instruction from one of my pupils. In\nteaching a course on English Empiricism I undertook a line of exposition\nwhich I knew was abstruse. Indeed, I doubted if many of the class could\nfollow; but there on the front seat sat one whose bright eyes were ever\nupon me. It seemed worth while to teach my three or four best men, that\nman in particular. By the end of the term there were many grumblings. My\nclass did not get much out of me that year. They graduated, and a couple\nof years later this young fellow appeared at my door to say that he\ncould not pass through Cambridge without thanking me for his work on\nLocke, Berkeley, and Hume. Pleased to be assured that my questionable\nmethods were justified, and unwilling to drop a subject so agreeable, I\nasked if he could tell precisely where the value of the course lay.\n\"Certainly,\" he answered. \"It all centred in a single remark of Locke's.\nLocke said we ought to have clear and distinct ideas. I don't think I\ngot anything else out of the course.\"\n\nWell, at first I was inclined to think the fellow foolish, so to mistake\na bit of commonplace for gospel truth. Why did he not listen to some of\nthe profound things I was saying? But on reflection I saw that he was\nright and I wrong. That trivial saying had come to him at a critical\nmoment as a word of power; while the deep matters which interested me,\nand which I had been offering him so confidently day by day, being\nunsuited to him, had passed him by. He had not heard them.\n\nTo such proper unthankfulness we teachers must accustom ourselves. We\ncannot tell what are our good deeds, and shall only plague ourselves and\nhinder our classes if we try to find out. Let us display our subjects as\nlucidly as possible, allow our pupils considerable license in\napprehension, and be content ourselves to escape observation. But though\nwhat we do remains unknown, its results often awake deep affection. Few\nin the community receive love more abundantly than we. Wherever we go,\nwe meet a smiling face. Throughout the world, by some good fortune, the\nperiod of learning is the period of romance. In those halcyon days of\nour boys and girls we have a share, and the golden lights which flood\nthe opening years are reflected on us. Though our pupils cannot follow\nour efforts in their behalf, and indeed ought not,--it being our art to\nconceal our art,--yet they perceive that in the years when their happy\nexpansion occurred we were their guides. To us, therefore, their blind\naffections cling as to few beside their parents. It is better to be\nloved than to be understood.\n\nPerhaps some readers of this paper will begin to suspect that it is\nimpossible to be a good teacher. Certainly it is. Each of the four\nqualifications I have named is endless. Not one of them can be fully\nattained. We can always be more imaginative, wealthy, stimulating,\ndisinterested. Each year we creep a little nearer to our goal, only to\nfind that a finished teacher is a contradiction in terms. Our reach will\nforever exceed our grasp. Yet what a delight in approximation! Even in\nour failures there is comfort, when we see that they are generally due\nnot to technical but to personal defects. We have been putting ourselves\nforward, or have taught in mechanical rather than vital fashion, or have\nnot undertaken betimes the labor of preparation, or have declined the\ntrouble of vicariousness.\n\nEvidently, then, as we become better teachers we also become in some\nsort better persons. Our beautiful art, being so largely personal, will\nat last be seen to connect itself with nearly all other employments.\nEvery mother is a teacher. Every minister. The lawyer teaches the jury,\nthe doctor his patient. The clever salesman might almost be said to use\nteaching in dealing with his customer, and all of us to be teachers of\none another in daily intercourse. As teaching is the most universal of\nthe professions, those are fortunate who are able to devote their lives\nto its enriching study.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nETHICAL INSTRUCTION IN THE SCHOOLS\n\n\nWithin a few years a strong demand has arisen for ethical teaching in\nthe schools. Teachers themselves have become interested, and wherever\nthey are gathered the question, \"What shall this teaching be?\" is\neagerly discussed. The educational journals are full of it. Within a\nyear there have been published seven books on the subject. Several of\nthem--it would be hardly an exaggeration to say all--are books of marked\nexcellence. Seldom does so large a percentage of books in a single year,\nin a single country, and on a single subject reach so high a level of\nmerit. I shall not criticise them, however, nor even engage in the\npopular discussion of which they form a part. That discussion concerns\nitself chiefly with the methods by which ethics may be taught. I wish to\ngo behind this controversy and to raise the previous question whether\nethics should be taught to boys and girls at all.\n\nEvidently there are strong reasons why it should be. Always and\neverywhere it is important that men should be good. To be a good\nman!--it is more than half the fulfilment of life. Better to miss fame,\nwealth, learning, than to miss righteousness. And in America, too, we\nmust demand not the mere trifle that men shall be good for their own\nsakes, but good in order that the life of the state may be preserved. A\nwidespread righteousness is in a republic a matter of necessity. Where\nall rule all, each man who falls into evil courses infects his neighbor,\ncorrupting the law and corrupting still more its enforcement. The\nquestion of manufacturing moral men becomes, accordingly, in a\ndemocracy, urgent to a degree unknown in a country where but a few\nselected persons guide the state.\n\nThere is also special urgency at the present time. The ancient and\naccredited means of training youth in goodness are becoming, I will not\nsay broken, but enfeebled and distrusted. Hitherto a large part of the\nmoral instruction of mankind has been superintended by the clergy. In\nevery civilized state the expensive machinery of the Church has been set\nup and placed in the hands of men of dignity, because it has been\nbelieved that by no other engine can we so effectively render people\nupright. I still believe this, and I am pretty confident that a good\nmany years will pass before we shall dispense with the ennobling\nservices of our ministers. And yet it is plain that much of the work\nwhich formerly was exclusively theirs is so no longer. Much of it is\nperformed by books, newspapers, and facilitated human intercourse.\nMinisters do not now speak with their old authority; they speak merely\nas other men speak; and we are all asking whether in the immense\nreadjustment of faith now going on something of their peculiar power of\nmoral as well as of intellectual guidance may not slip away.\n\nThe home too, which has hitherto been the fundamental agency for\nfostering morality in the young, is just now in sore need of repair. We\ncan no longer depend upon it alone for moral guardianship. It must be\nsupplemented, possibly reconstructed. New dangers to it have arisen. In\nthe complex civilization of city life, in the huge influx of untutored\nforeigners, in the substitution of the apartment for the house, in the\ngreater ease of divorce, in the larger freedom now given to children, to\nwomen, in the breaking down of class distinctions and the readier\naccessibility of man to man, there are perils for boy and girl which did\nnot exist before. And while these changes in the outward form of\ndomestic life are advancing, certain protections against moral peril\nwhich the home formerly afforded have decayed. It would be curious to\nascertain in how many families of our immediate time daily prayers are\nused, and to compare the number with that of those in which the holy\npractice was common fifty years ago. It would be interesting to know how\nfrequently parents to-day converse with their children on subjects\nserious, pious, or personal. The hurry of modern life has swept away\nmany uplifting intimacies. Even in families which prize them most, a few\nminutes only can be had each day for such fortifying things. Domestic\ntraining has shrunk, while the training of haphazard companions, the\ntraining of the streets, the training of the newspapers, have acquired a\npotency hitherto unknown.\n\nIt is no wonder, then, that in such a moral crisis the community\nturns to that agency whose power is already felt beneficently in a\nmultitude of other directions, the school. The cry comes to us\nteachers, \"We established you at first to make our children wiser;\nwe want you now for a profounder service. Can you not unite moral\nculture with intellectual?\" It may be; though discipline of the passions\nis enormously more difficult than discipline of the mind. But at any\nrate we must acknowledge that our success in the mental field is\nlargely staked on our success in the moral. Our pupils will not learn\ntheir lessons in arithmetic if they have not already made some\nprogress in concentration, in self-forgetfulness, in acceptance of\nduty. Nor can we touch them in a single section of their nature and hope\nfor results. Instruction must go all through. We are obliged to treat\neach little human being as a whole if we would have our treatment\nwholesome. And then too we have had such successes elsewhere that we\nmay well feel emboldened for the new task. Nearly the whole of life\nis now advantageously surveyed in one form or another in our schools\nand colleges; and we have usually found that advance in instruction\ndevelops swiftly into betterment of practice. We teach, for example,\nsocial science and analyze the customs of the past; but soon we find\nbands of young men and women in all the important cities criticising\nthe government of those cities, suggesting better modes of voting, wiser\nforms of charity; and before we know it the community is transformed.\nWe cannot teach the science of electricity without improving our\nstreet-cars, or at least without raising hopes that they may some\nday be improved. Each science claims its brother art. Theory creeps\nover into action. It will not stay by itself; it is pervasive,\ndiffusive. And as this pervasive character of knowledge in the lower\nranges is perceived, we teachers are urged to press forward its\noperation in the higher also. Why have we no school-books on human\ncharacter, the highest of all themes? Once direct the attention of our\npupils to this great topic, and may we not ultimately bring about\nthat moral enlargement for which the time waits?\n\nI have stated somewhat at length the considerations in behalf of ethical\ninstruction in the schools because those considerations on the whole\nappear to me illusory. I cannot believe such instruction feasible. Were\nit so, of course it would have my eager support. But I see in it grave\ndifficulties, difficulties imperfectly understood; and a difficulty\ndisregarded becomes a danger, possibly a catastrophe. Let me explain in\na few words where the danger lies.\n\nBetween morals and ethics there is a sharp distinction, frequently as\nthe two words are confused. Usage, however, shows the meaning. If I call\na man a man of bad morals, I evidently mean to assert that his conduct\nis corrupt; he does things which the majority of mankind believe he\nought not to do. It is his practice I denounce, not his intellectual\nformulation. In the same way we speak of the petty morals of society,\nreferring in the phrase to the small practices of mankind, the\nunnumbered actions which disclose good or bad principles unconsciously\nhidden within. It is entirely different when I call a man's ethics bad.\nI then declare that I do not agree with his comprehension of moral\nprinciples. His practice may be entirely correct. I do not speak of\nthat; it is his understanding that is at fault. For ethics, as was long\nago remarked, is related to morals as geometry to carpentry: the one is\na science, the other its practical embodiment. In the former,\nconsciousness is a prime factor; from the latter it often is absent\naltogether.\n\nNow what is asked of us teachers is that we invite our pupils to direct\nstudy of the principles of right conduct, that we awaken their\nconsciousness about their modes of life, and so by degrees impart to\nthem a science of righteousness. This is theory, ethics; not morals,\npractice; and in my judgment it is dangerous business, with the\nslenderest chance of success. Useless is it to say that the aim of such\ninstruction need not be ethical, but moral. Whatever the ultimate aim,\nthe procedure of instruction is of necessity scientific. It operates\nthrough intelligence, and only gets into life so far as the instructed\nintelligence afterward becomes a director. This is the work of books and\nteachers everywhere: they discipline the knowing act, and so bring\nwithin its influence that multitude of matters which depend for\nexcellent adjustment on clear and ordered knowledge. Such a work,\nhowever, is evidently but partial. Many matters do not take their rise\nin knowledge at all. Morality does not. The boy as soon as born is\nadopted unconsciously into some sort of moral world. While he is growing\nup and is thinking of other things, habits of character are seizing him.\nBy the time he comes to school he is incrusted with customs. The idea\nthat his moral education can be fashioned by his teacher in the same way\nas his education in geography is fantastic. It is only his ethical\ntraining which may now begin. The attention of such a boy may be called\nto habits already formed; he may be led to dissect those habits, to pass\njudgment on them as right or wrong, and to inquire why and how they may\nbe bettered. This is the only power teaching professes: it critically\ninquires, it awakens interest, it inspects facts, it discovers laws. And\nthis process applied in the field of character yields ethics, the\nsystematized knowledge of human conduct. It does not primarily yield\nmorals, improved performance.\n\nNor indeed is performance likely to be improved by ethical enlightenment\nif, as I maintain, the whole business of self-criticism in the child is\nunwholesome. By a course of ethical training a young person will, in my\nview, much more probably become demoralized than invigorated. What we\nought to desire, if we would have a boy grow morally sturdy, is that\nintrospection should not set in early and that he should not become\naccustomed to watch his conduct. And the reason is obvious. Much as we\nincline to laud our prerogative of consciousness and to assert that it\nis precisely what distinguishes us from our poor relations, the brutes,\nwe still must acknowledge that consciousness has certain grave defects\nwhen exalted into the position of a guide. Large tracts of life lie\naltogether beyond its control, and the conduct which can be affected by\nit is apt--especially in the initial stages--to be rendered vague, slow,\nvacillating, and distorted. Only instinctive action is swift, sure, and\nfirm. For this reason we distrust the man who calculates his goodness.\nWe find him vulgar and repellent. We are far from sure that he will keep\nthat goodness long. If I offer to shake hands with a man with precisely\nthat degree of warmth which I have decided it is well to express, will\nhe willingly take my hand? A few years ago there were some nonsense\nverses on this subject going the rounds of the English newspapers. They\nseemed to me capitally to express the morbid influence of consciousness\nin a complex organism. They ran somewhat as follows:\n\n  The centipede was happy, quite,\n      Until the toad for fun\n  Said, \"Pray which leg comes after which?\"\n  This worked her mind to such a pitch\n  She lay distracted in a ditch.\n      Considering how to run.\n\nAnd well she might! Imagine the hundred legs steered consciously--now it\nis time to move this one, now to move that! The creature would never\nmove at all, but would be as incapable of action as Hamlet himself. And\nare the young less complex than centipedes? Shall their little lives be\nsuddenly turned over to a fumbling guide? Shall they not rather be\nstimulated to unconscious rectitude, gently led into those blind but\nholy habits which make goodness easy, and so be saved from the perilous\nperplexities of marking out their own way? So thought the sagacious\nAristotle. To the crude early opinion of Socrates that virtue is\nknowledge, he opposed the ripened doctrine that it is practice and\nhabit.\n\nThis, then, is the inexpugnable objection to the ethical instruction of\nchildren: the end which should be sought is performance, not knowledge,\nand we cannot by supplying the latter induce the former. But do not\nthese considerations cut the ground from under practical teaching of\nevery kind? Instruction is given in other subjects in the hope that it\nmay finally issue in strengthened action, and I have acknowledged that\nas a fact this hope is repeatedly justified. Why may not a similar\nresult appear in ethics? What puts a difference between that study and\nelectricity, social science, or manual training? This: according as the\nwork studied includes a creative element and is intended to give\nexpression to a personal life, consciousness becomes an increasingly\ndangerous dependence. Why are there no classes and text-books for the\nstudy of deportment? Is it because manners are unimportant? No, but\nbecause they make the man, and to be of any worth must be an expression\nof his very nature. Conscious study would tend to distort rather than to\nfashion them. Their practice cannot be learned in the same way as\ncarpentry.\n\nBut an analogy more enlightening for showing the inaptitude of the\nchild for direct study of the laws of conduct is found in the case of\nspeech. Between speech and morals the analogies are subtle and wide. So\nminute are they that speech might almost be called a kind of vocal\nmorality. Like morality, it is something possessed long before we are\naware of it, and it becomes perfect or debased with our growth. We\nemploy it to express ourselves and to come into ordered contact with our\nneighbor. By it we confer benefits and by it receive benefits in turn.\nRigid as are its laws, we still feel ourselves free in its use, though\nobliged to give to our spontaneous feelings forms constructed by men of\nthe past. Ease, accuracy, and scope are here confessedly of vast\nconsequence. It has consequently been found a matter of extreme\ndifficulty to bring a young person's attention helpfully to bear upon\nhis speech. Indirect methods seem to be the only profitable ones.\nPhilology, grammar, rhetoric, systematic study of the laws of language,\nare dangerous tools for a boy below his teens. The child who is to\nacquire excellent speech must be encouraged to keep attention away from\nthe words he uses and to fix it upon that which he is to express.\nAbstract grammar will either confound the tongue which it should ease,\nor else it will seem to have no connection with living reality, but to\nbe an ingenious contrivance invented by some Dry-as-dust for the torture\nof schoolboys.\n\nAnd a similar pair of dangers await the young student of the laws of\nconduct. On the one hand, it is highly probable that he will not\nunderstand what his teacher is talking about. He may learn his lesson;\nhe may answer questions correctly; but he will assume that these things\nhave nothing to do with him. He becomes dulled to moral distinctions,\nand it is the teaching of ethics that dulls him. We see the disastrous\nprocess in full operation in a neighboring field. There are countries\nwhich have regular public instruction in religion. The argument runs\nthat schools are established to teach what is of consequence to\ncitizens, and religion is of more consequence than anything else.\nTherefore introduce it, is the conclusion. Therefore keep it out, is the\nsound conclusion. It lies too near the life to be announced in official\npropositions and still to retain a recognizable meaning. I have known a\nlarge number of German young men. I have yet to meet one whose religious\nnature has been deepened by his instruction in school. And the lack of\ninfluence is noticeable not merely in those who have failed in the\nstudy, but quite as much in those who have ranked highest. In neither\ncase has the august discipline meant anything. The danger would be\nwider, the disaster from the benumbing influence more serious, if\nethical instruction should be organized; wider, because morality\nunderlies religion, and insensitiveness to the moral claim is more\nimmediately and concretely destructive. Yet here, as in the case of\nreligion, of manners, or of speech, the child will probably take to\nheart very little of what is said. At most he will assume that the\ntext-book statement of the rules of righteousness represents the way in\nwhich the game of life is played by some people; but he will prefer to\nplay it in his own way still. Young people are constructed with happy\nprotective arrangements; they are enviably impervious. So in expounding\nmoral principles in the schoolroom, I believe we shall touch the child\nin very few moral spots. Nevertheless, it becomes dulled and hardened if\nit listens long to sacred words untouched.\n\nBut the benumbing influence is not the gravest danger; analogies of\nspeech suggest a graver still. If we try to teach speech too early and\nreally succeed in fixing the child's attention upon its tongue, we\nenfeeble its power of utterance. Consciousness once awakened, the child\nis perpetually inquiring whether the word is the right word, and\nsuspecting that it is not quite sufficiently right to be allowed\nfree passage. Just so a momentous trouble appears when the moral\nconsciousness has been too early stirred. That self-questioning spirit\nsprings up which impels its tortured possessor to be continually\nfingering his motives in unwholesome preoccupation with himself.\nInstead of entering heartily into outward interests, the watchful\nlittle moralist is \"questioning about himself whether he has been as\ngood as he should have been, and whether a better man would not have\nacted otherwise.\" No part of us is more susceptible of morbidness\nthan the moral sense; none demoralizes more thoroughly when morbid.\nThe trouble, too, affects chiefly those of the finer fibre. The\nmajority of healthy children, as has been said, harden themselves\nagainst theoretic talk, and it passes over them like the wind. Here\nand there a sensitive soul absorbs the poison and sets itself\nseriously to work installing duty as the mainspring of its life. We all\nknow the unwholesome result: the person from whom spontaneity is\ngone, who criticises everything he does, who has lost his sense of\nproportion, who teases himself endlessly and teases his friends--so\nfar as they remain his friends--about the right and wrong of each\npetty act. It is a disease, a moral disease, and takes the place in\nthe spiritual life of that which the doctors are fond of calling\n\"nervous prostration\" in the physical. Few countries have been so\ndesolated by it as New England. It is our special scourge. Many here\ncarry a conscience about with them which makes us say, \"How much\nbetter off they would be with none!\" I declare, at times when I see\nthe ravages which conscientiousness works in our New England stock, I\nwish these New Englanders had never heard moral distinctions\nmentioned. Better their vices than their virtues. The wise teacher will\nextirpate the first sproutings of the weed; for a weed more difficult\nto extirpate when grown there is not. We run a serious risk of\nimplanting it in our children when we undertake their class instruction\nin ethics.\n\nSuch, then, are some of the considerations which should give us pause\nwhen the public is clamoring at our schoolhouse doors and saying to us\nteachers, \"We cannot bring up our children so as to make them righteous\ncitizens. Undertake the work for us. You have done so much already that\nwe turn to you again and entreat your help.\" I think we must sadly\nreply, \"There are limits to what we can do. If you respect us, you will\nnot urge us to do the thing that is not ours. By pressing into certain\nregions we shall bring upon you more disaster than benefit.\"\n\nFully, however, as the dangers here pointed out may be acknowledged,\nmuch of a different sort remains also true. Have we not all received a\nlarge measure of moral culture at school? And are we quite content to\nsay that the greatest of subjects is unteachable? I would not say this;\non the contrary, I hold that no college is properly organized where the\nteaching of ethics does not occupy a position of honor. The college, not\nthe school, is the place for the study. It would be absurd to maintain\nthat all other subjects of study are nutritious to man except that of\nhis own nature; but it is far from absurd to ask that a young man first\npossess a nature before he undertakes to analyze it. A study useless for\ndeveloping initial power may still be highly profitable for doctrine,\nfor reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness. Youth\nshould be spontaneous, instinctive, ebullient; reflection whispers to\nthe growing man. Many of the evils that I have thus far traced are\nbrought about by projecting upon a young mind problems which it has not\nyet encountered in itself. Such problems abound in the later teens and\ntwenties, and then is the time to set about their discussion.\n\nBut even in college I would have ethical study more guarded than the\nrest. Had I the power, I would never allow it to be required of all. It\nshould be offered only as an elective and in the later years of the\ncourse. When I entered college I was put in my freshman year into a\nprescribed study of this sort. Happily I received no influence from it\nwhatever. It passed over and left me untouched; and I think it had no\nmore effect on the majority of my classmates. Possibly some of the more\nreflective took it to heart and were harmed; but in general it was a\nmere wasting of precious ointment which might have soothed our wounds if\nelected in the senior year. Of course great teachers defy all rules;\nand under a Hopkins, a Garman, or a Hyde, the distinctions of elective\nand prescribed become unimportant. Yet the principle is clear: wait till\nthe young man is confronted with the problems before you invite him to\ntheir solution. Has he grown up unquestioning? Has he accepted the moral\ncode inherited from honored parents? Can he rest in wise habits? Then\nlet him be thankful and go his way untaught. But has he, on the other\nhand, felt that the moral mechanism by which he was early guided does\nnot fit all cases? Has he found one class of duties in conflict with\nanother? Has he discovered that the moral standards obtaining in\ndifferent sections of society, in different parts of the world, are\nirreconcilable? In short, is he puzzled and desirous of working his way\nthrough his puzzles, of facing them and tracking them to their\nbeginnings? Then is he ripe for the study of ethics.\n\nYet when it is so undertaken, when those only are invited to partake of\nit who in their own hearts have heard its painful call, even then I\nwould hedge it about with two conditions. First, it should be pursued as\na science, critically, and the student should be informed at the outset\nthat the aim of the course is knowledge, not the endeavor to make better\nmen. And, secondly, I would insist that the students themselves do the\nwork; that they do not passively listen to opinions set forth by their\ninstructor, but that they address themselves to research and learn to\nconstruct moral judgments which will bear critical inspection. Some\nteachers, no doubt, will think it wisest to accomplish these things by\ntracing the course of ethics in the past, treating it as a historical\nscience. Others will prefer, by announcing their own beliefs, to\nstimulate their students to criticise those beliefs and to venture on\ntheir own little constructions. The method is unimportant; it is only of\nconsequence that the students themselves do the ethicizing, that they\ntrace the logic of their own beliefs and do not rest in dogmatic\nstatement. Yet such an undertaking may well sober a teacher. I never see\nmy class in ethics come to their first lecture that I do not tremble and\nsay to myself that I am set for the downfall of some of them. In every\nsuch studious company there must be unprepared persons whom the teacher\nwill damage. He cannot help it. He must move calmly forward, confident\nin his subject, but knowing that because it is living it is dangerous.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nMORAL INSTRUCTION IN THE SCHOOLS\n\n\nThe preceding paper has discussed sufficiently the negative side of\nmoral education. It has shown how children should not be approached. But\nfew readers will be willing to leave the matter here. Are there no\npositive measures to be taken? Is there no room in our schools for any\nteaching of morality, or must the most important of subjects be\naltogether banished from their doors? There is much which might lead us\nto think so. If a teacher may not instruct his pupils in morality, what\nother concern with it he should have is not at once apparent. One may\neven suspect that attention to it will distract him from his proper\nwork. Every human undertaking has some central aim and succeeds by\nloyalty to it. Each profession, for example, singles out one of our many\nneeds and to this devotes itself whole-heartedly. Such a restriction is\nwise. No profession could be strong which attempted to meet the\nrequirements of man as a whole. The physician accordingly selects his\nlittle aim of extirpating suffering and disease. His studies, his\noccupation, his aptitudes, his hopes of gain, his dignity as a public\ncharacter, all have reference to this. Whatever is incompatible with\nit, of however great worth in itself, is rightly ignored. To save the\nsoul of a patient may be of larger consequence than to invigorate his\nbody. But the faithful physician attends to spiritual matters only so\nfar as he thinks them conducive to bodily health. Or again the painter,\nbecause he is setting ocular beauty before us, concerns himself with\nharmonies of color, balance of masses, rhythms of line, rather than with\nhistory, anecdote, or incitements to noble living. I once heard a\npainter say, \"There is religion enough for me in seeing how half a dozen\nfigures can be made to go together,\" and I honored him for the saying.\nSo too I should hold that the proper aim of the merchant is money-making\nand that only so much of charity or public usefulness can fairly be\ndemanded of him as does not conflict with his profits. It is true that\nthere are large ways and petty ways of acquiring gain, and one's own\nadvantage cannot for long be separated from that of others. Still, the\nmerchant rightly desists from any course which he finds in the long run\ncommercially unprofitable.\n\nWhat, then, is the central aim of teaching? Confessedly it is the\nimpartation of knowledge. Whatever furthers this should be eagerly\npursued; and all that hinders it, rejected. When schoolmasters\nunderstand their business it will be useless for the public to call to\nthem, \"We want our children to be patriotic. Drop for a time your\nmultiplication table while you rouse enthusiasm for the old flag.\" They\nwould properly reply, \"We are ready to teach American history. As a part\nof human knowledge, it belongs to our province. But though the\npoliticians fail to stir patriotism, do not put their neglected work\nupon us. We have more than we can attend to already.\"\n\nNow in my previous paper I showed how a theoretic knowledge of good\nconduct had better not be given to children. By exposition of holy laws\nthey are not nourished, but enfeebled. What they need is right habits,\nnot an understanding of them: to become good persons rather than to\nacquire a critical acquaintance with goodness. What moral function then\nremains for the schools? To furnish knowledge of morality has been\nproved dangerous. For teachers to turn away from imparting knowledge and\ndevote their scanty time to fashioning character is to abandon work\nwhich they alone are fitted to perform. Yet to let them send forth boys\nand girls alert in mind and loose in character is something which no\ncommunity will long endure.\n\nUntil one has clearly faced these alternative perplexities he is in no\ncondition to advise about grafting morality into a school curriculum;\nfor until then he will be pretty sure to be misled by the popular notion\nof morality as a thing apart, demanding separate study, a topic like\ngeography or English literature. But the morality nutritious for\nschool-children is nothing of this kind. No additional hour need be\nprovided for its teaching. In teaching anything, we teach it. A false\nantithesis was therefore set up just now when we suggested that a\nteacher's business was to impart knowledge rather than to fashion\ncharacter. He cannot do the one without the other. Let him be altogether\ntrue to his scientific aims and refuse to accommodate them to anything\nelse; he will be all the better teacher of morality. Carlyle tells of a\ncarpenter who broke all the ten commandments with every stroke of his\nhammer. A scholar breaks or keeps them with every lesson learned. So\nconditioned on morality is the process of knowing, so inwrought is it in\nthe very structure of the school, that a school might well be called an\nethical instrument and its daily sessions hours for the manufacture of\ncharacter. Only the species of character manufactured will largely\ndepend on the teacher's acquaintance with the instrument he is using. To\nincrease that acquaintance and give greater deftness in the use of so\nexquisite an instrument is the object of this paper. Once mastered, the\ntools of his own trade will be more prized by the earnest teacher than\nany additional handbook of ethics.\n\nIt will be easiest to point out the kind of moral instruction a school\nis fitted to give, if we distinguish with somewhat exaggerated\nsharpness its several lines of activity. A school is primarily a place\nof learning; it is unavoidably a social unit, and it is incidentally a\ndependent fellowship. No one of these aspects is ever absent from it.\nEach affords its own opportunity for moral training. The combination of\nthem gives a school its power. Yet each is so detachable that it may\nwell become the subject of independent study.\n\nI. A school is primarily a place of learning, and to this purpose all\nelse in it is rightfully subordinated. But learning is itself an act,\nand one more dependent than most on moral guidance. It occurs, too, at a\nperiod of life whose chief business is the transformation of a thing of\nnature into a spiritual being. Several stages in this spiritual\ntransformation through which the process of learning takes us I will\npoint out.\n\nA school generally gives a child his first acquaintance with an\nauthoritatively organized world and reveals his dependence upon it. By\nnature, impulses and appetites rule him. A child is charmingly\nself-centred. The world and all its ordered goings he notices merely as\nministering to his desires. Nothing but what he wishes, and wishes just\nnow, is important. He relates all this but little to the wishes of other\npeople, to the inherent fixities of things, to his own future states, to\nwhether one wish is compatible with another. His immediate mood is\neverything. Of any difference between what is whimsical or momentary and\nwhat is rational or permanent he is oblivious. To him dreams and fancies\nare as substantial as stars, hills, or moving creatures. He has, in\nshort, no idea of law nor any standards of reality.\n\nNow it is the first business of instruction to impart such ideas and\nstandards; but no less is this a work of moralization. The two\naccordingly go on together. Whether we call the chaotic conditions of\nnature in which we begin life ignorance or deficient morality, it is\nequally the work of education to abolish them. Both education and\nmorality set themselves to rationalize the moody, lawless, transient,\nisolated, self-assertive, and impatient aspects of things, introducing\nthe wondering scholar to the inherent necessities which surround him.\n\"Schoolmasters,\" says George Herbert, \"deliver us to laws.\" And probably\nmost of us make our earliest acquaintance with these impalpable and\ncontrolling entities when we take our places in the school. There our\nprimary lesson is submission. We are bidden to put away personal likings\nand see how in themselves things really are. Eight times nine does not\npermit itself to be seventy-three or sixty-four, but exactly and forever\nseventy-two. Cincinnati lies obstinately on the Ohio, not on the\nMississippi, and it is nonsense to speak of Daniel Webster as a\nPresident of the United States. The agreement of verbs and nouns, the\nreactions of chemical elements were, it seems, settled some time before\nwe appeared. They pay little attention to our humors. We must accept an\nalready constituted world and adjust our little self to its august\nrealities. Of course the process is not completed at school. Begun\nthere, it continues throughout life; its extent, tenacity, and\ninstantaneous application marking the degree which we reach in\nscientific and moral culture. Let a teacher attempt to lighten the task\nof himself or his pupil by accepting an inexact observation, a slipshod\nremembrance, a careless statement, or a distorted truth, and he will\ncorrupt the child's character no less than his intelligence. He confirms\nthe child's habit of intruding himself into reality and of remaining\nlistless when ordained facts are calling. Education may well be defined\nas the banishment of moods at the bidding of the permanently real.\n\nBut to acquire such obedient alertness persistence is necessary, and in\ngaining it a child wins a second victory over disorderly nature. By this\nhe becomes acquainted not merely with an outer world, but with a still\nstranger object, himself. I have spoken already of the eagerness of\nyoung desires. They are blind and disruptive things. One of them pays\nsmall heed to another, but each blocks the other's way, preventing\nanything like a coherent and united life. A child is notoriously a\ncreature of the moment, looking little before and after. He must be\ntaught to do so before he can know anything or be anybody. A school\nmatures him by connecting his doings of to-day with those of to-morrow.\nHere he begins to estimate the worth of the present by noticing what it\ncontributes to an organic plan. Each hour of study brings precious\ndiscipline in preferring what is distantly important to what is\nmomentarily agreeable. A personal being, in some degree emancipated from\ntime, consequently emerges, and a selfhood appears, built up through\nenduring interests. The whole process is in the teacher's charge. It is\nhis to enforce diligence and so to assist the vague little life to knit\nitself solidly together.\n\nNor should it be forgotten that to become each day the possessor of\nincreasing stores of novel and interesting truths normally brings\ndignity and pleasure. This honorable delight reacts, too, on the process\nof learning, quickening its pace, sharpening its observation, and\nconfirming its persistence. It is of no less importance for the\ncharacter, to which it imparts ease, courage, beauty, and\nresourcefulness. But on the teacher it will depend whether such pleasure\nis found. A teacher who has entered deeply into his subject, and is not\nafraid of allowing enthusiasm to appear, will make the densest subject\nand the densest pupil glow; while a dull teacher can in a few minutes\nstrip the most engrossing subject of interest and make the diligence\nexacted in its pursuit deadening. It is dangerous to dissociate toil and\ndelight. The school is the place to initiate their genial union. Whoever\nlearns there to love knowledge, will be pretty secure of becoming an\neducated and useful man and of finding satisfaction in whatever\nemployment may afterwards be his.\n\nOne more contribution to character which comes from the school as a\nplace of learning I will mention: it should create a sense of freedom.\nWithout this both learning and the learner are distorted. It is not\nenough that the child become submissive to an already constituted world,\nobedient to its authoritative organization; not enough that he find\npleasure in it, or even discover himself emerging, as one day's\ndiligence is bound up with that of another. All these influences may\neasily make him think of himself as a passive creature, and consequently\nleave him half formed. There is something more. Rightly does the\nPsalmist call the fear of the Lord the beginning of wisdom rather than\nits end; for that education is defective which fashions a docile and\nslavish learner. As the child introduces order into his previously\ncapricious acts, thoughts, and feelings, he should feel in himself a\npower of control unknown before, and be encouraged to find an honorable\nuse for his very peculiarities. He should be brought to see that the\nworld is unfinished and needs his joyful cooperation, that it has room\nfor individual activity and admits rationally constructed purposes. From\nhis earliest years a child should be encouraged to criticise, to have\npreferences, and to busy himself with imaginative constructions; for all\nthis development of orderly freedom and of rejoicing in its exercise is\nbuilding up at once both knowledge and character.\n\nII. Yet a school becomes an ethical instrument not merely through being\na place of learning but because it is also a social unit. It is a\ncooperative group, or company of persons pledged every instant to\nconsider one another, their common purpose being jarred by the obtrusion\nof any one's dissenting will. Accordingly much that is proper elsewhere\nbecomes improper here. As soon as a child enters a schoolroom he is\nimpressed by the unaccustomed silence. A happy idea springs in his mind\nand clamors for the same outgo it would have at home, but it is\nrestrained in deference to the assembled company. In crossing the room\nhe is taught to tread lightly, though for himself a joyous dash might be\nagreeable; but might it not distract the attention of those who are\nstudying? The school begins at nine o'clock and each recitation at its\nfixed hour, these times being no better than others except as\nfacilitating common corporate action. To this each one's private ways\nbecome adjusted. The subordination of each to all is written large on\nevery arrangement of school life; and it needs must be so if there is to\nbe moral advance. For morality itself is nothing but the acceptance of\nsuch habits as express the helpful relations of society and the\nindividual. Punctuality, order, quiet, are signs that the child's life\nis beginning to be socialized. A teacher who fails to impress their\nelementary righteousness on his pupils brutalizes every child in his\ncharge.\n\nSuch relations between the social whole and the part assume a variety of\nforms, and the school is the best place for introducing a child to their\nniceties. Those other persons whom a schoolboy is called on continually\nto regard may be either his superiors, equals, or inferiors. To each we\nhave specific duties, expressed in an appropriate type of manners. Our\nteachers are above us,--above us in age, experience, wisdom, and\nauthority. To treat them as comrades is unseemly. Confession of their\nsuperiority colors all our approaches. They are to be listened to as\nothers are not. Their will has the right of way. Our bearing toward\nthem, however trustful or even affectionate, shows a respectfulness\nsomewhat removed from familiarity. On the other hand schoolmates are\ncomrades, at least those of the same sex, class, strength, and\nintelligence. Among them we assert ourselves freely, yet with constant\ncare to secure no less freedom for them, and we guard them against any\ndamage or annoyance which our hasty assertiveness might cause. In case\nof clash between their interest and our own, ours is withdrawn. And then\ntoward those who are below us, either in rank or powers, helpfulness\nsprings forth. We are eager to bridge over the separating chasm and by\nour will to abolish hindering defects. These three types of personal\nadjustment--respect, courtesy, and helpfulness, with their wide variety\nof combination--form the groundwork of all good manners. In their\nbeginnings they need prompting and oversight from some one who is\nalready mature. A school which neglects to cultivate them works almost\nirreparable injury to its pupils. For if these possibilities of refined\nhuman intercourse are not opened in the school years, it is with great\ndifficulty they are arrived at afterwards.\n\nThe spiritualizing influence of the school as a social unit is, however,\nnot confined to the classroom. It is quite as active on the playground.\nThere a boy learns to play fair, accustoms himself to that greatest of\nsocial ties, _l'esprit du corps_. Throughout life a man needs\ncontinually to merge his own interests in those of a group. He must act\nas the father of a family, an operative in a factory, a voter of\nBoston, an American citizen, a member of an engine company, union,\nchurch, or business firm. His own small concerns are taken up into these\nlarger ones, and devotion to them is not felt as self-sacrifice. A\npreparation for such moral ennoblement is laid in the sports of\nchildhood. What does a member of the football team care for battered\nshins or earth-scraped hands? His side has won, and his own gains and\nlosses are forgotten. Soon his team goes forth against an outside team,\nand now the honor of the whole school is in his keeping. What pride is\nhis! As he puts on his uniform, he strips off his isolated personality\nand stands forth as the trusted champion of an institution. Nor does\nthis august supersession of the private consciousness by the public\narise in connection with sports alone. As a member of the school, a boy\nacts differently from what he otherwise would. There is a standard of\nconduct recognized as suitable for a Washington School boy, and from it\nhis own does not widely depart. For good or for ill each school has its\nideals of \"good form\" which are compulsive over its members and are\nhanded on from class to class. To assist in moulding, refining, and\nmaintaining these is the weightiest work of a schoolmaster. For these\nideals have about them the sacredness of what is traditional,\ninstitutional, and are of an unseen, august, and penetrative power,\ncomparable to nothing else in character-formation. To modify them ever\nso slightly a teacher should be content to work for years.\n\nIII. A third aspect of the school I have called its character as a\nDependent Fellowship, and I have said that this is merely incidental. A\nhighly important incident it is, however, and one that never fails to\nrecur. What I would indicate by the dark phrase is this: in every school\nan imperfect life is associated with one similar but more advanced, one\nfrom which it perpetually receives influences that are not official nor\nmeasurable in money payment. A teacher is hired primarily to teach, and\nwith a view also to his ability to keep order throughout his little\nsociety and to make his authority respected there. But side by side with\nthese public duties runs the expression of his personality. This is his\nown, something which he hides or discloses at his pleasure. To his\npupils, however, he must always appear in the threefold character of\nteacher, master, and developed human being; while they correspondingly\npresent themselves to him as pupils, members of the school, and\nelementary human beings. Of these pairs of relationships two are\ncontrasted and supplemental,--teacher and pupil, master and scholar,\nhaving nothing in common, each being precisely what the other is not. As\nhuman beings, however, pupil and teacher are akin and removed from one\nanother merely by the degree of progress made by the elder along a\ncommon path. Here then the relation is one of fellowship, but a\nfellowship where the younger is largely dependent on the older for an\nunderstanding of what he should be. By example, friendship, and personal\ninfluence a teacher is certain to affect for good or ill every member of\nhis school. In any account of the school as an ethical instrument this\nsubtlest of its moral agencies deserves careful analysis.\n\nThere are different sorts of example. I may observe how the shopman does\nup a package, and do one so myself the next morning. A companion may\nhave a special inflection of voice, which I may catch. I may be drawn to\nindustry by seeing how steadily my classmate studies. I may adopt a\nphrase, a smile, or a polite gesture, which was originally my teacher's.\nAll these are cases of direct imitation. Some one possesses a trait or\nan act which is passed over entire to another person, by whom it is\nsubstituted for one of his own. Though the adoption of such alien ways\nis dangerous, society could hardly go on without it. It is its mode of\ntransmitting what is supposed to be already tested and of lodging it in\nthe lives of persons of less experience, with the least cost to the\nreceivers. Most teachers will have habits which their pupils may\nadvantageously copy. Yet supposing the imitated ways altogether good,\nwhich they seldom are, direct imitation is questionable as disregarding\nthe particular character of him in whom the ways are found and in\nassuming that they will be equally appropriate if engrafted on anybody.\nBut this is far from true, and consequently he who imitates much is, or\nsoon will be, a weakling. On the whole, a teacher needs to guard his\npupils against his imitable peculiarities. If sensible, he will snub\nwhoever is disposed to repeat them.\n\nStill, there is a noble sort of imitation, and that school is a poor\nplace where it does not go on. Certain persons have a strange power of\ninvigorating us by their presence. When with them, we can do what seems\nimpossible alone. They are our examples rather as wholes, and in their\nstrength and spirit, than in their single traits or acts; and so\nwhatever is most distinctive of ourselves becomes renewed through\ncontact with them. It was said of the late Dr. Jowett that he sent out\nmore pupils who were widely unlike himself than any Oxford teacher of\nhis time. That is enviable praise; for the wholesomeness of example is\ntested by inquiring whether it develops differences or has only the\npower of duplicating the original. Every teacher knows how easy it is to\nsend out cheap editions of himself, and in his weaker moments he\ninclines to issue them. But it is ignoble business. Our manners and\ntones and phrases and the ways we have of doing this and that are after\nall valuable only as expressions of ourselves. For anybody else they\nare rubbish. What we should like to impart is that earnestness,\naccuracy, unselfishness, candor, reverence for God's laws, and\nsturdiness through hardship, toward which we aspire--matters in reality\nonly half ours and which spring up with fresh and original beauty in\nevery soul where they once take root. The Dependent Fellowship of a\nschool makes these larger, enkindling, and diversifying influences\npeculiarly possible. It should be a teacher's highest ambition to\nexercise them. And though we might naturally expect that such inspiring\nteachers would be rare, I seldom enter a school without finding\nindications of the presence of at least one of them.\n\nBut for those who would acquire this larger influence a strange caution\nis necessary: Examples do not work that are not real. We sometimes try\nto \"set an example,\" that is, to put on a type of character for the\nbenefit of a beholder; and are usually disappointed. Personal influence\nis not an affair of acting, but of being. Those about us are strangely\naffected by what we veritably are, only slightly by what we would have\nthem see. If we are indisposed to study, yet, knowing that industry is\ngood for our scholars, assume a bustling diligence, they are more likely\nto feel the real portion of the affair, our laziness, than the activity\nwhich was designed for their copying. Astonishingly shrewd are the young\nat scenting humbug and being unaffected by its pretensions. There is\nconsequently no method to be learned for gaining personal influence.\nAlmost everything else requires plan and effort. This precious power\nneeds little attention. It will not come in one way better than another.\nA fair measure of sympathetic tact is useful for starting it; but in the\nlong run persons rude and suave, talkative and silent, handsome and\nugly, stalwart and slight, possess it in about equal degree, the very\ncharacteristics which we should be disposed to count disadvantageous\noften seeming to confirm its hold. Since it generally comes about that\nour individual interests become in some measure those of our pupils too,\nthe only safe rule for personal influence is to go heartily about our\nown affairs, with a friendly spirit, and let our usual nature have\nwhatever effect it may.\n\nStill, there is one important mode of preparation: seeing that personal\ninfluence springs from what we are, we can really be a good deal. In a\nformer paper, on The Ideal Teacher, I pointed this out and insisted that\nto be of any use in the classroom we teachers must bring there an\nalready accumulated wealth. I will not repeat what I have said already,\nfor a little reflection will convince any one that when he lacks\npersonal influence he lacks much besides. A great example comes from a\ngreat nature, and we who live in fellowship with dependent and\nimitative youth should acquire natures large enough to serve both their\nneeds and our own. Let teachers be big, bounteous, and unconventional,\nand they will have few backward pupils.\n\nPersonal influence is often assumed to be greater the closer the\nintimacy. I believe the contrary to be the case. Familiarity, says the\nshrewd proverb, breeds contempt. And certainly the young, who are little\ntrained in estimating values, when brought into close association with\ntheir elders are apt to fix their attention on petty points and so to\nmiss the larger lines of character. These they see best across an\ninterval where, though visible only in outline, they are clear,\nunconfused with anything else, and so productive of their best effect.\nFor the immature, distance is a considerable help in inducing\nenchantment, and nothing is so destructive of high influence as a\nslap-on-the-back acquaintance. One who is to help us much must be above\nus. A teacher should carefully respect his own dignity and no less\ncarefully that of his pupil. In our eagerness to help, we may easily\ncheapen a fine nature by intruding too frequently into its reserves; and\non the other hand I have observed that the boy who comes oftenest for\nadvice is he who profits by it least. It is safest not to meddle much\nwith the insides of our pupils. An occasional weighty word is more\ncompulsive than frequent talk.\n\nWithin the limits then here marked out we who live in these Dependent\nFellowships must submit to be admired. We must allow our pupils to\nidealize us and even offer ourselves for imitation. It is not pleasant.\nUsually nobody knows his weaknesses better than the one who is mistaken\nfor an example. But what a helpful mistake! What ennobling influences\ncome to schoolboys when once they can think their teacher is the sort of\nperson they would like to be! Perhaps at the very moment that teacher is\nthinking they are the sort of person he would like to be. No matter.\nWhat they admire is worthy, even if not embodied precisely where they\nimagine. In humility we accept their admiration, knowing that nothing\nelse can so enlarge their lives. As I recall my college days, there rise\nbefore me two teachers. As I entered the lecture rooms of those two men,\nI said to myself, \"Oh, if some day I could be like that!\" And always\nafterwards as I went to those respective rooms, the impression of\ndignity deepened. I have forgotten the lessons I learned from those\ninstructors. I never can discharge my debt to the instructors\nthemselves.\n\nSuch are the moral resources of our schools. Without turning aside in\nthe slightest from their proper aim of imparting knowledge, teachers are\nable,--almost compelled--to supply their pupils with an intellectual,\nsocial, and personal righteousness. What more is wanted? When such\nopportunities for moral instruction are already within their grasp, is\nit worth while to incur the grave dangers of ethical instruction too? I\nthink not, and I even fear that the establishment of courses in moral\ntheory might weaken the sense of responsibility among the other teachers\nand lead them to attach less importance to the moralization of their\npupils by themselves. This is burdensome business, no doubt, but we must\nnot shift it to a single pair of shoulders. Rather let us insist, when\nbad boys and girls continue in a school, that the blame belongs to the\nteachers as a whole, and not to some ethical coach. It is from the\nmanagement and temper of a school that its formative influence proceeds.\nWe cannot safely turn over anything so all-pervading to the instructors\nof a single department. That school where neatness, courtesy,\nsimplicity, obtain; where enthusiasm goes with mental exactitude,\nthoroughness of work with interest, and absence of artificiality with\nrefinement; where sneaks, liars, loafers, pretenders, rough persons are\ndespised, while teachers who refuse to be mechanical hold sway--that\nschool is engaged in moral training all day long.\n\nYet while I hold that the systematic study of ethics had on the whole\nbetter be left to the colleges, I confess that the line which I have\nattempted to draw between consciousness and unconsciousness, between\nthe age which is best directed by instinct and the age when the\nquestioning faculties put forward their inexorable demands, is a\nwavering one and cannot be sharply drawn. By one child it is crossed at\none period, by another at another. Seldom is the crossing noticed.\nBefore we are aware we find ourselves in sorrow on the farther side.\nHappy the youth who during the transition time has a wise friend at\nhand to answer a question, to speak a steadying word, to open up the\nvista which at the moment needs to be cleared. Only one in close\npersonal touch is serviceable here. But in defect of home guidance,\nto us teachers falls much of the charge of developing the youthful\nconsciousness of moral matters naturally, smoothly, and without jar.\nThis has always been a part of the teacher's office. So far as I can\nascertain schools of the olden time had in them a large amount of\nwholesome ethical training. Schools were unsystematic then; there lay\nno examination paper ahead of them; there was time for pause and talk.\nIf a subject arose which the teacher deemed important for his pupils'\npersonal lives, he could lead them on to question about it, so far as he\nbelieved discussion useful. This sort of ethical training the hurry of\nour time has largely exterminated; and now that wholesome incidental\ninstruction is gone, we demand in the modern way that a clear-cut\ndepartment of ethics be introduced into the curriculum. But such\nthings do not let themselves be treated in departmental fashion. The\nteacher must still work as a friend. He cannot be discharged from\nknowing when and how to stimulate a question, from discerning which\nboy or girl would be helped by consciousness and which would be\nharmed. In these high regions our pupils cannot be approached in\nclasses. They require individual attention. And not because we are\nteachers merely, but because we and they are human beings, we must be\nready with spiritual aid.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nSELF-CULTIVATION IN ENGLISH\n\n\nEnglish study has four aims: the mastery of our language as a\nscience, as a history, as a joy, and as a tool. I am concerned with\nbut one, the mastery of it as a tool. Philology and grammar present\nit as a science; the one attempting to follow its words, the other its\nsentences, through all the intricacies of their growth, and so to\nmanifest laws which lie hidden in these airy products no less than in\nthe moving stars or the myriad flowers of spring. Fascinating and\nimportant as all this is, I do not recommend it here. For I want to\ncall attention only to that sort of English study which can be\ncarried on without any large apparatus of books. For a reason similar,\nthough less cogent, I do not urge historical study. Probably the\ncurrent of English literature is more attractive through its continuity\nthan that of any other nation. Notable works in verse and prose have\nappeared in long succession, and without gaps intervening, in a way\nthat would be hard to parallel in any other language known to man. A\nbounteous endowment this for every English speaker, and one which\nshould stimulate us to trace the marvellous and close-linked progress\nfrom the times of the Saxons to those of Tennyson and Kipling.\nLiterature too has this advantage over every other species of art study,\nthat everybody can examine the original masterpieces and not depend\non reproductions, as in the cases of painting, sculpture, and\narchitecture; or on intermediate interpretation, as in the case of\nmusic. To-day most of these masterpieces can be bought for a trifle, and\neven a poor man can follow through centuries the thoughts of his\nancestors. But even so, ready of access as it is, English can be\nstudied as a history only at the cost of solid time and continuous\nattention, much more time than the majority of those for whom I am\nwriting can afford. By most of us our mighty literature cannot be taken\nin its continuous current, the later stretches proving interesting\nthrough relation with the earlier. It must be taken fragmentarily,\nif at all, the attention delaying on those parts only which offer the\ngreatest beauty or promise the best exhilaration. In other words,\nEnglish may be possible as a joy where it is not possible as a history.\nIn the endless wealth which our poetry, story, essay, and drama\nafford, every disposition may find its appropriate nutriment,\ncorrection, or solace. He is unwise, however busy, who does not have\nhis loved authors, veritable friends with whom he takes refuge in the\nintervals of work and by whose intimacy he enlarges, refines,\nsweetens, and emboldens his own limited existence. Yet the fact\nthat English as a joy must largely be conditioned by individual taste\nprevents me from offering general rules for its pursuit. The road\nwhich leads one man straight to this joy leads another to tedium. In all\nliterary enjoyment there is something incalculable, something\nwayward, eluding the precision of rule, and rendering inexact the\nprecepts of him who would point out the path to it. While I believe\nthat many suggestions may be made, useful to the young enjoyer and\npromotive of his wise vagrancy, I shall not undertake here the\ncomplicated task of offering them. Let enjoyment go, let history go,\nlet science go, and still English remains--English as a tool. Every\nhour our language is an engine for communicating with others, every\ninstant for fashioning the thoughts of our own minds. I want to call\nattention to the means of mastering this curious and essential tool, and\nto lead every one who reads me to become discontented with his\nemployment of it.\n\nThe importance of literary power needs no long argument. Everybody\nacknowledges it, and sees that without it all other human faculties are\nmaimed. Shakespeare says that death-bringing time \"insults o'er dull and\nspeechless tribes.\" It and all who live in it insult over the speechless\nperson. So mutually dependent are we that on our swift and full\ncommunication with one another is staked the success of almost every\nscheme we form. He who can explain himself may command what he wants.\nHe who cannot is left to the poverty of individual resource; for men do\nwhat we desire only when persuaded. The persuasive and explanatory\ntongue is, therefore, one of the chief levers of life. Its leverage is\nfelt within us as well as without, for expression and thought are\nintegrally bound together. We do not first possess completed thoughts\nand then express them. The very formation of the outward product\nextends, sharpens, enriches the mind which produces, so that he who\ngives forth little after a time is likely enough to discover that he has\nlittle to give forth. By expression too we may carry our benefits and\nour names to a far generation. This durable character of fragile\nlanguage puts a wide difference of worth between it and some of the\nother great objects of desire,--health, wealth, and beauty, for example.\nThese are notoriously liable to accident. We tremble while we have them.\nBut literary power, once ours, is more likely than any other possession\nto be ours always. It perpetuates and enlarges itself by the very fact\nof its existence and perishes only with the decay of the man himself.\nFor this reason, because more than health, wealth, and beauty, literary\nstyle may be called the man, good judges have found in it the final test\nof culture and have said that he, and he alone, is a well-educated\nperson who uses his language with power and beauty. The supreme and\nultimate product of civilization, it has well been said, is two or\nthree persons talking together in a room. Between ourselves and our\nlanguage there accordingly springs up an association peculiarly close.\nWe are as sensitive to criticism of our speech as of our manners. The\nyoung man looks up with awe to him who has written a book, as already\nhalf divine; and the graceful speaker is a universal object of envy.\n\nBut the very fact that literary endowment is immediately recognized\nand eagerly envied has induced a strange illusion in regard to it. It\nis supposed to be something mysterious, innate in him who possesses it\nand quite out of the reach of him who has it not. The very contrary is\nthe fact. No human employment is more free and calculable than the\nwinning of language. Undoubtedly there are natural aptitudes for it, as\nthere are for farming, seamanship, or being a good husband. But nowhere\nis straight work more effective. Persistence, care, discriminating\nobservation, ingenuity, refusal to lose heart,--traits which in every\nother occupation tend toward excellence,--tend toward it here with\nspecial security. Whoever goes to his grave with bad English in his\nmouth has no one to blame but himself for the disagreeable taste; for\nif faulty speech can be inherited, it can be exterminated too. I hope\nto point out some of the methods of substituting good English for bad.\nAnd since my space is brief, and I wish to be remembered, I throw\nwhat I have to say into the form of four simple precepts which, if\npertinaciously obeyed, will, I believe, give anybody effective mastery\nof English as a tool.\n\nFirst then, \"Look well to your speech.\" It is commonly supposed that\nwhen a man seeks literary power he goes to his room and plans an article\nfor the press. But this is to begin literary culture at the wrong end.\nWe speak a hundred times for every once we write. The busiest writer\nproduces little more than a volume a year, not so much as his talk would\namount to in a week. Consequently through speech it is usually decided\nwhether a man is to have command of his language or not. If he is\nslovenly in his ninety-nine cases of talking, he can seldom pull himself\nup to strength and exactitude in the hundredth case of writing. A person\nis made in one piece, and the same being runs through a multitude of\nperformances. Whether words are uttered on paper or to the air, the\neffect on the utterer is the same. Vigor or feebleness results according\nas energy or slackness has been in command. I know that certain\nadaptations to a new field are often necessary. A good speaker may find\nawkwardnesses in himself when he comes to write, a good writer when he\nspeaks. And certainly cases occur where a man exhibits distinct strength\nin one of the two, speaking or writing, and not in the other. But such\ncases are rare. As a rule, language once within our control can be\nemployed for oral or for written purposes. And since the opportunities\nfor oral practice enormously outbalance those for written, it is the\noral which are chiefly significant in the development of literary power.\nWe rightly say of the accomplished writer that he shows a mastery of his\nown tongue.\n\nThis predominant influence of speech marks nearly all great epochs\nof literature. The Homeric poems are addressed to the ear, not to the\neye. It is doubtful if Homer knew writing, certain that he knew\nprofoundly every quality of the tongue,--veracity, vividness,\nshortness of sentence, simplicity of thought, obligation to insure\nswift apprehension. Writing and rigidity are apt to go together. In\nHomer's smooth-slipping verses one catches everywhere the voice. So\ntoo the aphorisms of Hesiod might naturally pass from mouth to mouth,\nand the stories of Herodotus be told by an old man at the fireside.\nEarly Greek literature is plastic and garrulous. Its distinctive\nglory is that it contains no literary note; that it gives forth\nhuman feeling not in conventional arrangement, but with apparent\nspontaneity--in short, that it is speech literature, not book\nliterature. And the same tendency continued long among the Greeks. At\nthe culmination of their power the drama was their chief literary\nform,--the drama, which is but speech ennobled, connected, clarified.\nPlato too, following the dramatic precedent and the precedent of\nhis talking master, accepted conversation as his medium for philosophy\nand imparted to it the vivacity, ease, waywardness even, which the\nbest conversation exhibits. Nor was the experience of the Greeks\npeculiar. Our literature shows a similar tendency. Its bookish times\nare its decadent times, its talking times its glory. Chaucer, like\nHerodotus, is a story-teller, and follows the lead of those who on\nthe Continent entertained courtly circles with pleasant tales.\nShakespeare and his fellows in the spacious times of great Elizabeth did\nnot concern themselves with publication. Marston in one of his prefaces\nthinks it necessary to apologize for putting his piece in print, and\nsays he would not have done such a thing if unscrupulous persons,\nhearing the play at the theatre, had not already printed corrupt\nversions of it. Even the Queen Anne's men, far removed though they are\nfrom anything dramatic, still shape their ideals of literature by\ndemands of speech. The essays of the Spectator, the poems of Pope,\nare the remarks of a cultivated gentleman at an evening party. Here\nis the brevity, the good taste, the light touch, the neat epigram, the\navoidance of whatever might stir passion, controversy, or laborious\nthought, which characterize the conversation of a well-bred man.\nIndeed it is hard to see how any literature can be long vital which is\nbased on the thought of a book and not on that of living utterance.\nUnless the speech notion is uppermost, words will not run swiftly to\ntheir mark. They delay in delicate phrasings while naturalness and a\nsense of reality disappear. Women are the best talkers. I sometimes\nplease myself with noticing that three of the greatest periods of\nEnglish literature coincide with the reigns of the three English\nqueens.\n\nFortunate it is, then, that self-cultivation in the use of English must\nchiefly come through speech; because we are always speaking, whatever\nelse we do. In opportunities for acquiring a mastery of language the\npoorest and busiest are at no large disadvantage as compared with the\nleisured rich. It is true the strong impulse which comes from the\nsuggestion and approval of society may in some cases be absent, but this\ncan be compensated by the sturdy purpose of the learner. A recognition\nof the beauty of well-ordered words, a strong desire, patience under\ndiscouragements, and promptness in counting every occasion as of\nconsequence,--these are the simple agencies which sweep one on to power.\nWatch your speech then. That is all which is needed. Only it is\ndesirable to know what qualities of speech to watch for. I find\nthree,--accuracy, audacity, and range,--and I will say a few words about\neach.\n\nObviously, good English is exact English. Our words should fit our\nthoughts like a glove and be neither too wide nor too tight. If too\nwide, they will include much vacuity beside the intended matter. If too\ntight, they will check the strong grasp. Of the two dangers, looseness\nis by far the greater. There are people who say what they mean with such\na naked precision that nobody not familiar with the subject can quickly\ncatch the sense. George Herbert and Emerson strain the attention of\nmany. But niggardly and angular speakers are rare. Too frequently words\nsignify nothing in particular. They are merely thrown out in a certain\ndirection to report a vague and undetermined meaning or even a general\nemotion. The first business of every one who would train himself in\nlanguage is to articulate his thought, to know definitely what he wishes\nto say, and then to pick those words which compel the hearer to think of\nthis and only this. For such a purpose two words are often better than\nthree. The fewer the words, the more pungent the impression. Brevity is\nthe soul, not simply of a jest, but of wit in its finer sense where it\nis identical with wisdom. He who can put a great deal into a little is\nthe master. Since firm texture is what is wanted, not embroidery or\nsuperposed ornament, beauty has been well defined as the purgation of\nsuperfluities. And certainly many a paragraph might have its beauty\nbrightened by letting quiet words take the place of its loud words,\nomitting its \"verys,\" and striking out its purple patches of fine\nwriting. Here is Ben Jonson's description of Bacon's language: \"There\nhappened in my time one noble speaker who was full of gravity in his\nspeech. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or\nsuffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of\nhis speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough\nor look aside without loss. He commanded when he spoke, and had his\njudges angry or pleased at his discretion.\" Such are the men who\ncommand, men who speak \"neatly and pressly.\" But to gain such precision\nis toilsome business. While we are in training for it, no word must\nunpermittedly pass the portal of the teeth. Something like what we mean\nmust never be counted equivalent to what we mean. And if we are not sure\nof our meaning or of our word, we must pause until we are sure. Accuracy\ndoes not come of itself. For persons who can use several languages,\ncapital practice in acquiring it can be had by translating from one\nlanguage to another and seeing that the entire sense is carried over.\nThose who have only their native speech will find it profitable often to\nattempt definitions of the common words they use. Inaccuracy will not\nstand up against the habit of definition. Dante boasted that no rhythmic\nexigency had ever made him say what he did not mean. We heedless and\nunintending speakers, under no exigency of rhyme or reason, say what we\nmean but seldom, and still more seldom mean what we say. To hold our\nthoughts and words in significant adjustment requires unceasing\nconsciousness, a perpetual determination not to tell lies; for of course\nevery inaccuracy is a bit of untruthfulness. We have something in mind,\nyet convey something else to our hearer. And no moral purpose will save\nus from this untruthfulness unless that purpose is sufficient to inspire\nthe daily drill which brings the power to be true. Again and again we\nare shut up to evil because we have not acquired the ability of\ngoodness.\n\nBut after all, I hope that nobody who hears me will quite agree. There\nis something enervating in conscious care. Necessary as it is in shaping\nour purposes, if allowed too direct and exclusive control consciousness\nbreeds hesitation and feebleness. Action is not excellent, at least,\nuntil spontaneous. In piano-playing we begin by picking out each\nseparate note; but we do not call the result music until we play our\nnotes by the handful, heedless how each is formed. And so it is\neverywhere. Consciously selective conduct is elementary and inferior.\nPeople distrust it, or rather they distrust him who exhibits it. If\nanybody talking to us visibly studies his words, we turn away. What he\nsays may be well enough as school exercise, but it is not conversation.\nAccordingly, if we would have our speech forcible, we shall need to put\ninto it quite as much of audacity as we do of precision, terseness, or\nsimplicity. Accuracy alone is not a thing to be sought, but accuracy and\ndash. It was said of Fox, the English orator and statesman, that he was\naccustomed to throw himself headlong into the middle of a sentence,\ntrusting to God Almighty to get him out. So must we speak. We must not\nbefore beginning a sentence decide what the end shall be; for if we do,\nnobody will care to hear that end. At the beginning, it is the beginning\nwhich claims the attention of both speaker and listener, and trepidation\nabout going on will mar all. We must give our thought its head, and not\ndrive it with too tight a rein, nor grow timid when it begins to prance\na bit. Of course we must retain coolness in courage, applying the\nresults of our previous discipline in accuracy; but we need not move so\nslowly as to become formal. Pedantry is worse than blundering. If we\ncare for grace and flexible beauty of language, we must learn to let our\nthought run. Would it, then, be too much of an Irish bull to say that in\nacquiring English we need to cultivate spontaneity? The uncultivated\nkind is not worth much; it is wild and haphazard stuff, unadjusted to\nits uses. On the other hand no speech is of much account, however just,\nwhich lacks the element of courage. Accuracy and dash, then, the\ncombination of the two, must be our difficult aim; and we must not rest\nsatisfied so long as either dwells with us alone.\n\nBut are the two so hostile as they at first appear? Or can, indeed,\nthe first be obtained without the aid of the second? Supposing we\nare convinced that words possess no value in themselves, and are\ncorrect or incorrect only as they truly report experience, we shall\nfeel ourselves impelled in the mere interest of accuracy to choose\nthem freshly and to put them together in ways in which they never\ncooperated before, so as to set forth with distinctness that which\njust we, not other people, have seen or felt. The reason why we do\nnot naturally have this daring exactitude is probably twofold. We\nlet our experiences be blurred, not observing sharply, nor knowing\nwith any minuteness what we are thinking about; and so there is no\nindividuality in our language. And then, besides, we are terrorized by\ncustom and inclined to adjust what we would say to what others have\nsaid before. The cure for the first of these troubles is to keep our\neye on our object, instead of on our listener or ourselves; and for the\nsecond, to learn to rate the expressiveness of language more highly\nthan its correctness. The opposite of this, the disposition to set\ncorrectness above expressiveness, produces that peculiarly vulgar\ndiction known as \"school-ma'am English,\" in which for the sake of a\ndull accord with usage all the picturesque, imaginative and forceful\nemployment of words is sacrificed. Of course we must use words so\nthat people can understand them, and understand them too with ease;\nbut this once granted, let our language be our own, obedient to our\nspecial needs. \"Whenever,\" says Thomas Jefferson, \"by small grammatical\nnegligences the energy of an idea can be condensed, or a word be made to\nstand for a sentence, I hold grammatical rigor in contempt.\" \"Young\nman,\" said Henry Ward Beecher to one who was pointing out grammatical\nerrors in a sermon of his, \"when the English language gets in my way, it\ndoesn't stand a chance.\" No man can be convincing, writer or speaker,\nwho is afraid to send his words wherever they may best follow his\nmeaning, and this with but little regard to whether any other person's\nwords have ever been there before. In assessing merit let us not\nstupefy ourselves with using negative standards. What stamps a man as\ngreat is not freedom from faults, but abundance of powers.\n\nSuch audacious accuracy, however, distinguishing as it does noble speech\nfrom commonplace speech, can be practised only by him who has a wide\nrange of words. Our ordinary range is absurdly narrow. It is important,\ntherefore, for anybody who would cultivate himself in English to make\nstrenuous and systematic efforts to enlarge his vocabulary. Our\ndictionaries contain more than a hundred thousand words. The average\nspeaker employs about three thousand. Is this because ordinary people\nhave only three or four thousand things to say? Not at all. It is\nsimply due to dulness. Listen to the average schoolboy. He has a dozen\nor two nouns, half a dozen verbs, three or four adjectives, and enough\nconjunctions and prepositions to stick the conglomerate together. This\nordinary speech deserves the description which Hobbes gave to his \"State\nof Nature,\" that \"it is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.\" The\nfact is, we fall into the way of thinking that the wealthy words are for\nothers and that they do not belong to us. We are like those who have\nreceived a vast inheritance, but who persist in the inconveniences of\nhard beds, scanty food, rude clothing, who never travel, and who limit\ntheir purchases to the bleak necessities of life. Ask such people why\nthey endure niggardly living while wealth in plenty is lying in the\nbank, and they can only answer that they have never learned how to\nspend. But this is worth learning. Milton used eight thousand words,\nShakespeare fifteen thousand. We have all the subjects to talk about\nthat these early speakers had; and in addition we have bicycles and\nsciences and strikes and political combinations and all the complicated\nliving of the modern world.\n\nWhy then do we hesitate to swell our words to meet our needs? It is a\nnonsense question. There is no reason. We are simply lazy, too lazy to\nmake ourselves comfortable. We let our vocabularies be limited and get\nalong rawly without the refinements of human intercourse, without\nrefinements in our own thoughts; for thoughts are almost as dependent on\nwords as words on thoughts. For example, all exasperations we lump\ntogether as \"aggravating,\" not considering whether they may not rather\nbe displeasing, annoying, offensive, disgusting, irritating, or even\nmaddening; and without observing too that in our reckless usage we have\nburned up a word which might be convenient when we should need to mark\nsome shading of the word \"increase.\" Like the bad cook, we seize the\nfrying-pan whenever we need to fry, broil, roast, or stew, and then we\nwonder why all our dishes taste alike while in the next house the food\nis appetizing. It is all unnecessary. Enlarge the vocabulary. Let any\none who wants to see himself grow resolve to adopt two new words each\nweek. It will not be long before the endless and enchanting variety of\nthe world will begin to reflect itself in his speech, and in his mind as\nwell. I know that when we use a word for the first time we are startled,\nas if a fire-cracker went off in our neighborhood. We look about hastily\nto see if any one has noticed. But finding that no one has, we may be\nemboldened. A word used three times slips off the tongue with entire\nnaturalness. Then it is ours forever, and with it some phase of life\nwhich had been lacking hitherto. For each word presents its own point of\nview, discloses a special aspect of things, reports some little\nimportance not otherwise conveyed, and so contributes its small\nemancipation to our tied-up minds and tongues.\n\nBut a brief warning may be necessary to make my meaning clear. In urging\nthe addition of new words to our present poverty-stricken stock I am far\nfrom suggesting that we should seek out strange, technical or inflated\nexpressions, which do not appear in ordinary conversation. The very\nopposite is my aim. I would put every man who is now employing a diction\nmerely local and personal in command of the approved resources of the\nEnglish language. Our poverty usually comes through provinciality,\nthrough accepting without criticism the habits of our special set. My\nfamily, my immediate friends, have a diction of their own. Plenty of\nother words, recognized as sound, are known to be current in books and\nto be employed by modest and intelligent speakers, only we do not use\nthem. Our set has never said \"diction,\" or \"current,\" or \"scope,\" or\n\"scanty,\" or \"hitherto,\" or \"convey,\" or \"lack.\" Far from unusual as\nthese words are, to adopt them might seem to set me apart from those\nwhose intellectual habits I share. From this I shrink. I do not like to\nwear clothes suitable enough for others, but not in the style of my own\nplain circle. Yet if each one of that circle does the same, the general\nshabbiness is increased. The talk of all is made narrow enough to fit\nthe thinnest there. What we should seek is to contribute to each of the\nlittle companies with which our life is bound up a gently enlarging\ninfluence, such impulses as will not startle or create detachment, but\nwhich may save from humdrum, routine and dreary usualness. We cannot be\nreally kind without being a little venturesome. The small shocks of our\nincreasing vocabulary will in all probability be as helpful to our\nfriends as to ourselves.\n\nSuch then are the excellences of speech. If we would cultivate ourselves\nin the use of English, we must make our daily talk accurate, daring and\nfull. I have insisted on these points the more because in my judgment\nall literary power, especially that of busy men, is rooted in sound\nspeech. But though the roots are here, the growth is also elsewhere. And\nI pass to my later precepts, which, if the earlier one has been laid\nwell to heart, will require only brief discussion.\n\nSecondly, \"Welcome every opportunity for writing.\" Important as I have\nshown speech to be, there is much that it cannot do. Seldom can it teach\nstructure. Its space is too small. Talking moves in sentences, and\nrarely demands a paragraph. I make my little remark,--a dozen or two\nwords,--then wait for my friend to hand me back as many more. This\ngentle exchange continues by the hour; but either of us would feel\nhimself unmannerly if he should grasp an entire five minutes and make\nit uninterruptedly his. That would not be speaking, but rather\nspeech-making. The brief groupings of words which make up our talk\nfurnish capital practice in precision, boldness and variety; but they do\nnot contain room enough for exercising our constructive faculties.\nConsiderable length is necessary if we are to learn how to set forth _B_\nin right relation to _A_ on the one hand and to _C_ on the other; and\nwhile keeping each a distinct part, are to be able through their smooth\nprogression to weld all the parts together into a compacted whole. Such\nwholeness is what we mean by literary form. Lacking it, any piece of\nwriting is a failure; because in truth it is not a piece, but pieces.\nFor ease of reading, or for the attainment of an intended effect, unity\nis essential--the multitude of statements, anecdotes; quotations,\narguings, gay sportings and appeals, all \"bending one way their gracious\ninfluence.\" And this dominant unity of the entire piece obliges unity\nalso in the subordinate parts. Not enough has been done when we have\nhuddled together a lot of wandering sentences and penned them in a\nparagraph, or even when we have linked them together by the frail ties\nof \"and, and.\" A sentence must be compelled to say a single thing; a\nparagraph, a single thing; an essay, a single thing. Each part is to be\na preliminary whole and the total a finished whole. But the ability to\nconstruct one thing out of many does not come by nature. It implies\nfecundity, restraint, an eye for effects, the forecast of finish while\nwe are still working in the rough, obedience to the demands of\ndevelopment and a deaf ear to whatever calls us into the by-paths of\ncaprice; in short it implies that the good writer is to be an artist.\n\nNow something of this large requirement which composition makes, the\nyoung writer instinctively feels, and he is terrified. He knows how\nill-fitted he is to direct \"toil cooperant to an end\"; and when he\nsits down to the desk and sees the white sheet of paper before him,\nhe shivers. Let him know that the shiver is a suitable part of the\nperformance. I well remember the pleasure with which, as a young man,\nI heard my venerable and practised professor of rhetoric say that he\nsupposed there was no work known to man more difficult than writing.\nUp to that time I had supposed its severities peculiar to myself. It\ncheered me, and gave me courage to try again, to learn that I had all\nmankind for my fellow sufferers. Where this is not understood, writing\nis avoided. From such avoidance I would save the young writer by my\nprecept to seek every opportunity to write. For most of us this is a\nnew way of confronting composition--treating it as an opportunity, a\nchance, and not as a burden or compulsion. It saves from slavishness and\ntakes away the drudgery of writing, to view each piece of it as a\nprecious and necessary step in the pathway to power. To those\nengaged in bread-winning employments these opportunities will be few.\nSpring forward to them, then, using them to the full. Severe they\nwill be because so few, for only practice breeds ease; but on that\nvery account let no one of them pass with merely a second-best\nperformance. If a letter is to be written to a friend, a report to\nan employer, a communication to a newspaper, see that it has a\nbeginning, a middle and an end. The majority of writings are without\nthese pleasing adornments. Only the great pieces possess them. Bear\nthis in mind and win the way to artistic composition by noticing what\nshould be said first, what second and what third.\n\nI cannot leave this subject, however, without congratulating the present\ngeneration on its advantages over mine. Children are brought up to-day,\nin happy contrast with my compeers, to feel that the pencil is no\ninstrument of torture, hardly indeed to distinguish it from the tongue.\nAbout the time they leave their mother's arms they take their pen in\nhand. On paper they are encouraged to describe their interesting birds,\nfriends, adventures. Their written lessons are almost as frequent as\ntheir oral, and they learn to write compositions while not yet quite\nunderstanding what they are about. Some of these fortunate ones will, I\nhope, find the language I have sadly used about the difficulty of\nwriting extravagant. And let me say too that since frequency has more\nto do with ease of writing than anything else, I count the newspaper\nmen lucky because they are writing all the time, and I do not think\nso meanly of their product as the present popular disparagement would\nseem to require. It is hasty work undoubtedly and bears the marks of\nhaste. But in my judgment, at no period of the English language has\nthere been so high an average of sensible, vivacious and informing\nsentences written as appears in our daily press. With both good and\nevil results, the distinction between book literature and speech\nliterature is breaking down. Everybody is writing, apparently in\nverse and prose; and if the higher graces of style do not often\nappear, neither on the other hand do the ruder awkwardnesses and\nobscurities. A certain straightforward English is becoming established.\nA whole nation is learning the use of its mother tongue. Under such\ncircumstances it is doubly necessary that any one who is conscious of\nfeebleness in his command of English should promptly and earnestly\nbegin the cultivation of it.\n\nMy third precept shall be, \"Remember the other person.\" I have been\nurging self-cultivation in English as if it concerned one person alone,\nourself. But every utterance really concerns two. Its aim is social. Its\nobject is communication; and while unquestionably prompted halfway by\nthe desire to ease our mind through self-expression, it still finds its\nonly justification in the advantage somebody else will draw from what is\nsaid. Speaking or writing is, therefore, everywhere a double-ended\nprocess. It springs from me, it penetrates him; and both of these ends\nneed watching. Is what I say precisely what I mean? That is an important\nquestion. Is what I say so shaped that it can readily be assimilated by\nhim who hears? This is a question of quite as great consequence and much\nmore likely to be forgotten. We are so full of ourselves that we do not\nremember the other person. Helter-skelter we pour forth our unaimed\nwords merely for our personal relief, heedless whether they help or\nhinder him whom they still purport to address. For most of us are\ngrievously lacking in imagination, which is the ability to go outside\nourselves and take on the conditions of another mind. Yet this is what\nthe literary artist is always doing. He has at once the ability to see\nfor himself and the ability to see himself as others see him. He can\nlead two lives as easily as one life; or rather, he has trained himself\nto consider that other life as of more importance than his, and to\nreckon his comfort, likings and labors as quite subordinated to the\nservice of that other. All serious literary work contains within it this\nreadiness to bear another's burden. I must write with pains, that he may\nread with ease. I must\n\n  Find out men's wants and wills,\n  And meet them _there_.\n\nAs I write, I must unceasingly study what is the line of least\nintellectual resistance along which my thought may enter the differently\nconstituted mind; and to that line I must subtly adjust, without\nenfeebling, my meaning. Will this combination of words or that make the\nmeaning clear? Will this order of presentation facilitate swiftness of\napprehension, or will it clog the movement? What temperamental\nperversities in me must be set aside in order to render my reader's\napproach to what I would tell him pleasant? What temperamental\nperversities in him must be accepted by me as fixed facts, conditioning\nall I say? These are the questions the skilful writer is always asking.\n\nAnd these questions, as will have been perceived already, are moral\nquestions no less than literary. That golden rule of generous service by\nwhich we do for others what we would have them do for us is a rule of\nwriting too. Every writer who knows his trade perceives that he is a\nservant, that it is his business to endure hardship if only his reader\nmay win freedom from toil, that no impediment to that reader's\nunderstanding is too slight to deserve diligent attention, that he has\nconsequently no right to let a single sentence slip from him\nunsocialized--I mean, a sentence which cannot become as naturally\nanother's possession as his own. In the very act of asserting himself he\nlays aside what is distinctively his. And because these qualifications\nof the writer are moral qualifications they can never be completely\nfulfilled so long as we live and write. We may continually approximate\nthem more nearly, but there will still always be possible an alluring\nrefinement of exercise beyond. The world of the literary artist and the\nmoral man is interesting through its inexhaustibility; and he who serves\nhis fellows by writing or by speech is artist and moral man in one.\nWriting a letter is a simple matter, but it is a moral matter and an\nartistic; for it may be done either with imagination or with raw\nself-centredness. What things will my correspondent wish to know? How\ncan I transport him out of his properly alien surroundings into the\nvivid impressions which now are mine? How can I tell all I long to tell\nand still be sure the telling will be for him as lucid and delightful as\nfor me? Remember the other person, I say. Do not become absorbed in\nyourself. Your interests cover only the half of any piece of writing;\nthe other man's less visible half is necessary to complete yours. And if\nI have here discussed writing more than speech, that is merely because\nwhen we speak we utter our first thoughts, but when we write, our\nsecond,--or better still, our fourth; and in the greater deliberation\nwhich writing affords I have felt that the demands of morality and art,\nwhich are universally imbedded in language, could be more distinctly\nperceived. Yet none the less truly do we need to talk for the other\nperson than to write for him.\n\nBut there remains a fourth weighty precept, and one not altogether\ndetachable from the third. It is this: \"Lean upon the subject.\" We\nhave seen how the user of language, whether in writing or in speaking,\nworks for himself; how he works for another individual too; but there\nis one more for whom his work is performed, one of greater consequence\nthan any person, and that is his subject. From this comes his primary\ncall. Those who in their utterance fix their thoughts on themselves,\nor on other selves, never reach power. That resides in the subject.\nThere we must dwell with it and be content to have no other strength\nthan its. When the frightened schoolboy sits down to write about\nSpring, he cannot imagine where the thoughts which are to make up his\npiece are to come from. He cudgels his brain for ideas. He examines\nhis pen-point, the curtains, his inkstand, to see if perhaps ideas may\nnot be had from these. He wonders what his teacher will wish him to\nsay and he tries to recall how the passage sounded in the Third Reader.\nIn every direction but one he turns, and that is the direction where\nlies the prime mover of his toil, his subject. Of that he is afraid.\nNow, what I want to make evident is that this subject is not in reality\nthe foe, but the friend. It is his only helper. His composition is not\nto be, as he seems to suppose, a mass of his laborious inventions, but\nit is to be made up exclusively of what the subject dictates. He has\nonly to attend. At present he stands in his own way, making such a din\nwith his private anxieties that he cannot hear the rich suggestions\nof the subject. He is bothered with considering how he feels, or\nwhat he or somebody else will like to see on his paper. This is\ndebilitating business. He must lean on his subject, if he would have\nhis writing strong, and busy himself with what it says rather than with\nwhat he would say. Matthew Arnold, in the important preface to his\npoems of 1853, contrasting the artistic methods of Greek poetry and\nmodern poetry, sums up the teaching of the Greeks in these words:\n\"All depends upon the subject; choose a fitting action, penetrate\nyourself with the feeling of its situations; this done, everything\nelse will follow.\" And he calls attention to the self-assertive and\nscatter-brained habits of our time. \"How different a way of thinking\nfrom this is ours! We can hardly at the present day understand what\nMenander meant when he told a man who inquired as to the progress of\nhis comedy that he had finished it, not having yet written a single\nline, because he had constructed the action of it in his mind. A\nmodern critic would have assured him that the merit of his piece\ndepended on the brilliant things which arose under his pen as he went\nalong. I verily think that the majority of us do not in our hearts\nbelieve that there is such a thing as a total-impression to be derived\nfrom a poem or to be demanded from a poet. We permit the poet to select\nany action he pleases and to suffer that action to go as it will,\nprovided he gratifies us with occasional bursts of fine writing and\nwith a shower of isolated thoughts and images.\" Great writers put\nthemselves and their personal imaginings out of sight. Their writing\nbecomes a kind of transparent window on which reality is reflected, and\nthrough which people see, not them, but that of which they write. How\nmuch we know of Shakespeare's characters! How little of Shakespeare! Of\nhim that might almost be said which Isaiah said of God, \"He hideth\nhimself.\" The best writer is the best mental listener, the one who\npeers farthest into his matter and most fully heeds its behests.\nPreeminently obedient is such a writer,--refinedly, energetically\nobedient. I once spent a day with a great novelist when the book which\nsubsequently proved his masterpiece was only half written. I praised\nhis mighty hero, but said I should think the life of an author would\nbe miserable who, having created a character so huge, now had him in\nhand and must find something for him to do. My friend seemed puzzled\nby my remark, but after a moment's pause said, \"I don't think you\nknow how we work. I have nothing to do with the character. Now that\nhe is created he will act as he will.\"\n\nAnd such docility must be cultivated by every one who would write well,\nsuch strenuous docility. Of course there must be energy in plenty; the\nimagination which I described in my third section, the passion for solid\nform as in my second, the disciplined and daring powers as in my first;\nbut all these must be ready at a moment's notice to move where the\nmatter calls and to acknowledge that all their worth is to be drawn from\nit. Religion is only enlarged good sense, and the words of Jesus apply\nas well to the things of earth as of heaven. I do not know where we\ncould find a more compendious statement of what is most important for\none to learn who would cultivate himself in English than the saying in\nwhich Jesus announces the source of his power, \"The word which ye hear\nis not mine, but the Father's which sent me.\" Whoever can use such words\nwill be a noble speaker indeed.\n\nThese then are the fundamental precepts which every one must heed who\nwould command our beautiful English language. There is of course a\nfifth. I hardly need name it; for it always follows after, whatever\nothers precede. It is that we should do the work, and not think about\nit; do it day after day and not grow weary in bad doing. Early and often\nwe must be busy and be satisfied to have a great deal of labor produce\nbut a small result. I am told that early in life John Morley, wishing to\nengage in journalism, wrote an editorial and sent it to a paper every\nday for nearly a year before he succeeded in getting one accepted. We\nall know what a power he became in London journalism. I will not vouch\nfor the truth of this story, but I am sure an ambitious author is wise\nwho writes a weekly essay for his stove. Publication is of little\nconsequence so long as one is getting one's self hammered into shape.\n\nBut before I close this paper let me acknowledge that in it I have\nneglected a whole class of helpful influences, probably quite as\nimportant as any I have discussed. Purposely I have passed them by.\nBecause I wished to show what we can do for ourselves, I have everywhere\nassumed that our cultivation in English is to be effected by naked\nvolition and a kind of dead lift. These are mighty agencies, but seldom\nin this interlocked world do they work well alone. They are strongest\nwhen backed by social suggestion and unconscious custom. Ordinarily the\ngood speaker is he who keeps good company, but increases the helpful\ninfluence of that company by constant watchfulness along the lines I\nhave marked out. So supplemented, my teaching is true. By itself it is\nnot true. It needs the supplementation of others. Let him who would\nspeak or write well seek out good speakers and writers. Let him live in\ntheir society,--for the society of the greatest writers is open to the\nmost secluded,--let him feel the ease of their excellence, the\ningenuity, grace and scope of their diction, and he will soon find in\nhimself capacities whose development may be aided by the precepts I have\ngiven. Most of us catch better than we learn. We take up unconsciously\nfrom our surroundings what we cannot altogether create. All this should\nbe remembered, and we should keep ourselves exposed to the wholesome\nwords of our fellow men. Yet our own exertions will not on that account\nbe rendered less important. We may largely choose the influences to\nwhich we submit; we may exercise a selective attention among these\ninfluences; we may enjoy, oppose, modify, or diligently ingraft what is\nconveyed to us,--and for doing any one of these things rationally we\nmust be guided by some clear aim. Such aims, altogether essential even\nif subsidiary, I have sought to supply; and I would reiterate that he\nwho holds them fast may become superior to linguistic fortune and be the\nwise director of his sluggish and obstinate tongue. It is as certain as\nanything can be that faithful endeavor will bring expertness in the use\nof English. If we are watchful of our speech, making our words\ncontinually more minutely true, free and resourceful; if we look upon\nour occasions of writing as opportunities for the deliberate work of\nunified construction; if in all our utterances we think of him who hears\nas well as of him who speaks; and above all, if we fix the attention of\nourselves and our hearers on the matter we talk about and so let\nourselves be supported by our subject--we shall make a daily advance not\nonly in English study, but in personal power, in general serviceableness\nand in consequent delight.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nDOUBTS ABOUT UNIVERSITY EXTENSION[1]\n\n\nA step has lately been taken in American education which excites the\ninterest and hopes of us all. England has been our teacher,--England and\na persuasive apostle from that country. A few years ago the English\nuniversities became discontented with their isolation. For generations\nthey had been devoting themselves to a single class in the community,\nand that too a class which needed least to be brought to intelligence\nand power. The mass of the nation, those by whom its labor and commerce\nwere conducted, had little access to Oxford and Cambridge. Poverty\nfirst, then social distinctions, and, until recent days, sectarian\nhaughtiness barred them out. Their exclusion reacted on the training of\nthe universities themselves. Conservatism flourished. The worth of an\nintellectual interest was rated rather by its traditional character than\nby its closeness to life. The sciences, latter-day things, were pursued\nhardly at all. The modern literatures, English included, had no place.\nPlato and Aristotle furnished most of the philosophy. While the rest of\nthe world was deriving from Germany methods of study, from France\nmethods of exposition, and from America methods of treating all men\nalike as rational, English scholarship, based on no gymnasia, lycees, or\nhigh schools, went its way, little regarding the life of its nation or\nthat of the world at large.\n\nBut there has come a change. Reformers have been endeavoring to go out\nand find the common man, and, in connection with him, to develop those\nsubjects which before, according to university tradition, were looked at\nsomewhat askance. English literature, political economy, modern history,\nhave been put in the foreground of this popularized education. Far and\nwide throughout England an enthusiastic band of young teachers, under\nthe guidance of officers of the universities, have been giving\ninstruction in these subjects to companies in which social grades are\nfor the time forgotten. And since public libraries are rare in England,\nand among the poorer classes the reading habit is but slightly formed,\nan ambitious few among the hearers have prized their opportunities\nsufficiently to undertake a certain amount of study and to hand in\npapers for the lecturer to inspect and to mark. In exceptional cases as\nmany as one third of the audience have thus written exercises and passed\nexaminations. The great majority of those in attendance during the three\nmonths' term of course do nothing more than listen to the weekly\nlecture.\n\nThis is the very successful English movement which for some years has\nbeen exciting admiration the world over, and which it is proposed to\nintroduce into the United States. Rightly to estimate its worth those\naspects of it to which attention has just been directed should carefully\nbe borne in mind. They are these: the movement is as much social as\nscholarly and accompanies a general democratic upheaval of an\naristocratic nation; it springs up in the neighborhood of universities\nto which the common people do not resort, and in which those subjects\nwhich most concern the minds of modern men are little taught; in its\ncountry other facilities for enabling the average man to capture\nknowledge--public libraries, reading clubs, illustrated magazines, free\nhigh schools--are not yet general; it flourishes in a small and compact\nland, where a multitude of populous towns are in such immediate\nneighborhood and so connected by a network of railroads that he who is\nbusied in one place to-day can, with the slightest fatigue and expense,\nappear in five other towns during the remaining days of the week.\n\nThese conditions, and others as gravely distinctive, do not exist in\nAmerica. From the first the American college has been organized by the\npeople and for the people. It has been about as much resorted to by the\npoor as by the rich. Through a widely developed system of free public\nschools it has kept itself closely in touch with popular ideals. Its\ngraduates go into commercial life as often as into medicine, the\nministry, or the law. It has shown itself capable of expansion too in\nadjusting itself to the modern enlargement of knowledge. The rigid\ncurriculum, which suited well enough the needs of our fathers, has been\ndiscarded, and every college, in proportion to the resources at its\ncommand, now offers elective studies and seeks to meet the needs of\ndiffering men. To all who can afford four years (soon it may be three),\nand who are masters of about half as much capital as would support them\nduring the same time elsewhere, the four hundred colleges of our country\noffer an education far too good to be superseded, duplicated, or\nweakened. In these colleges excellent provision has been made, and has\nbeen made once for all, for everybody who has a little time and a little\nmoney to devote to systematic education of the higher sort.\n\nBut our educational scheme has one serious limitation, and during the\nlast fifty years there have been many earnest efforts to surmount it.\nNot every man is free to seek a systematic training. Multitudes are tied\nto daily toil and only in the evening can they consider their own\nenlargement. Many grow old before the craving for knowledge arises. Many\nalso, with more or less profit, have attended a college, but are glad\nsubsequently to supply those defects of education which the experiences\nof life relentlessly bring to view. To all these classes, caught in the\nwhirl of affairs, the college does not minister. It is true that much\nthat such people want they get from the public library, especially as\nour librarians of the modern type energetically accept their duties as\nfacilitators of the public reading. Much is also obtainable from the\ncheap issues of the press and from such endowed courses of higher\ninstruction as those of the Lowell, Cooper, Brooklyn, Peabody, and\nDrexel institutes. But, after all, these supplementary aids, though\nvaluable, are deficient in guiding power. Most persons, especially if\nnovices, work best under inspection. To learners teachers are generally\nimportant. There seems to be still a place in our well-supplied country\nfor an organization which shall arouse a more general desire for\nknowledge; which shall stand ready to satisfy this desire more cheaply,\nwith less interruption to daily occupation, and consequently in ways\nmore fragmentary than the colleges can; and yet one which shall not\nleave its pupils alone with books, but shall supply them with the\nimpulse of the living word and through writing, discussion and directed\nreading, shall economize and render effective the costly hours of\nlearning. Unquestionably there is a field here which the colleges cannot\ntill, a field whose harvest would enrich us all. Can any other agency\ntill it? To every experiment thus far it has yielded only meagre, brief\nand expensive returns. A capital thing it would be to give to the busy\nthat which normally requires time and attention; but how to do it is the\nquestion,--how to do it in reality, and not in mere outward seeming.\n\nChautauqua has not done it, impassioned though that rough and\ngenerous institution has been for wide and fragmentary culture. Its\nwork, indeed, has had a different aim; and, amusing as that work\noften appears, it ought to be understood and acknowledged as of\nfundamental consequence in our hastily settled and heterogeneous land.\nChautauqua sends its little books and papers into stagnant homes from\nMaine to California and gives the silent occupants something to think\nabout. Conversation springs up; and with it fresh interests, fresh\nhopes. A new tie is formed between young and old, as together they\npersue the same studies and in the same graduating class walk through\nthe Golden Gate. Any man who loves knowledge and his native land must\nbe glad at heart when he visits a summer assembly of Chautauqua: there\nlistens to the Orator's Recognition Address; attends the swiftly\nsuccessive Round Tables upon Milton, Temperance, Geology, the\nAmerican Constitution, the Relations of Science and Religion, and the\nDoctrine of Rent; perhaps assists at the Cooking School, the Prayer\nMeeting, the Concert and the Gymnastic Drill; or wanders under the\ntrees among the piazzaed cottages and sees the Hall of Philosophy and\nthe wooden Doric Temple shining on their little eminences; and, best of\nall, perceives in what throngs have gathered here the butcher, the\nbaker, and the candlestick-maker,--a throng themselves, their wives and\ndaughters a throng--all heated in body, but none the less aglow for\nlearning and a good time. The comic aspects of this mixture of science,\nfresh air, flirtation, Greek reminiscence, and devoutness are patent\nenough; but the way in which the multitude is being won to discard\ndistrust of knowledge, and to think of it rather as the desirable goal\nfor all, is not so generally remarked by scholarly observers. Yet that\nis the weighty fact. The actual product in education may not be\nlarge; enthusiasm and the memory may be more stimulated than the\nrational intelligence. But minds are set in motion; an intellectual\nworld, beyond the domestic and personal, begins to appear; studious\nthought forms its fit friendship with piety, gladness and the sense\nof a common humanity; a groundwork of civilization is prepared. To\nfind a popular movement so composite and aspiring, we must go back to\nthe mediaeval Crusades or the Greek Mysteries. In these alone do we\nobserve anything so ideal, so bizarre, so expressive of the combined\nintellectual and religious hopes of a people. In many Chautauqua\nhomes pathetic sacrifices will be made in the next generation to send\nthe boys and girls to a real college.\n\nNow, in proposing to transport to this country English extension methods\nthe managers have had in mind nothing so elementarily important as\nChautauqua. They have felt the pity we all feel for persons of good\nparts who, through poverty or occupation, are debarred from a college\ntraining. They seek to reach minds already somewhat prepared, and to\nsuch they undertake to supply solid instruction of the higher grades. It\nis this more ambitious design which calls for criticism. Professor R. G.\nMoulton speaks of extension education as \"distinguished from school\neducation, being moulded to meet the wants of adults.\" And again, \"So\nfar as method is concerned, we have considered that we are bound to be\nnot less thorough, but more thorough, if possible, than the universities\nthemselves.\" If, in the general educational campaign, we liken\nChautauqua to a guerrilla high school, university extension will be a\nguerrilla college. Both move with light armor, have roving commissions,\nattack individuals, and themselves appear in the garb of ordinary life;\nbut they are equipped for a service in which the more cumbrous\norganizations of school and college have thus far proved ineffective. It\nis a fortunate circumstance that, with fields of operation so distinct,\nno jealousy can exist between the two bands of volunteers, or between\nthem both and the regular army. The success of either would increase the\nsuccess of the other two. To Chautauqua we are all indebted for\nlessening the popular suspicion of expert knowledge; and if the plans of\nthe extension committee could be carried out, college methods would have\na vogue, and a consequent respect, which they have never yet enjoyed.\n\nEvery one, accordingly, civilian or professional, wishes the movement\nwell, and recognizes that the work it proposes to do in our country is\nnot at present performed. Its aims are excellent. Are they also\npracticable? We cannot with certainty say that they are not, but it is\nhere that doubts arise,--doubts of three sorts: those which suspect a\nfundamental difference in the two countries which try the experiment;\nthose which are incredulous about the permanent response which our\npeople will make to the education offered; and those which question the\npossibility of securing a stable body of extension teachers. The first\nset of these doubts has been briefly but sufficiently indicated at the\nbeginning of this paper; the second may with still greater brevity be\nsummed up here in the following connected series of inquiries:--\n\nWith the multitude of other opportunities for education which American\nlife affords, will any large body of men and women attend extension\nlectures? Will they attend after the novelty is worn off, say during the\nthird year? Will they do anything more than attend? Will they follow\ncourses of study, write essays, and pass examinations? Will the\nextension system, any better than its decayed predecessor, the old\nlyceum system, resist the demands of popular audiences and keep itself\nfrom slipping out of serious instruction into lively and eloquent\nentertainment? If the lectures are kept true to their aim of furnishing\nsolid instruction, can they in the long run be paid for? Will it be\npossible to find in our country clusters of half a dozen towns so\ngrouped and so ready to subscribe to a course of lectures on each day of\nthe week that out of the entire six a living salary can be obtained?\nWill the new teachers be obliged to confine themselves to the suburbs of\nlarge cities, abandoning the scattered dwellers in the country, that\nportion of our population which is almost the only one at present cut\noff from tolerable means of culture? If in order to pursue these\ndestitute ones, correspondence methods are employed, in addition to the\nalready approved methods of lecture instruction, will lowering of the\nstandard follow? In England three or four years of extension lectures\nare counted equivalent to one year of regular study, and a person who\nhas attended extension courses for this time may be admitted without\nfurther examination to the second year of university residence. Will\nanything of the sort be generally attempted here?\n\nThese grave questions are as yet insusceptible of answer. Affirmative,\ndesirable answers do not seem probable; but experience alone can make\nthe matter plain. Of course the managers are watchfully bearing such\nquestions in mind, and critical watchfulness may greatly aid the better\nanswer and hinder the less desirable. Accordingly anything like a\ndiscussion of this class of practical doubts would be inappropriate\nhere. Data for the formation of a confident opinion do not exist. All\nthat can be done by way of warning is to indicate certain large\nimprobabilities, leaving them to be confirmed or thwarted by time and\nhuman ingenuity.\n\nBut with the third class of doubts the case is different. These relate\nto the constitution of the staff of teachers, and here sufficient facts\nare at hand to permit a few points to be demonstrated with considerable\ncertainty. When, for example, we ask from what source teachers are to be\ndrawn, we are usually told that they must come from college faculties.\nIf the method of the extension lecturer is to be as thorough as that of\nthe universities themselves, the lecturers must be experts, not\namateurs; and where except at the colleges does a body of experts exist?\nNo doubt many well-trained men are scattered throughout the community as\nmerchants, doctors, school-teachers, and lawyers. But these men, when of\nproved power, have more than they properly can attend to in their own\naffairs. It seems to be the colleges, therefore, to which the movement\nmust look for its teachers; and in the experiments thus far made in\nthis country the extension lecturing has been done for the most part by\ncollege officers. A professor of history, political economy, or\nliterature has, in addition to his college teaching, also given a course\nof instruction elsewhere. This feature of the American system, one may\nsay with confidence, must prove a constant damage to the work of the\ncolleges and, if persisted in, must ultimately destroy the extension\nscheme itself.\n\nIn England the extension teachers are not university teachers. To have\nno independent staff for extension work is a novelty of the American\nundertaking. The very name, university extension, besides being\nbarbaric, is in its English employment largely misleading; since neither\nthe agencies for extending nor indeed, for the most part, the studies\nextended, are found at the universities at all. A small syndicate or\ncommittee, appointed from among the university officers, is the only\nshare the university has in the business. The impression, so general in\nthis country, that English university teachers are roaming about the\nisland, lecturing to mixed audiences, is an entire error. The university\nteachers stay at home and send other people, their own graduates\nchiefly, to instruct the multitude. A committee of them decides on the\nqualifications for the work of such persons as care to devote themselves\nto itinerant teaching as a profession. For those so selected they\narrange times, places, and subjects; but they themselves do not move\nfrom their own lecture rooms. Nor is there occasion for their doing so.\nIn the slender development of popular education in England, many more\npersons of the upper classes become trained as specialists than can find\nplaces as university teachers. There thus arises a learned and leisured\naccumulation which capitally serves the country in case of a new\neducational need. On this accumulated stock of cultured men--men who\notherwise could not easily bring their culture to market--the extension\nmovement draws. These men are its teachers, its permanent teachers,\nsince there are not competing places striving to draw them away. In the\ntwo countries the educational situation is exactly reversed: in England\nthere are more trained men than positions; in America, more positions\nthan trained men. It seems probable too that this condition of things\nwill continue long, so far as we are concerned; at least there is no\npresent prospect of our reaching a limit in the demand for competent\nmen. Whenever a college has a chair to fill, it is necessary to hunt far\nand wide for a suitable person to fill it. The demand is not from the\nold places alone. Almost every year a new college is founded. Every year\nthe old ones grow. In twenty-five years Harvard has quadrupled its\nstaff. Columbia, Cornell, Princeton, Yale, the University of Michigan,\nthe University of Pennsylvania,--indeed almost every strong college in\nthe country,--shows an immense advance. A Western state is no sooner\nsettled than it establishes a state university, and each of the sects\nstarts from one to three colleges besides. No such perpetual expansion\ngoes on in England. The number of learned positions there is measurably\nfixed. If more experts than can fill them, or than care to enter\npolitical life, the liberal professions, and the civil service, are\nmanufactured in the course of a year, the surplus stock is at the\ndisposal of the extension syndicate. Many of these men too are persons\nof means, to whom a position of dignity is of more consequence than a\nlarge salary. The problem, accordingly, of organizing popular\ninstruction out of such a body of waiting experts is a comparatively\nsimple one; but it is not so simple here. In our country any man who has\na fair acquaintance with a special subject and moderate skill in\nimparting it, especially if he will be contented with a small salary,\ncan be pretty sure of college appointment.\n\nNaturally enough, therefore, the organizers of the extension movement,\ndespairing of finding among us competent unattached teachers, have\nturned at once to the colleges; but the colleges are a very unsafe\nsupport to lean upon. A professor in a university where the studies are\nelective has no more superfluous time than a busy lawyer, or doctor, or\nbusiness man. Merely to keep up with the literature of a subject, to\nsay nothing of that research and writing which should enlarge its\nlimits, is an enormous task. Teaching too is no longer an affair of\ntext-books and recitations. Leisurely days of routine ease belong to the\npast. A professor nowadays must prepare lectures incessantly; must\nperpetually revise them; must arrange examinations; direct the reading\nof his students; receive their theses; himself read a large part of\ntheir voluminous written work; personally oversee his advanced men;\ngather them about him in laboratory, seminary and conference; attend\ninnumerable committee and faculty meetings; devise legislation for the\nfurther development of his college and department; correspond with\nschools and colleges where his students, after taking their higher\ndegree, may suitably be placed; and if at the end of a hard-worked day\nhe can find an hour's leisure, he must still keep his door open for\nstudents or fellow-officers to enter. So laborious have become the\nduties of a university teacher that few large staffs now go through a\nyear without one or two of their members breaking down. With the growing\ncomplexity of work it often seems as if the proper business of college\nofficers, study and teaching, must some day cease altogether, crowded\nout by the multifarious tasks with which they are only indirectly\nconnected. It is useless to say that these things are not necessary.\nWhoever neglects them will cease to make his college, his subject and\nhis influence grow. It is because professors now see that they cannot\nsafely neglect them that the modern college differs fundamentally from\nits humdrum predecessor of a quarter of a century ago. Any movement\nwhich seeks to withdraw a professor's attention from these things, and\ninduces him to put his soul elsewhere, inflicts on the community a\nserious damage. No amount of intellectual stimulus furnished to little\ncompanies here and there can atone for the loss that must fall on\neducation when college teachers pledge themselves to do serious work in\nother places than in their own libraries and lecture rooms. To be an\nexplorer and a guide in a department of human knowledge is an arduous\nprofession. It admits no half-hearted service.\n\nOf course if the work demanded elsewhere is not serious, the case is\ndifferent. Rather with benefit than with damage a college teacher may on\noccasion recast the instruction that was intended for professionals and\noffer it to a popular audience. In this way a professor makes himself\nknown and makes his college known. Many of the small colleges are now\nengaging in university extension as an inexpensive means of advertising\nthemselves. But such lecturing is incidental, voluntary and perpetually\nliable to interruption. Beyond the immediate series of lectures it\ncannot be depended on. There is nothing institutional about it. The men\nwho undertake it are owned elsewhere, and a second mortgage is not\nusually a very valuable piece of property. A movement which places its\nreliance on the casual teaching of overworked men is condemned from the\nstart. University extension can never pass beyond the stage of\namateurism and temporary expedient until, like its English namesake, it\nhas a permanent staff of instructors exclusively devoted to its\nservice.\n\nWhere, then, is such a staff to be obtained? In view of the conditions\nof education in this country already described, it is improbable that it\ncan be obtained at all. But something may still be done,--something,\nhowever, of a more modest sort than enthusiasts at present have in mind.\nThere issue from our great universities every year a number of men who\nhave had two or three years' training beyond their bachelor's degree.\nSome of them have had a year or two of foreign study. They frequently\nwish to teach. Places do not immediately open to them. If the extension\nmovement would set them to work, it might have all their time at a\nmoderate salary for two or three years. Such men, it is true, would be\ninexperienced, and their connection with itinerant teaching could not be\nrendered lasting. As soon as one of them proved his power as a teacher,\nsome college would call him; and he would seldom prefer the nomadic and\nfragmentary life to an established one. Plainly too under the charge of\nsuch men the grade of instruction could not be the highest; but it\nmight be sound, inspiriting even, and it is in any case all that present\ncircumstances render possible. We may mourn that those who are masters\nin their several provinces are already fully employed. We may wish there\nwere a multitude of masters sitting about, ready for enlistment in a\nmissionary undertaking. But there are no such masters. The facts are\nevident enough; and if the extension movement aims at a durable\nexistence, it will respect these facts. The men it wants it cannot have\nwithout damaging them; and damaging them, it damages the higher\neducation of which they are the guardians. Teachers of a lower grade are\nat hand, ready to be experimented with. The few experiments already\ntried have been fairly successful. Let the extension leaders give up all\nthought of doing here what has been done in England. The principal part\nof that work is performed for us by other means. The wisest guidance,\naccordingly, may not lead the movement to any long success. If, however,\nuniversity extension will keep itself clearly detached from other\neducational agencies and make a quiet offer of humble yet serviceable\ninstruction, there is a fair prospect that by somewhat slow degrees a\npermanent new power may be added to the appliances for rendering busy\nAmericans intelligent.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [1] Printed in 1892.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nSPECIALIZATION[2]\n\n\nLadies and gentlemen of the graduating class, this afternoon belongs to\nyou. This morning we dedicated a chime of bells to the memory of Mrs.\nPalmer, and in those moving exercises you had but a slender share.\nProbably not half a dozen of you ever saw her who, once seen, was loved\nwith romantic ardor. Undoubtedly many of you are different from what you\nwould have been had she not lived, and lived here; for her influence so\npassed into the structure of this University that she will shape\nsuccessive generations of you for a long time to come. But enough of\nher. Let us dismiss her from our thoughts. Too much praise we have\nalready lavished on one who was ever simple and self-forgetting. She\nwould chide our profusion. If we would think as she would wish us to\nthink, let us turn rather to the common matters of the day, reflecting\non those joys and perplexities which have attended you throughout these\nformative years. One especially among these perplexities, perhaps the\ngreatest of all, I would invite you to consider now. Let me set it\nclearly before you.\n\nThis morning I sat down to breakfast with about a hundred of you who had\nentered on the attainment of the highest degree which this University\noffers. You were advanced specialists. You had each chosen some single\nline of endeavor. But even then I remembered that you were not the only\nspecialists here. Before me this afternoon I see candidates in medicine,\nmen and women who have taken for their specialty the warfare with pain\nand disease. They have said, \"All that I can ever know, I will bring to\nbear on this urgent problem.\" Here also are the lawyers, impassioned for\njustice, for the quelling of human strife. That is their specialty. They\ntoo restrict themselves to a single point of view. Beside them sit the\nscientific men, who looking over the vast expanse of nature have\naccepted the task of tracing the physical aspects of this marvellous\nmachine. Nor can I stop here. Throughout the undergraduate department,\nas we all know, run dominant interests. I should be ashamed of a young\nman who in his four years had not found some compulsive interest; for it\nis only when an interest compels that we can say that education has\nbegun. So long as we are simply learning what is set before us, taking\nthe routine mass of academic subjects, we may be faithful students, but\nwe are not scholars. No, it is when with a free heart we give ourselves\nto a subject, bidding it take of us all it demands and feeling that we\nhad rather attend to it than to anything else, because it expresses our\npersonal desires--then it is that its quickening influence takes hold.\nBut this is specialization. We might think of the University of Chicago\nthen as a great specializing machine.\n\nBut why has each of you set himself this task of specialization? Because\nthe world needs leaders, and you have chosen yourselves to be those\nleaders. Are you aware how exceptional is your condition? The last\ncensus shows that at present hardly one per cent of our population is in\nour colleges. You are of that one per cent, and you are here in order\nthat you may enlighten the other ninety-nine per cent. If through\nignorance you fail, you will cause others to fail and you had better\nnever have come to this University. To some sort of leadership you have\ndedicated yourselves, and to this aim you should be true. But do not at\ntimes doubts cross your mind? Have you not occasionally asked yourselves\nwhether you can attain such leadership and make the most of your lives\nby shutting yourselves up to a specialty? Multitudes of interesting\nthings are calling; shall you turn away from them and follow a single\nline? It will be worth while to-day to consider these fundamental\nquestions and inquire how far we are justified in specializing, what\ndangers there are in it, and in what degree those dangers may be\navoided.\n\nLet me say, then, at the start, that I regard specialization as\nabsolutely essential to scholarship. There is no scholarship without it,\nfor it is involved in the very process of knowing. When I look at this\ndesk I am specializing; that is, I am detaching this piece of furniture\nfrom all else in the room. I am limiting myself, and I cannot see\nwithout it. I can gaze without specialization, but I cannot see without\nspecialization. If I am to know anything by sight, that knowledge must\ncome through the limitation of sight. I seize this object, cast away all\nothers, and thus fix my attention. Or if I am carefully to observe, I\neven put my eye on a single point of the desk. There is no other way.\nClear knowledge becomes possible only through precise observation. Now\nspecialization is nothing but this necessary limitation of attention;\nand we, as specialists, are merely carrying out on a large scale what\nevery human being must practise in some degree whenever he knows. We\nemploy the process persistently, and for the sake of science are willing\nto hold ourselves steadily to a single line of observation. And we\ncannot do otherwise. The principles involved in the specialization of\nthe senses run throughout all science. If we would know, we must hold\nthe attention long on a given subject.\n\nBut there is an unfortunate side to specialization. It obliges us to\ndiscard other important interests. To discard merely unimportant ones\nis easy. But every evening when I sit down to devote myself to my\nethics I am aware that there are persons starving in Boston who might\nbe saved if I should drop my work and go to them. Yet I sit calmly\nthere and say, \"Let them starve; I am going to study ethics.\" I do\nnot see how I could be a suitable professor of ethics unless I were\nwilling thus to limit myself. That is the hard part, as I understand it,\nof specialization,--the cutting off of things that are worth while. I\nam sure you have already found it out. Many of you have come from\nplaces of narrow opportunity and here find a welcome abundance.\nRemembering how you have longed to obtain such privileges, you will be\ntempted to scatter yourselves over a wide field, gathering a little\nhere and a little there. At the end of the year you will have nothing,\nif you do that. The only possibility of gain is to choose your\nfield, devote serious time to it, count yourself a specialist, and\npropose to live like one. Goethe admirably announces the principle:\n\"Wer grosses will muss sich beschraenken koennen.\" You must accept\nlimitations if you will go on to power, for in limitation the very\nprocess of knowledge is rooted.\n\nFurthermore, not only is specialization forced upon us by the nature\nof knowledge, but without it our own powers cannot receive appropriate\ndiscipline. It is difficult business to fashion a sound observer.\nEach province of science has its special modes of observation, its own\nmodes of reasoning even. So long as we are unfamiliar with these and\nobliged to hold ourselves to them through conscious control, our work\nis poor. It is slow, inaccurate, and exhausting. Only when we have\ntrained ourselves to such aptitudes that within a certain field our\nobservations and reasonings are instinctive do we become swift, sure,\nand unfatigued in research. To train our powers then we must begin to\nspecialize early and hold ourselves steadily within bounds. As one\nlooks over the names of those who have accomplished much, one is\nsurprised at the number who were early specialists. Take my own\ndepartment: Berkeley writes his great work when he is twenty-five; Hume\npublishes his masterpiece at twenty-seven. Or again, Keats had\nbrought his wonderful results to accomplishment and died at twenty-five;\nShelley at thirty; Marlowe, the greatest loss English letters ever\nmet, at twenty-seven. It is just the same in other fields: Alexander\ndies at thirty-six, Jesus at thirty-three. Yes, let us look nearer\nhome: the most forcible leader American education has ever had became\npresident of Harvard University at thirty-five; President Hyde of\nBowdoin took his position at twenty-seven; my own wife, Alice\nFreeman, was president of Wellesley at twenty-six. These are early\nspecialists; and because they specialized early they acquired an\naptitude, a smoothness of work, a precision of insight, and width of\npower which could not have been theirs had they begun later. I would\nnot deny that there have been geniuses who seemed to begin late: Kant\nwas such; Locke was such. You will recall many within your own fields.\nBut I think when you search the career of those who come to power in\ncomparatively late years, you will find that there has usually been a\ntrain of covert specialization running through their lives. They may\nnot have definitely named their field to themselves, or produced work\nwithin that field in early years, but everything had been converging\ntoward that issue. I believe, therefore, you ought to respect your\nspecialty, because only through it can your powers be brought to\ntheir highest accuracy and service.\n\nOne more justification of specialization I will briefly mention, that it\nis necessary for the organization of society. No motive is good for much\nuntil it is socialized. If specialization only developed our individual\nselves, we could hardly justify it; but it is the means of progress for\nsociety. The field of knowledge is vast; no man can master it, and its\nimmensity was never so fully understood as to-day. The only way the\nwhole province can be conquered and brought under subjection to human\nneeds is by parting it out, one man being content to till his little\ncorner while his neighbor is engaged on something widely different. We\nmust part out the field of knowledge and specialize on our allotted\nwork, in order that there may be entirety in science. If we seek to have\nentirety in ourselves, science will be fragmentary and feeble. That\ndivision of labor which has proved efficient everywhere else is no less\nneedful in science.\n\nBut I suppose it is hardly necessary to justify specialization to this\naudience. Most of you have staked heavily on it, putting yourselves to\nserious inconvenience, many of you heavily mortgaging your future, in\norder to come here and devote yourselves to some single interest. I\nmight confidently go through this room asking each of you what is your\nsubject? And you would proudly reply, \"My subject is this. My subject is\nthis. My subject is this.\" I think you would feel ashamed if you had not\nthus specialized. I see no occasion, therefore, to elaborate what I have\nurged. As I understand it, the three roots of specialization are these:\nit is grounded in the very nature of the knowing process; it is grounded\nin the needs of ourselves as individuals, in order that we may attain\nour maximum efficiency; it is grounded in the needs of society, because\nonly so can society reach that fulness of knowledge which its progress\nrequires.\n\nBut, after all, the beliefs which are accepted as matters of course in\nthis room are largely denounced outside it. We must acknowledge that our\nconfidence in specialization encounters many doubts in the community.\nIt may be well, then, to place ourselves where that community stands and\nask the general public to tell us why it doubts us, what there is in our\nspecialized attitude which it thinks defective, and what are the\ncomplaints which it is disposed to bring against us? I will try to take\nthe position of devil's advocate and plead the cause of the objector to\nspecialization.\n\nSpecialization, it is said, leads to ignorance; indeed it rather aims at\nignorance than knowledge. When I attend to this desk, it is true I\nsecure a bit of knowledge, but how small is that bit in comparison to\nall the things in this room which I might know about! It is but a\nfraction. Yet I have condemned all else in the room to ignorance,\nreserving only this one little object for knowledge. Now that is what we\nare all of us doing on a great scale; by specializing, by limiting our\nattention, we cut off what is not attended to. It is often assumed that\nattention is mainly a positive affair and occupied with what we are to\nknow. But that is a very small portion of it; really its important part\nis the negative, the removal of what we do not wish to observe. We cut\nourselves off from the great mass of knowledge which is offered. Is it\nnot then true that every specialist has disciplined himself to be an\nignoramus? He has drawn a fence around a little portion of the universe\nand said, \"Within that fence I know something.\" \"Yes,\" the public\nreplies, \"but you do not know anything outside.\" And is not the public\nright? When we step forward and claim to be learned men, is not the\npublic justified in saying, \"I know a great deal more than you do; I\nknow a thousand things and you know only one. You say you know that one\nthrough and through, and of course I do not know my thousand things\nthrough and through. But it is not necessary. I perceive their\nrelations; I can handle them; I can use them in practice; can you?\"\n\"Well, no,\" we are obliged to say, \"we specialists are a little fumbling\nwhen we try to take hold of the world. We are not altogether skilful in\naction, just because we are such specialists.\" You students here have\nbeen devoting yourselves to some one point--I am afraid many of you are\ngoing to have sad experience of it--you have been learning to know\nsomething nobody else on earth does know, and then you go forth to seek\na position. But the world may have no use for you; there are only two or\nthree positions of that sort in the country, and those may happen to be\nfilled. Just because you are such an elaborate scholar you cannot earn\nyour daily bread. You have cut yourself off from everything but that one\nspecies of learning, and that does not happen to be wanted. Therefore\nyou are not wanted. Such is the too frequent condition of the\nspecialist. The thousand things he does not know; it is only the one\nthing he does know. And because he is so ignorant, he is helpless.\n\nTurning then to our second justification of specialization, the case\nseems equally bad. I said that specialization was needed for the\ntraining of our powers. The training of them all? Not that, but the\ntraining of only certain ones among them. The others hang slack. In\nthose regions of ourselves we count for little. We are men of weight\nonly within the range of the powers we have trained; and what a large\nslice of us lies outside these! Accordingly the general public declares\nthat there is no judgment so bad as the judgment of a specialist. Few\npractical situations exactly coincide with his specialty, and outside\nhis specialty his judgment is worse than that of the novice. He has been\ntraining himself in reference to something precise; and the moment he\nventures beyond it, the very exactitude of his discipline limits his\nworth. The man who has not been a specialist, who has dabbled in all\nthings and has acquired a rough and ready common sense, that man's\njudgment is worth something in many different sections of life, but the\njudgment of the specialist is painfully poor beyond his usual range. You\nremember how, in the comic opera, the practice is satirized of\nappointing a person who has never been at sea to take charge of the navy\nof a great country. But that is the only sensible course to pursue. Put\na specialist there, and the navy will be wretchedly organized, because\nthe administration of the navy requires something more than the\nspecialism of seamanship. It is necessary to coordinate seamanship with\nmany other considerations, and the man trained in the specialty of\nseamanship is little likely to have that ability. Therefore ordinarily\nwe use our experts best by putting them under the control of those who\nare not experts. Common sense has the last word. The coordinating power\nwhich has not been disciplined in single lines is what ultimately takes\nthe direction of affairs. We need the specialist within his little\nfield; shut him up there, and he is valuable enough; but don't let him\nescape. That seems to be the view of the public. They keep the\nspecialist confined because they utterly distrust his judgment when he\nextends himself abroad.\n\nAnd when we look at the third of our grounds for justification, social\nneed, the public declares that the specialists are intolerably\npresumptuous. Knowing their own subject, they imagine they can dictate\nto anybody and do not understand how limited is their importance. Again\nand again it happens that because a man does know some one thing pretty\nwell he sets himself up as a great man in general. My own province\nsuffers in this respect more than most; for as soon as a man acquires\nconsiderable skill in chemistry or biology, he is apt to issue a\npronunciamento on philosophy. But philosophy does not suffer alone.\nEverywhere the friends of the great specialist are telling him he has\nproved himself a mighty man, quite competent to sit in judgment on the\nuniverse; and he, forgetting that the universe and the particular\nsubject he knows something about are two different things, really\nimagines that his ignorant opinions deserve consideration.\n\nNow I suppose we must acknowledge that in all this blasphemy against our\ncalling, there is a good deal of truth. These certainly are dangers\nwhich all of us specialists incur. I agree that they are inevitable\ndangers. Do not, however, let us on account of them abandon\nspecialization and seek to acquire a mass of miscellaneous information.\nBacon said, \"I take all knowledge for my province.\" If we say it, we\nshall become not Bacons but fools. No, that is the broad road to\nignorance. But laying these profound dangers of specialization well to\nheart, assured that they beset us all, let us search for remedial\nmeasures. Let us ask how such dangers may be reduced to a minimum. Is\nthere a certain way in which we may engage in the specialist's research\nand still save ourselves from some of the evils I have here depicted? I\nthink there is. To find it we will follow the same three avenues which\nhave been leading us thus far.\n\nIn regard to the first, the limitation of attention, I understand that,\nafter all, our specialty cannot fill our entire life. We do sometimes\nsit down to dinner; we occasionally talk with a friend; we now and then\ntake a journey; we permit ourselves from time to time to read some other\nbook than one which refers to our subject. That is, I take it, if we are\nfully alive to the great danger that in specializing we are cutting off\na large part of the universe, we shall be wise in gathering eagerly\nwhatever additional knowledge we may acquire outside our specialty. And\nI must say that the larger number of eminent specialists whom I have\nhappened to know have been men pretty rich in knowledge outside their\nspecialties. They were men who well apprehended the extreme danger of\ntheir limited modes of pursuit and who greedily grasped, therefore, at\nevery bit of knowledge they could obtain which lay beyond their\nprovince. They appropriated all the wisdom they could; and merely\nbecause it did not exactly fit in with their specialty, they did not\nturn it away. I do not know how far it is wise to go in this effort to\nrepair the one-sidedness in which most of us are compelled to live. A\nrather extreme case was once brought to my attention. There was a\nstudent at Harvard who had been a high scholar with me, and I found that\nhe was also so specializing in the classics that when he graduated he\ntook classical honors. Some years later I learned that he was one of the\nhighest scholars in the Medical School. Meeting him a few years after\nhe had entered his profession, I asked, \"How did it happen that you\nchanged your mind so markedly? You devoted yourself to classics and\nphilosophy in college. What made you finally decide to become a\nphysician?\" \"Finally decide!\" said he. \"Why, from childhood up I never\nintended to be anything else.\" \"But,\" I persisted, \"I cannot be mistaken\nin recalling that you devoted yourself in college to classics and\nphilosophy.\" \"Yes,\" he said, \"I did, because I knew I should never have\nanother chance at those subjects. I was going to give the rest of my\nlife to medicine, so I took those years for classics and philosophy.\" I\nasked, \"Wasn't that a great mistake; haven't you now found out your\nblunder?\" \"Oh, no,\" said he, \"I am a much better physician on that\naccount; I could not have done half so well if I hadn't had all that\ntraining in philosophy and classics.\" Now I cannot advise such a course\nfor everybody. It takes a big man to do that. If you are big enough, it\nis worth while laying a very broad foundation; but considering the size\non which most of us are planned, it is wiser to begin early and\nspecialize from the very start.\n\nWell, then, here is one mode of making up for the defects of\nspecialization: we may pick up knowledge outside our subject. But it is\nan imperfect mode; you never can put away your limitations altogether.\nYou can do a great deal. Use your odd quarter-hours wisely and do not\nmerely play in fragmentary times, understanding that these are precious\nseasons for acquiring the knowledge which lies beyond your province.\nThen every time you talk with anybody, lead him neatly to what he knows\nbest, keeping an attentive ear, becoming a first-class listener, and\nseeking to get beyond yourself. By doing so you will undoubtedly much\nenlarge the narrow bounds to which you have pledged yourself. Yet this\npolicy will not be enough. It will require to be supplemented by\nsomething more. Therefore I should say in the second place, that in\ndisciplining our powers we must be careful to conceive our specialty\nbroadly enough. In taking it too narrowly lies our chief danger. There\nare two types of specialist. There is the man who regards his specialty\nas a door into which he goes and by which he shuts the world out, hiding\nhimself with his own little interests. That is the petty, poor\nspecialist, the specialist who never becomes a man of power, however\nmuch he may be a man of learning. But there is an entirely different\nsort of specialist from that; it is the man who regards his specialty as\na window out of which he may peer upon all the world. His specialty is\nmerely a point of view from which everything is regarded. Consequently\nwithout departing from our specialty each of us may escape narrowness.\nInstead of running over all the earth and contemplating it in a\nmultitude of different aspects, the wise specialist chooses some single\npoint of view and examines the universe as it is related to this.\nEverything therefore has a meaning for him, everything contributes\nsomething to his specialty. Narrowing himself while he is getting his\npowers disciplined, as those powers become trained he slacks them off\nand gives them a wider range; for he knows very well that while the\nworld is cut up into little parcels it never can be viewed rightly. It\nwill always be distorted. For, after all, things are what they are\nthrough their relations, and if you snap those relations you never truly\nconceive anything. Accordingly, as soon as we have got our specialty, we\nshould begin to coordinate that specialty with everything else. At first\nwe may fix our attention on some single problem within a given field,\nbut soon we discover that we cannot master that problem without knowing\nthe rest of the field also. As we go on to know the rest of the field\nand make ourself a fair master of that science, we discover that that\nscience depends on other sciences. Never was there an age of the world\nin which this interlocking of the sciences was so clearly perceived as\nin our day. Formerly we seemed able to isolate a particular topic and\nknow something of it, but in our evolutionary time nothing of that kind\nis possible. Each thing is an epitome of the whole. Have you been\ntraining your eye to see a world in a grain of sand? Can you look\nthrough your specialty out upon the total universe and say: \"I am a\nspecialist merely because I do not want to be a narrow man. My specialty\nis my telescope. Everything belongs to me. I cannot, it is true, turn to\nit all at once. Being a feeble person I must advance from point to\npoint, accepting limitations; but just as fast as I can, having mastered\nthose limitations, I shall cast them aside and press on into ever\nbroader regions.\"\n\nBut I said specialization was fundamentally justified through the\norganization of society, because by its division of toil we contribute\nour share to the total of human knowledge; and yet the popular objector\ndeclares that we are presumptuous, and because we have mastered our own\nspecialty we are apt to assume ourselves capable of pronouncing judgment\nover the whole field. Undoubtedly there is this danger; but such a\nresult is not inevitable. The danger is one which we are perfectly\ncapable of setting aside. The temper of our mind decides the matter, and\nthis is entirely within our control. What is the use of our going forth\npresumptuous persons? We certainly shall be unserviceable if we are\npersons of that type. That is not the type of Charles Darwin in biology,\nof William James in psychology, of Horace Howard Furness in Shakespeare\ncriticism, of Albert Michelson in physics. These are men as remarkable\nfor modesty and simplicity as for scholarly insight. The true\ncharacteristic of a learned specialist is humility. What we want to be\ntraining ourselves in is respect for other people and a sense of\nsolidarity with them. Our work would be of little use if there were not\nsomebody at our side who cared nothing for that work of ours and cared\nimmensely for his own. It is our business to respect that other man,\nwhether he respects us or not. We must learn to look upon every\nspecialist as a fellow worker. Without him we cannot be perfect. Let us\nmake ourselves as large as possible, in order that we may contribute our\nlittle something to that to which all others are contributing. It is\nthis cooperative spirit which it should be ours to acquire. And it seems\nto me that you are under peculiarly fortunate circumstances for\nacquiring it. What strikes me as fatal is to have a group of young\nspecialists taken and trained by themselves, detachedly, shut off from\nothers. Nothing of that sort occurs here. Every day you are rubbing\nshoulders with persons who have other interests than yours. When you\nwalk to dinner, you fall in with a comrade who has been spending his day\nover something widely unlike that which has concerned you. Possibly you\nhave been able to lead him to talk about it; possibly you have gained an\ninsight into what he was seeking, and seen how his work largely\nsupplements your own. If you have had proper respect for him and proper\nhumility in regard to yourself, this great society of specialists has\nfilled out your work for you day after day; and in that sense of\ncooperation, of losing yourselves in the common service of scientific\nmankind, you have found the veritable glory of these happy years.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [2] On the morning of June 9, 1908, a chime of bells was dedicated at\n       the University of Chicago in honor of Alice Freeman Palmer. At\n       the Convocation Exercises in the afternoon the following address\n       was delivered.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE GLORY OF THE IMPERFECT[3]\n\n\nA few years ago Matthew Arnold, after travelling in this country and\nrevising the somewhat unfavorable opinion of us which he had formed\nearlier and at a distance, still wrote in his last paper on Civilization\nin the United States that America, in spite of its excellences, is an\nuninteresting land. He thought our institutions remarkable. He pointed\nout how close a fit exists between them and the character of the\ncitizens, a fit so close as is hardly to be found in other countries. He\nsaw much that is of promise in our future. But after all, he declares\nthat no man will live here if he can live elsewhere, because America is\nan uninteresting land.\n\nThis remark of Mr. Arnold's is one which we may well ponder. As I\nconsider how many of you are preparing to go forth from college and\nestablish yourselves in this country, I ask myself whether you must find\nyour days uninteresting. You certainly have not been finding them\nuninteresting here. Where were college days ever dull? It is a beautiful\ncircumstance that, the world over, the period of education is the\nperiod of romance. No such thing was ever heard of as a college student\nwho did not enjoy himself, a college student who was not full of hope.\nAnd if this has been the case with us prosaic males of the past, what\nmust be the experience of your own hopeful sex? I am sure you are\nlooking forward with eagerness to your intended work. Is it to be\nblighted? Are you to find life dull? It might seem from the remark of\nMr. Arnold that it would probably be so, for you must live in an\nuninteresting land.\n\nWhen this remark of Mr. Arnold's was first made a multitude of voices in\nall parts of our country declared that Mr. Arnold did not know what he\nwas talking about. As a stupid Englishman he had come here and had\nfailed to see what our land contains. In reality every corner of it is\nstuffed with that beauty and distinction which he denied. For that was\nthe offensive feature of his statement: he had said in substance the\nchief sources of interest are beauty and distinction. America is not\nbeautiful. Its scenery, its people, its past, are not distinguished. It\nis impossible, therefore, for an intelligent and cultivated man to find\npermanent interests here.\n\nThe ordinary reply to these unpleasant sayings was, \"America is\nbeautiful, America is distinguished.\" But on the face of the matter this\nreply might well be distrusted. Mr. Arnold is not a man likely to make\nsuch a mistake. He is a trained observer. His life has been passed in\ncriticism, and criticism of an extremely delicate sort. It seems to me\nit must be rather his standards than his facts which are at fault. Many\nof us would be slow to believe our teacher had made an error in\nobservation; for to many of us he has been a very great teacher indeed.\nThrough him we have learned the charm of simplicity, the refinement of\nexactitude, the strength of finished form; we have learned calmness in\ntrial too, the patience of duty, ability to wait when in doubt; in\nshort, we have learned dignity, and he who teaches us dignity is not a\nman lightly to be forgotten or disparaged. I say, therefore, that this\nanswer to Mr. Arnold, that he was in error, is one which on its face\nmight prudently be distrusted.\n\nBut for other than prudential reasons I incline to agree with Mr.\nArnold's opinion. Even though I were not naturally disposed to\ncredit his judgment, I should be obliged to acknowledge that my own\nobservations largely coincide with his. In Europe I think I find\nbeauty more abundant than in America. Certainly the distinguished\nobjects, the distinguished persons, whom I go there to see, are more\nnumerous than those I might by searching find here. I cannot think this\nportion of Mr. Arnold's statement can be impugned. And must we then\naccept his conclusion and agree that your lives, while sheltered in\nthis interesting college, are themselves interesting; but that when\nyou go forth the romance is to pass away? I do not believe it,\nbecause I question the standard which Mr. Arnold employs. He tells us\nthat the sources of the interesting are beauty and distinction. I\ndoubt it. However much delight and refreshment these may contribute\nto our lives, I do not believe they predominantly constitute our\ninterests.\n\nEvidently Mr. Arnold cannot have reached his opinion through\nobservation, for the commonest facts of experience confute him. There is\nin every community a certain class of persons whose business it is to\ndiscover what people regard as interesting. These are the newspaper\neditors; they are paid to find out for us interesting matters every day.\nThere is nothing they like better than to get hold of something\ninteresting which has not been observed before. Are they then searchers\nfor beauty and distinction? I should say not. Here are the subjects\nwhich these seekers after interesting things discussed in my morning\npaper. There is an account of disturbances in South America. There is a\nstatement about Mr. Blaine's health. There is a report of a prize fight.\nThere are speculations about the next general election. There is a\ndescription of a fashionable wedding. These things interest me, and I\nsuspect they interest the majority of the readers of that paper; though\nthey can hardly be called beautiful or distinguished. Obviously,\ntherefore, if Mr. Arnold had inspected the actual interests of to-day,\nhe would have been obliged to recognize some other basis for them than\nbeauty and distinction.\n\nYet I suppose all will feel it would be better if the trivial matters\nwhich excite our interest in the morning journal were of a more\nbeautiful, of a more distinguished sort. Our interests would be more\nhonorable then. These things interest merely because they are facts, not\nbecause they are beautiful. A fact is interesting through being a fact,\nand this commonest and most basal of interests Mr. Arnold has\noverlooked. He has not perceived that life itself is its own unceasing\ninterest.\n\nBefore we can decide, however, whether he has overlooked anything more,\nwe must determine what is meant by beauty. Let us analyze the matter a\nlittle. Let us see if we can detect why the beautiful and the\ndistinguished are interesting, and still how we can provide a place for\nthe other interests which are omitted in his statement. If we should\nlook at a tree and ask ourselves why this tree is more beautiful than\nanother, we should probably find we had thought it so on some such\ngrounds as these: the total bunch of branches and leaves, that exquisite\ngreen mass sunning itself, is no larger than can well be supported on\nthe brown trunk. It is large enough; there is nothing lacking. If it\nwere smaller, the office of the trunk would hardly be fulfilled. If\nlarger, the trunk would be overpowered. Those branches which extend\nthemselves to the right adequately balance those which are extended to\nthe left. Scrutinizing it, we find every leaf in order, each one ready\nto aerate its little sap and so conduce to the life of the whole. There\nis no decay, no broken branch. Nothing is deficient, but at the same\ntime there is nothing superfluous. Each part ministers to every part. In\nall parts the tree is proportionate--beautiful, intrinsically beautiful,\nbecause it is unsuperfluous, unlacking.\n\nAnd when we turn to other larger, more intricately beautiful objects,\nwe find the same principle involved. Fulness of relations among the\nparts, perfection of organism, absence of incongruity, constitute the\nbeauty of the object. Were you ever in Wiltshire in England, and did\nyou visit the splendid seat of the Earls of Pembroke, Wilton House?\nIt is a magnificent pile, designed by Holbein the painter, erected\nbefore Elizabeth began to reign. Its green lawns, prepared ages ago,\nwere adapted to their positions originally and perform their ancient\noffices to-day. Time has changed its gardens only by making them more\nlovely than when they were planned. So harmonious with one another are\ngrounds and castle that, looking on the stately dwelling, one imagines\nthat the Creator himself must have had it in mind in his design of\nthe spot. And when you enter, all is equally congruous. Around the\ncentral court runs the cloistered statuary gallery, out of which open\nthe several halls. Passing through these, you notice the portraits\nnot only of past members of the family--men who have been among the\nmost distinguished of England's worthies--but also portraits of the\neminent friends of the Pembrokes, painted by notable artists who were\noften themselves also friends of the family. In the library is shown\nSidney's \"Arcadia,\" written in this very garden, with a lock of\nElizabeth's hair inclosed. In the chief hall a play of Shakespeare's\nis reported to have been performed by his company. Half a dozen names\nthat shine in literature lend intellectual glory to the place. But\nas you walk from room to room, amazed at the accumulation of wealth and\nproud tradition, you perceive how each casual object makes its\nseparate contribution to the general impression of stateliness. A\nglance from a window discloses an enchanting view: in the distance, past\nthe cedars, rises the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, one of the most\npeaceful and aspiring in England. All parts--scenery, buildings,\nrich possessions, historic heritages--minister to parts. Romantic\nimagination is stirred. It is beautiful, beautiful beyond anything\nAmerica can show.\n\nAnd if we turn to that region where beauty is most subtly embodied,\nif we turn to human character, we find the conditions not dissimilar.\nThe character which impresses us most is that which has fully\norganized its powers, so that every ability finds its appropriate\nplace without prominence; one with no false humility and without\nself-assertion; a character which cannot be overthrown by petty\ncircumstance, but, steadfast in itself, no part lacking, no part\nsuperfluous, easily lets its ample functions assist one another in all\nthat they are summoned to perform. When we behold a man like this, we\nsay, \"This is what I would be. Here is the goal toward which I would\ntend. This man, like Wilton House, like the beautiful tree, is a\nfinished thing.\" It is true when we turn our attention back and once\nmore criticise, we see that it is not so. No human character can be\nfinished. It is its glory that it cannot be. It must ever press\nforward; each step reached is but the vantage-ground for a further\nstep. There is no completeness in human character--in human character\nsave one.\n\nAnd must we then consider human character uninteresting? According to\nMr. Arnold's standard perhaps we ought to do so. But through this very\ncase the narrowness of that standard becomes apparent. Mr. Arnold\nrightly perceives that beauty is one of our higher interests. It\ncertainly is not our only or our highest, because in that which is most\nprofoundly interesting, human life, the completeness of parts which\nconstitutes beauty is never reached. There must obviously be another and\na higher source of interest, one too exalted to be found where awhile\nago I sketched it, in the mere occurrence of a fact. We cannot say that\nall events, simply because they occur, are alike interesting. To find in\nthem an intelligent interest we must rate their worth. I agree,\naccordingly, with Mr. Arnold in thinking that it is the passion for\nperfection, the assessment of worths, which is at the root of all\nenduring interests. But I believe that in the history of the world this\npassion for perfection, this deepest root of human interests, has\npresented itself in two forms. The Greek conceived it in one way, the\nChristian has conceived it in another.\n\nIt was the office of that astonishing people, the Greeks, to teach us to\nhonor completeness, the majesty of the rounded whole. We see this in\nevery department of their marvellous life. Whenever we look at a Greek\nstatue, it seems impossible that it should be otherwise without loss; we\ncannot imagine any portion changed; the thing has reached its\ncompleteness. Before it we can only bow and feel at rest. Just so it is\nwhen we examine Greek architecture. There too we find the same ordered\nproportion, the same adjustment of part to part. And if we turn to Greek\nliterature, the stately symmetry is no less remarkable. What page of\nSophocles could be stricken out? What page--what sentence? Just enough,\nnot more than enough! The thought has grown, has asserted its entirety;\nand when that entirety has been reached, it has stopped, delighted with\nits own perfection. A splendid ideal, an ideal which never can fail, I\nam sure, to interest man so long as he remains intelligent!\n\nAnd yet this beautiful Greek work shows only one aspect of the world. It\nomitted something, it omitted formative life. Joy in birth, delight in\nbeginnings, interest in origins,--these things did not belong to the\nGreek; they came in with Christianity. It is Jesus Christ who turns our\nattention toward growth, and so teaches us to delight in the imperfect\nrather than in the perfect. It is he who, wishing to give to his\ndisciples a model of what they should be, does not select the completed\nman, but takes the little child and sets him before them and to the\nsupercilious says, \"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little\nones.\" He teaches us to reverence the beginning of things. And at first\nthought it might well seem that this reverence for the imperfect was a\nretrogression. What! is not a consummate man more admirable than a\nchild? \"No,\" Jesus answered; and because he answered so, pity was born.\nBefore the coming of Jesus Christ, I think we may say that the sick, the\nafflicted, the child--shall I not say the woman?--were but slightly\nunderstood. It is because God has come down from heaven, manifesting\neven himself in forms of imperfection, it is on this account that our\nintellectual horizon has been enlarged. We may now delight in the lowly,\nwe may stoop and gather imperfect things and rejoice in them,--rejoice\nbeyond the old Greek rejoicing.\n\nYet it is easy to mistake the nature of this change of standard, and in\ndoing so to run into grave moral danger. If we content ourselves with\nthe imperfect rather than with the perfect, we are barbarians. We are\nnot Christians nor are we Greeks, we are barbarians. But that is not the\nspirit of Jesus. He teaches us to catch the future in the instant, to\nsee the infinite in the finite, to watch the growth of the perfect out\nof the imperfect. And he teaches us that this delight in progress, in\ngrowth, in aspiration, in completing, may rightly be greater than our\nexultation in completeness. In his view the joy of perfecting is beyond\nthe joy of perfection.\n\nNow I want to be sure that you young women, who are preparing yourselves\nhere for larger life and are soon to emerge into the perplexing world,\ngo forth with clear and Christian purpose. For though what I have been\ndiscussing may appear dry and abstract, it is an extremely practical\nmatter. Consider a moment in which direction you are to seek the\ninterests of your life. Will you demand that the things about you shall\nalready possess their perfection? Will you ask from life that it be\ncompleted, finished, beautiful? If so, you are doomed to dreary days. Or\nare you to get your intellectual eyes open, see beauty in the making,\nand come to rejoice in it there rather than after it is made? That is\nthe question I wish to present to-day; and I shall ask you to examine\nseveral provinces of life and see how different they appear when\nsurveyed from one point of view or from the other.\n\nUndoubtedly all of you on leaving here will go into some home, either\nthe home of your parents or--less fortunate--some stranger's home. And\nwhen you come there, I think I can foretell one thing: it will be a\ntolerably imperfect place in which you find yourself. You will notice a\ngreat many points in which it is improvable; that is to say, a great\nmany respects in which you might properly wish it otherwise. It will\nseem to you, I dare say, a little plain, a little commonplace, compared\nwith your beautiful college and the college life here. I doubt whether\nyou will find all the members of your family--dear though they may\nbe--so wise, so gentle-mannered, so able to contribute to your\nintellectual life as are your companions here. Will you feel then, \"Ah!\nhome is a dull place; I wish I were back in college again! I think I was\nmade for college life. Possibly enough I was made for a wealthy life. I\nam sure I was made for a comfortable life. But I do not find these\nthings here. I will sit and wish I had them. Of course I ought not to\nenjoy a home that is short of perfection; and I recognize that this is a\ngood way from complete.\" Is this to be your attitude? Or are you going\nto say, \"How interesting this home! What a brave struggle the dear\npeople are making with the resources at their command! What kindness is\nshown by my tired mother; how swift she is in finding out the many small\nwants of the household! How diligent my father! Should I, if I had had\nonly their narrow opportunities, be so intelligent, so kind, so\nself-sacrificing as they? What can I do to show them my gratitude? What\ncan I contribute toward the furtherance, the enlargement, the\nperfecting, of this home?\" That is the wise course. Enter this home not\nmerely as a matter of loving duty, but find in it also your own strong\ninterests, and learn to say, \"This home is not a perfect home, happily\nnot a perfect home. I have something here to do. It is far more\ninteresting than if it were already complete.\"\n\nAnd again, you will not always live in a place so attractive as\nCleveland. There are cities which have not your beautiful lake, your\ndistant views, your charming houses excellently shaded with trees. These\nthings are exceptional and cannot always be yours. You may be obliged to\nlive in an American town which appears to you highly unfinished, a town\nwhich constantly suggests that much still remains to be done. And then\nare you going to say, \"This place is not beautiful, and I of course am a\nlover of the beautiful. How could one so superior as I rest in such\nsurroundings? I could not respect myself were I not discontented.\" Is\nthat to be your attitude? It is, I am sorry to think, the attitude of\nmany who go from our colleges. They have been taught to reverence\nperfection, to honor excellence; and instead of making it their work to\ncarry this excellence forth, and to be interested in spreading it far\nand wide in the world, they sit down and mourn that it has not yet come.\nHow dull the world would be had it come! Perfection, beauty? It\nconstitutes a resting-place for us; it does not constitute our\nworking-place.\n\nI maintain, therefore, in regard to our land as a whole that there is no\nother so interesting on the face of the earth; and I am led to this\nconviction by the very reasoning which brought Mr. Arnold to a contrary\nopinion. I accept his judgment of the beauty of America. His premise is\ncorrect, but it should have conducted him to the opposite conclusion. In\nAmerica we still are in the making. We are not yet beautiful and\ndistinguished; and that is why America, beyond every other country,\nawakens a noble interest. The beauty which is in the old lands, and\nwhich refreshes for a season, is after all a species of death. Those who\ndwell among such scenes are appeased, they are not quickened. Let them\nkeep their past; we have our future. We may do much. What they can do is\nlargely at an end.\n\nIn literature also I wish to bring these distinctions before you, these\ndifferences of standard; and perhaps I cannot accomplish this better\nthan by exhibiting them as they are presented in a few verses from the\npoet of the imperfect. I suppose if we try to mark out with precision\nthe work of Mr. Browning,--I mean not to mark it out as the Browning\nsocieties do, but to mark it out with precision,--we might say that its\ndistinctive feature is that he has guided himself by the principle on\nwhich I have insisted: he has sought for beauty where there is seeming\nchaos; he has loved growth, has prized progress, has noted the advance\nof the spiritual, the pressing on of the finite soul through hindrance\nto its junction with the infinite. This it is which has inspired his\nsomewhat crabbed verses, and has made men willing to undergo the labor\nof reading them, that they too may partake of his insight. In one of his\npoems--one which seems to me to contain some of his sublimest as well as\nsome of his most commonplace lines, the poem on \"Old Pictures in\nFlorence,\"--he discriminates between Greek and Christian art in much the\nsame way I have done. In \"Greek Art,\" Mr. Browning says:--\n\n  You saw yourself as you wished you were,\n    As you might have been, as you cannot be;\n  Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there;\n    And grew content in your poor degree\n  With your little power, by those statues' godhead,\n    And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway,\n  And your little grace, by their grace embodied,\n    And your little date, by their forms that stay.\n\n  You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am?\n    Even so, you will not sit like Theseus.\n  You would prove a model? The son of Priam\n    Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use.\n  You're wroth--can you slay your snake like Apollo?\n    You're grieved--still Niobe's the grander!\n  You live--there's the Racers' frieze to follow:\n    You die--there's the dying Alexander.\n\n  So, testing your weakness by their strength,\n    Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty,\n  Measured by Art in your breadth and length,\n    You learned--to submit is a mortal's duty.\n\n  Growth came when, looking your last on them all,\n    You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day\n  And cried with a start--What if we so small\n    Be greater and grander the while than they!\n  Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature?\n    In both, of such lower types are we\n  Precisely because of our wider nature;\n    For time, theirs--ours, for eternity.\n\n  To-day's brief passion limits their range;\n    It seethes with the morrow for us and more.\n  They are perfect--how else? they shall never change:\n    We are faulty--why not? we have time in store.\n  The Artificer's hand is not arrested\n    With us; we are rough-hewn, no-wise polished:\n  They stand for our copy, and once invested\n    With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished.\n\nYou will notice that in this subtle study Mr. Browning points out how\nthrough contact with perfection there may come content with our present\nlot. This I call the danger of perfection, our possible belittlement\nthrough beauty. For in the lives of us all there should be a divine\ndiscontent,--not devilish discontent, but divine discontent,--a\nconsciousness that life may be larger than we have yet attained, that we\nare to press beyond what we have reached, that joy lies in the future,\nin that which has not been found, rather than in the realized present.\nAnd it seems to me if ever a people were called on to understand this\nglory of the imperfect, it is we of America, it is you of the Middle\nWest; it is especially you who are undertaking here the experiment of a\nwoman's college. You are at the beginning, and that fact should lend an\ninterest to your work which cannot so readily be realized in our older\ninstitutions. As you look eastward upon my own huge university, Harvard\nUniversity, it probably appears to you singularly beautiful, reverend in\nits age, magnificent in its endowments, equable in its working; perhaps\nyou contemplate it as nearing perfection, and contrast your incipient\ncollege with it as hardly deserving the name. You are entirely mistaken.\nHarvard University, to its glory be it said, is enormously unfinished;\nit is a great way from perfect; it is full of blemishes. We are\ntinkering at it all the time; and if it were not so, I for one should\ndecline to be connected with it. Its interest for me would cease. You\nare to start free from some trammels that we feel. Because we have so\nlarge a past laid upon us we have not some freedoms of growth, some\nopportunities of enlargement, which you possess. Accordingly, in your\nvery experiment here you have a superb illustration of the principle I\nam trying to explain. This young and imperfect college should interest\nyou who are members of it; it should interest this intelligent city.\nWise patrons should find here a germ capable of such broad and\ninteresting growth as may well call out their heartiest enthusiasm.\n\nIf then the modes of accepting the passion for perfection are so\ndivergent as I have indicated, is it possible to suggest methods by\nwhich we may discipline ourselves in the nobler way of seeking the\ninterests of life?--I mean by taking part with things in their\nbeginnings, learning to reverence them there, and so attaining an\ninterest which will continually be supported and carried forward. You\nmay look with some anxiety upon the doctrine which I have laid down. You\nmay say, \"But beauty is seductive; beauty allures me. I know that the\nimperfect in its struggle toward perfection is the nobler matter. I know\nthat America is, for him who can see all things, a more interesting land\nthan Spain. Yes, I know this, but I find it hard to feel it. My strong\ntemptation is to lie and dream in romance, in ideal perfection. By what\nmeans may I discipline myself out of this degraded habit and bring\nmyself into the higher life, so that I shall always be interested in\nprogress, in the future rather than in the past, in the on-going rather\nthan in the completed life?\" I cannot give an exact and final receipt\nfor this better mind. A persistently studied experience must be the\nteacher. To-day you may understand what I say, you may resolve to live\naccording to the methods I approve. But you may be sure that to-morrow\nyou will need to learn it all over again. And yet I think I can mention\nseveral forms of discipline, as I may call them. I can direct your\nattention to certain modes by which you may instruct yourselves how to\ntake an interest in the imperfect thing, and still keep that interest an\nhonorable one.\n\nIn my judgment, then, your first care should be to learn to observe. A\nsimple matter--one, I dare say, which it will seem to you difficult to\navoid. You have a pair of eyes; how can you fail to observe? Ah! but\neyes can only look, and that is not observing. We must not rest in\nlooking, but must penetrate into things, if we would find out what is\nthere. And to find this out is worth while, for everything when observed\nis of immense interest. There is no object so remote from human life\nthat when we come to study it we may not detect within its narrow\ncompass illuminating and therefore interesting matter. But it makes a\ngreat difference whether we do thus really observe, whether we hold\nattention to the thing in hand, and see what it contains. Once, after\npuzzling long over the charm of Homer, I applied to a learned friend and\nsaid to him, \"Can you tell me why Homer is so interesting? Why can't you\nand I write as he wrote? Why is it that his art is lost, and that to-day\nit is impossible for us to awaken an interest at all comparable to\nhis?\"--\"Well,\" said my friend, \"I have often meditated on that, but it\nseems to come to about this: Homer looked long at a thing. Why,\" said\nhe, \"do you know that if you should hold up your thumb and look at it\nlong enough, you would find it immensely interesting?\" Homer looks a\ngreat while at his thumb. He sees precisely the thing he is dealing\nwith. He does not confuse it with anything else. It is sharp to him; and\nbecause it is sharp to him it stands out sharply for us over thousands\nof years. Have you acquired this art, or do you hastily glance at\ninsignificant objects? Do you see the thing exactly as it is? Do you\nstrip away from it your own likings and dislikings, your own previous\nnotions of what it ought to be? Do you come face to face with things? If\nyou do, the hardest situation in life may well be to you a delight. For\nyou will not regard hardships, but only opportunities. Possibly you may\neven feel, \"Yes, here are just the difficulties I like to explore. How\ncan one be interested in easy things? The hard things of life are the\nones for which we ought to give thanks.\" So we may feel if we have made\nthe cool and hardy temper of the observer our own, if we have learned to\nput ourselves into a situation and to understand it on all sides. Why,\nthe things on which we have thus concentrated attention become our\npermanent interests. For example, unluckily when I was trained I was not\ndisciplined in botany. I cannot, therefore, now observe the rose. Some\nof you can, for you have been studying botany here. I have to look\nstupidly on the total beauty of the lovely object; I can see it only as\na whole, while you, fine observer, who have trained your powers to\npierce it, can comprehend its very structure and see how marvellously\nthe blooming thing is put together. My eyes were dulled to that long\nago; I cannot observe it. Beware, do not let yourselves grow dull.\nObserve, observe, observe in every direction! Keep your eyes open. Go\nforward, understanding that the world was made for your knowledge, that\nyou have the right to enter into and possess it.\n\nAnd then besides, you need to train yourselves to sympathize with that\nwhich lies beyond you. It is easy to sympathize with that which lies\nwithin you. Many persons go through life sympathizing with themselves\nincessantly. What unhappy persons! How unfit for anything important!\nThey are full of themselves and answer their own motion, while there\nbeyond them lies all the wealthy world in which they might be sharers.\nFor sympathy is feeling with,--it is the identification of ourself with\nthat which at present is not ourself. It is going forth and joining that\nwhich we behold, not standing aloof and merely observing, as I said at\nfirst. When we observe, the object we observe is alien to us; when we\nsympathize, we identify ourselves with it. You may go into a home and\nobserve, and you will make every person in that home wretched. But go\ninto a home and sympathize, find out what lies beyond you there, see how\ndifferently those persons are thinking and feeling from the ways in\nwhich you are accustomed to think and feel; yet notice how imperfect you\nare in yourself, and how important it is that persons should be\nfashioned thus different from you if even your own completion is to\ncome; then, I say, you will find yourself becoming large in your own\nbeing, and a large benefactor of others.\n\nDo not stunt sympathy, then. Do not allow walls to rise up and hem it\nin. Never say to yourself, \"This is my way; I don't do so and so. I know\nonly this and that; I don't want to know anything else. You other people\nmay have that habit, but these are my habits, and I always do thus and\nthus.\" Do not say that. Nothing is more immoral than moral psychology.\nYou should have no interest in yourself as you stand; because a larger\nselfhood lies beyond you, and you should be going forth and claiming\nyour heritage there. Do not stand apart from the movements of the\ncountry,--the political, charitable, religious, scientific, literary\nmovements,--however distastefully they may strike you. Identify yourself\nwith them, sympathize with them. They all have a noble side; seek it out\nand claim it as your own. Throw yourself into all life and make it nobly\nyours.\n\nBut I am afraid it would be impossible for you thus to observe, thus to\nsympathize, unless you bring within your imperfect self just grounds of\nself-respect. You must contribute to things if you would draw from\nthings. You must already have acquired some sort of excellence in order\nto detect larger excellence elsewhere. You should therefore have made\nyourself the master of something which you can do, and do on the whole\nbetter than anybody else. That is the moral aspect of competition, that\none person can do a certain thing best and so it is given him to do.\nSome of you who are going out into the world before long will, I fear,\nbe astonished to find that the world is already full. It has no place\nfor you; it never anticipated your coming and it has reserved for you no\ncorner. Your only means of gaining a corner will be by doing something\nbetter than the people who are already there. Then they will make you a\nplace. And that is what you should be considering here. You should be\ntraining yourself to do something well, it really does not matter much\nwhat. Can you make dresses well? Can you cook a good loaf of bread? Can\nyou write a poem or run a typewriter? Can you do anything well? Are you\na master somewhere? If you are, the world will have a place for you; and\nmore than that, you will have within yourself just grounds for\nself-respect.\n\nTo sum up, what I have been saying throughout this address merely\namounts to this: that the imperfect thing--the one thing of genuine\ninterest in all the world--gets its right to be respected only through\nits connection with the totality of things. Do not, then, when you leave\ncollege say to yourself, \"I know Greek. That is a splendid thing to\nknow. These people whom I am meeting do not know it and are obviously of\na lower grade than I.\" That will not be self-respectful, because it\nshows that you have not understood your proper place. You should respect\nyourself as a part of all, and not as of independent worth. To call this\nwide world our own larger self is not too extravagant an expression. But\nif we are to count it so, then we must count the particular thing which\nwe are capable of doing as merely our special contribution to the great\nself. And we must understand that many are making similar contributions.\nWhat I want you to feel, therefore, is the profound conception of\nmutual helpfulness and resulting individual dignity which St. Paul has\nset forth, according to which each of us is performing a special\nfunction in the common life, and that life of all is recognized as the\ndivine life, the manifestation of the life of the Father. When you have\ncome to that point, when you have seen in the imperfect a portion, an\naspect, of the total, perfect, divine life, then I am not afraid life\nwill be uninteresting. Indeed I would say to every one who goes from\nthis college, you can count with confidence on a life which shall be\nvastly more interesting beyond the college walls than ever it has proved\nhere, if you have once acquired the art of penetrating into the\nimperfect, and finding in limited, finite life the infinite life. \"To\napprehend thus, draws us a profit from all things we see.\"\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nHARVARD PAPERS\n\n\nThe following papers relate primarily to Harvard University and are\nchiefly of historic interest. But since out of that centre of\ninvestigation and criticism has come a large part of what is significant\nin American education, the story of its experiences will be found pretty\ngenerally instructive for whoever would teach or learn.\n\nThe first three papers were published in the Andover Review for\n1885, 1886, and 1887, and are now printed without alteration. Time has\nchanged most of the facts recorded in these papers, and the University\nis now a different place from the one depicted here. An educational\nrevolution was then in progress, more influential than any which has\never visited our country before or since. Harvard was its leader, and\nhad consequently become an object of suspicion through wide sections of\nthe land. I was one of those who sought to allay those suspicions and\nto clear up some of the mental confusions in which they arose. To-day\nHarvard's cause is won. All courses leading to the Bachelor's degree\nthroughout the country now recognize the importance of personal\nchoice. But the history of the struggle exhibits with peculiar\ndistinctness a conflict which perpetually goes on between two currents\nof human progress, a conflict whose opposing ideals are almost equally\nnecessary and whose champions never fail alike to awaken sympathy. As\na result of this struggle our children enjoy an ampler heritage than\nwas open to us their fathers. Do they comprehend their added wealth\nand turn it to the high uses for which it was designed? In good\nmeasure they do. A brief consideration of the ethical aims which have\nshaped the modern college may enable them to do so still more.\n\nAppended to these are two papers: one on college economics in 1887,\ndescribing the first attempt ever made, I believe, to ascertain from\nstudents themselves the cost of the higher education; the other setting\nforth a picturesque and noble figure who belonged to the days before the\nFlood, when the prescribed system was still supreme.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [3] Delivered at the first commencement of the Woman's College of\n       Western Reserve University.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE NEW EDUCATION\n\n\nDuring the year 1884-85 the freshmen of Harvard College chose a majority\nof their studies. Up to that time no college, so far as I know, allowed\nits first year's men any choice whatever. Occasionally, one modern\nlanguage has been permitted rather than another; and where colleges are\norganized by \"schools,\"--that is, with independent groups of studies\neach leading to a different degree,--the freshman by entering one school\nturns away from others, and so exercises a kind of selection. But with\nthese possible exceptions, the same studies have always been required of\nall the members of a given freshman class. Under the new Harvard rules,\nbut seven sixteenths of the work of the freshman year will be\nprescribed; the entire remainder of the college course, with the\nexception of a few exercises in English composition, will be elective. A\nfragment of prescribed work so inconsiderable is likely soon to\ndisappear. At no distant day the Harvard student will mark out for\nhimself his entire curriculum from entrance to graduation.\n\nEven if this probable result should not follow, the present step toward\nit is too significant to be passed over in silence, for it indicates\nthat after more than half a century of experiment the Harvard Faculty\nare convinced of the worth of the elective system. In their eyes, option\nis an engine of efficiency. People generally treat it as a concession.\nFreedom is confessedly agreeable; restive boys like it; let them have as\nmuch as will not harm them. But the Harvard authorities mean much more\nthan this. They have thrown away that established principle of American\neducation, that every head should contain a given kind of knowledge; and\nhaving already organized their college from the top almost to the bottom\non a wholly different plan, they now declare that their new principle\nhas been proved so safe and effective that it should supplant the older\nmethod, even in that year when students are acknowledged to be least\ncapable of self-direction.\n\nOn what facts do they build such confidence? What do they mean by\ncalling their elective principle a system? Does not the new method,\nwhile rendering education more agreeable, tend to lower its standard?\nOr, if it succeeds in stimulating technical scholarship, is it equally\nsuccessful in fostering character and in forming vigorous and\nlaw-revering men? These questions I propose to answer, for they are\nquestions which every friend of Harvard, and indeed of American\neducation, wishes people pressingly to ask. Those most likely to ask\nthem are quiet, God-fearing parents, who, having bred their sons to a\nsense of duty, expect college life to broaden and consolidate the\ndiscipline of the home. These are the parents every college wants to\nreach. Their sons, whether rich or poor, are the bone and sinew of the\nland. In my judgment the new education, once understood, will appeal to\nthem more strongly than to any other class.\n\nBut it is not easy to understand it. My own understanding of it has been\nof slow growth. When, in 1870, I left Andover Seminary and came to teach\nat Harvard, I distrusted the more extreme developments of the elective\nsystem. Up to 1876 I opposed the introduction of voluntary attendance at\nrecitations. Not until four years ago did I begin to favor the remission\nof Greek in the requisites for entrance. In all these cases my party was\ndefeated; my fears proved groundless; what I wished to accomplish was\neffected by means which I had opposed. I am therefore that desirable\npersuader, the man who has himself been persuaded. The misconceptions\nthrough which I passed, I am sure beset others. I want to clear them\naway, and to present some of the reasons which have turned me from an\nadherent of the old to an apostle of the new faith.\n\nAn elementary misconception deserves a passing word. The new system is\nnot a mere cutting of straps; it is a system. Its student is still\nunder bonds, bonds more compulsive than the old, because fitted with\nnicer adjustment to each one's person. On H. M. S. Pinafore the desires\nof every sailor receive instant recognition. The new education will not\nagree to that. It remains authoritative. It will not subject its student\nto alien standards, nor treat his deliberate wishes as matters of no\nconsequence; but it does insist on that authority which reveals to a man\nhis own better purposes and makes them firmer and finer than they could\nhave become if directed by himself alone. What the amount of a young\nman's study shall be, and what its grade of excellence, a body of\nexperts decides. The student himself determines its specific topic.\n\nEverybody knows how far this is from a prescribed system; not so many\nsee that it is at a considerable remove from unregulated or nomadic\nstudy. An American at a German university, or at a summer school of\nlanguages, applies for no degree and is under no restraint. He chooses\nwhatever studies he likes, ten courses or five or one; he works on them\nas much as suits his need or his caprice; he submits what he does to no\ntest; he receives no mark; the time he wastes is purely his own concern.\nStudy like this, roving study, is not systematic at all. It is\nadvantageous to adult students,--to those alone whose wills are steady,\nand who know their own wants precisely. Most colleges draw a sharp\ndistinction between the small but important body of students of this\nclass--special students, as they are called--and the great company of\nregulars. These latter are candidates for a degree, are under constant\ninspection, and are moved along the line only as they attain a definite\nstandard in both the quantity and quality of their work. After\naccomplishing the studies of the freshman year, partly prescribed and\npartly elective, a Harvard student must pass successfully four elective\ncourses in each of his subsequent three years. By \"a course\" is\nunderstood a single line of study receiving three hours a week of\ninstruction; fifty per cent of a maximum mark must be won in each year\nin order to pass. Throwing out the freshman year, the precise meaning of\nthe Harvard B.A. degree is therefore this: its holder has presented\ntwelve courses of study selected by himself, and has mastered them at\nleast half perfectly.\n\nHere, then, is the essence of the elective system,--fixed quantity and\nquality of study, variable topic. Work and moderate excellence are\nmatters within everybody's reach. It is not unfair to demand them of\nall. If a man cannot show success somewhere, he is stamped _ipso facto_\na worthless fellow. But into the specific topic of work an element of\nindividuality enters. To succeed in a particular branch of study\nrequires fitness, taste, volition,--incalculable factors, known to\nnobody but the man himself. Here, if anywhere, is the proper field for\nchoice; and all American colleges are now substantially agreed in\naccepting the elective principle in this sense and applying it within\nthe limits here marked out. It is an error to suppose that election is\nthe hasty \"craze\" of a single college. Every senior class in New England\nelects a portion of its studies. Every important New England college\nallows election in the junior year. Amherst, Bowdoin, Yale, and Harvard\nallow it in the sophomore. Outside of New England the case is the same.\nIt is true, all the colleges except Harvard retain a modicum of\nprescribed study even in the senior year; but election in some degree is\nadmitted everywhere, and the tendency is steadily in the direction of a\nwider choice.\n\nThe truth is, Harvard has introduced the principle more slowly than\nother colleges. She was merely one of the earliest to begin. In 1825, on\nthe recommendation of Judge Story, options were first allowed, in modern\nlanguages. Twenty years of experiment followed. In 1846 electives were\nfinally established for seniors and juniors; in 1867 for sophomores; in\n1884 for freshmen. But the old method was abandoned so slowly that as\nlate as 1871 some prescribed study remained for seniors, till 1879 for\njuniors, and till 1884 for sophomores. During this long and unnoticed\nperiod, careful comparison was made between the new and old methods. A\nmass of facts was accumulated, which subsequently rendered possible an\nextremely rapid adoption of the system by other colleges. Public\nconfidence was tested. Comparing the new Harvard with the old, it is\nplain enough that a revolution has taken place; but it is a revolution\nlike that in the England of Victoria, wrought not by sudden shock, but\nquietly, considerately, conservatively, inevitably. Those who have\nwatched the college have approved; the time of transition has been a\ntime of unexampled prosperity. For the last fifteen years the gifts to\nthe University have averaged $250,000 a year. The steady increase in\nstudents may be seen at a glance by dividing the last twenty-five years\ninto five-year periods, and noting the average number of undergraduates\nin each: 1861-65, 423; 1866-70, 477; 1871-75, 657; 1876-80, 808;\n1881-85, 873.\n\nThese facts are sufficient to show that Harvard has reached her\npresent great prosperity by becoming the pioneer in a general\neducational movement. What made the movement general was the dread of\nflimsy study. Our world is larger than the one our grandfathers\ninhabited; it is more minutely subdivided, more finely related, more\nsubtly and broadly known. The rise of physical science and the\nenlargement of humanistic interests oblige the college of to-day to\nteach elaborately many topics which formerly were not taught at all.\nNot so many years ago a liberal education prepared men almost\nexclusively for the four professions,--preaching, teaching, medicine,\nand law. In the first century of its existence one half the graduates\nof Harvard became ministers. Of the graduates of the last ten years a\nfull third have entered none of the four professions. With a narrow\nfield of knowledge, and with students who required no great variety\nof training, the task of a college was simple. A single programme\ndecently covered the needs of all. But as the field of knowledge\nwidened, and men began to notice a difference between its contents\nand those of the college curriculum, an effort was made to enlarge\nthe latter by adding subjects from the former. Modern languages crept\nin, followed by sciences, political economy, new departments of\nhistory, literature, art, philosophy. For the most part, these were\nadded to the studies already taught. But the length of college days\nis limited. The life of man has not extended with the extension of\nscience. To multiply subjects was soon found equivalent to cheapening\nknowledge. Where three subjects are studied in place of one, each is\npushed only one third as far. A crowded curriculum is a curriculum\nof superficialities, where men are forever occupied with alphabets and\nmultiplication-tables,--elementary matters, containing little mental\nnutriment. Thoroughgoing discipline, the acquisition of habits of\nintellectual mastery, calls for acquaintance with knowledge in its\nhigher ranges, and there is no way of reaching these remoter regions\nduring the brief season of college life except by dividing the field\nand pressing along paths where personal friction is least.\nAccordingly, alternative options began to be allowed, at first between\nthe new subjects introduced, then between these and the old ones.\nBut in this inevitable admission of option a new principle was\nintroduced whose germinal force could not afterwards be stayed. The old\nconception had been that there were certain matters a knowledge of\nwhich constituted a liberal education. Compared with the possession\nof these, the temper of the receiving mind was a secondary affair. This\nview became untenable. Under the new conditions, college faculties were\nforced to recognize personal aptitudes, and to stake intellectual\ngains upon them. In assessing the worth of studies, attention was\nthus withdrawn from their subject-matter and transferred to the\nresponse they called forth in the apprehender. Hence arose a new\nideal of education, in which temper of mind had preeminence over\n_quaesita_, the guidance of the powers of knowing over the store of\nmatters known. The new education has accordingly passed through two\nstages of development: first, in order to avoid superficiality when\nknowledge was coming in like a flood, it was found necessary to admit\nchoice; secondly, in the very necessity of this admission was disclosed\na more spiritual ideal of the relation of the mind of man to knowledge.\n\nAnd this new ideal, I hold, should now commend itself not as a thing\ngood enough if collateral, but as a principle, organic and exclusive. To\njustify its dominance a single compendious reason is sufficient: it\nuplifts character as no other training can, and through influence on\ncharacter it ennobles all methods of teaching and discipline. We say to\nour student at Harvard, \"Study Greek, German, history, or botany,--what\nyou will; the one thing of consequence is that you should will to study\nsomething.\" The moral factor is thus put forward, where it belongs. The\nwill is honored as of prime consequence. Other systems treat it as a\nmerely concurrent and auxiliar force. They try to smuggle it into\noperation wrapped in a mass of matter-of-course performances. It is the\ndistinctive merit of the elective system that it strips off disguises,\nplaces the great facts of the moral life in the foreground, forces the\nstudent to be conscious of what he is doing, permits him to become a\npartaker in his own work, and makes him perceive that gains and losses\nare immediately connected with a volitional attitude. When such a\nconsciousness is aroused, every step in knowledge becomes a step toward\nmaturity. There is no sudden transformation, but the boy comes\ngradually to perceive that in the determination of the will are found\nthe promise and potency of every form of life. Many people seem to\nsuppose that at some epoch in the life of a young man the capacity to\nchoose starts up of itself, ready-made. It is not so. Choice, like other\nhuman powers, needs practice for strength. To learn how to choose, we\nmust choose. Keep a boy from exercising his will during the formative\nperiod from eighteen to twenty-two, and you turn him into the world a\nchild when by years he should be a man. To permit choice is dangerous;\nbut not to permit it is more dangerous; for it renders dependency\nhabitual, places outside the character those springs of action which\nshould be set within it, treats personal adhesion as of little account,\nand through anxiety to shield a young life from evil cuts it off from\nopportunities of virile good. Even when successful, the directive\nprocess breeds an excellence not to be desired. Plants and stones commit\nno errors. They are under a prescribed system and follow given laws.\nPersonal man is in continual danger, for to self-direction is attached\nthe prerogative of sin. For building up a moral manhood, the very errors\nof choice are serviceable.\n\nI am not describing theoretic advantages. A manlier type of character\nactually appears as the elective principle extends. The signs of the\nbetter life are not easy to communicate to those who have not lived\nin the peculiar world of a college. A greater ease in uprightness, a\nquicker response to studious appeal, a deeper seriousness, still\nkeeping relish for merriment, a readier amenability to considerations\nof order, an increase of courtesy, a growing disregard of coarseness\nand vice, a decay of the boyish fancy that it is girlish to show\nenthusiasm,--tendencies in these directions, hardly perceptible to\nothers, gladden the watchful heart of a teacher and assure him that his\nwork is not returning to him void. Every company of young men has a\nnotion of what it is \"gentlemanly\" to do. Into this current ideal the\nmost artificial and incongruous elements enter. Perhaps it is\ncounted \"good form\" to haze a freshman, to wear the correctest cut of\ntrousers, to have a big biceps muscle, or to be reputed a man of\nbrains. Whatever the notion, it is allegiance to some such blind\nideal, rather than the acceptance of abstract principles of conduct,\nwhich guides a young man's life. To change ever so little these\ninfluential ideals is the ambition of the educator; but they are\npersistent things, held with the amazing conservatism of youth. When I\nsay that a better tone prevails as the elective system takes root, I\nmean that I find the word \"gentleman,\" as it drops from student\nmouths, enlarging and deepening its meaning from year to year,\ndeparting from its usage as a term of outward description and drawing\nto itself qualities more interior. Direct evidence on a matter so\nelusive can hardly be given, but I can throw a few sidelights upon it.\nHazing, window-smashing, disturbing a lecture-room, are things of the\npast. The office of proctor--the literary policeman of the olden\ntime--has become a sinecure. Several years ago the Faculty awarded\nHonorable Mention at graduation to students who attained a high rank\nin three or more courses of a single department. The honor was not\nan exalted one, but being well within the powers of all it soon became\n\"not quite the thing\" to graduate without it. In the last senior class\n91 men out of 191 received Honorable Mention. This last fact shows\nthat a decent scholarship has become reputable. But more than this is\ntrue: the rank which is reckoned decent scholarship is steadily\nrising. I would not overstate the improvement. The scale of marking\nitself may have risen slightly. But taking the central scholar of\neach class during the last ten years,--the scholar, that is, who stands\nmidway between the head and the foot,--this presumably average person\nhas received the following marks, the maximum being 100:--\n\n  YEAR    1874  1875  1876  1877  1878  1879  1880  1881  1882  1883\n           -75   -76   -77   -78   -79   -80   -81   -82   -83   -84\n          ----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----\n  Fresh.    59    55    57    56    62    62    65    67    64    63\n  Soph.     59    64    63    65    67    68    70    69    69    68\n  Jun.      67    65    66    67    70    68    72    75    72    72\n  Sen.      67    70    70    73    76    73    77    75    79    81\n\nIt will be observed that the marks in this table become higher as the\nstudent approaches the end of his course and reaches the years where the\nelective principle is least restricted. Let the eye pass from the left\nupper corner of the table to the right lower corner and take in the full\nsignificance of a change which has transformed freshmen, doomed to\nprescribed studies and half of them ranking below sixty per cent, into\nseniors so energetic that half of them win four fifths of a perfect mark\nin four electives. It is not only the poor who are affected in this way.\nAbout half the men who appear on the Rank List each year receive no\npecuniary aid, and are probably not needy men.\n\nBut it may be suspected that high marks mean easy studies. The many\ndifferent lines of work cannot be equally severe, and it is said that\nthose which call for least exertion will be sure to prove the favorites.\nAs this charge of \"soft\" courses is the stock objection to the elective\nsystem, I shall be obliged to examine it somewhat minutely. Like most of\nthe popular objections, it rests on an _a priori_ assumption that thus\nthings must be. Statistics all run the other way. Yet I am not surprised\nthat people believe it. I believed it once myself when I knew nothing\nbut prescribed systems. Under these, it certainly is true that ease is\nthe main factor in making a study popular. When choice is permitted, the\nfactor of interest gets freer play, and exerts an influence that would\nnot be anticipated by those who have never seen it in operation. Severe\nstudies are often highly popular if the subject is attractive and the\nteaching clear. Here is a list of the fifteen courses which in 1883-84\n(the last year for which returns are complete) contained the largest\nnumbers of seniors and juniors, those classes being at that time the\nonly ones which had no prescribed studies: Mill's political economy, 125\nseniors and juniors; European history from the middle of the eighteenth\ncentury, 102; history of ancient art, 80; comparative zoology, 58;\npolitical and constitutional history of the United States, 56;\npsychology, 52; geology, 47; constitutional government of England and\nthe United States, 45; advanced geology, with field work, 43; Homer,\nsixteen books, 40; ethics, 38; logic, and introduction to philosophy,\n38; Shakespeare, six plays, 37; economic history, advanced course, 36;\nlegal history of England to the sixteenth century, 35. In these years\nthe senior and junior classes together contained 404 men, who chose four\nelectives apiece. In all, therefore, 1616 choices were made. The above\nlist shows 832; so that, as nearly as may be, one half of the total work\nof two years is here represented. The other half was devoted to\ninterests more special, which were pursued in smaller companies.\n\nAre these choices unwise? Are they not the studies which should largely\noccupy a young man's thoughts toward the close of his college life? They\nare the ones most frequently set for the senior and junior years by\ncolleges which retain prescribed studies. From year to year choices\ndiffer a little. The courses at the lower end of the list may give place\nto others which do not appear here. I print the list simply to indicate\nthe general character of the studies elected. In it appears only one out\nof all the modern languages, and that, too, a course in pure literature\nin which the marking is not reputed tender. Another year a course of\nFrench or German might come in; but ordinarily--except when chosen by\nspecialists--the languages, modern and ancient, are elected most largely\nduring the sophomore year. Following directly the prescribed linguistic\nstudies of the freshman year, they are deservedly among the most\npopular, though not the easiest, courses. In nearly half the courses\nhere shown no text-book is used, and the amount of reading necessary for\ngetting an average mark is large. A shelf of books representing original\nauthorities is reserved by the instructor at the Library, and the pupil\nis sent there to prepare his work.\n\nHow, it will be asked, are choices so judicious secured? Simply by\nmaking them deliberate. Last June studies were chosen for the coming\nyear. During the previous month students were discussing with one\nanother what their electives should be. How this or that course is\nconducted, what are the peculiarities of its teacher, what is the\nproportion in it between work given and gains had, are matters which\nthen interest the inhabitants of Hollis and Holyoke as stocks interest\nWall Street. Most students, too, have some intimacy with one or another\nmember of the Faculty, to whom they are in the habit of referring\nperplexities. This advice is now sought, and often discreetly rejected.\nThe Elective Pamphlet is for a time the best-read book in college. The\nperplexing question is, What courses to give up? All find too many which\nthey wish to take. The pamphlet of this year offers 189 courses, divided\namong twenty departments. The five modern languages, for example, offer,\nall told, 34 different courses; Sanskrit, Persian, Assyrian, Hebrew, and\nArabic, 14; Greek and Latin, 18 each; natural history, 19; physics and\nchemistry, 18; mathematics, 18; history and philosophy, 12 each; the\nfine arts, including music, 11; political economy, 7; Roman law, 2.\nThese numbers will show the range of choice; on its extent a great deal\nof the efficiency of the system depends.[4] After the electives are\nchosen and reported in writing to the Dean, the long vacation begins,\nwhen plans of study come under the scrutiny of parents, of the parish\nminister, or of the college graduate who lives in the next street. Until\nSeptember 21, any elective may be changed on notice sent to the Dean.\nDuring the first ten days of the term, no changes are allowed. This is a\ntime of trial, when one sees for himself his chosen studies. Afterwards,\nfor a short time, changes are easy, if the instructors consent. For the\nremainder of the year no change is possible, unless the reasons for\nchange appear to the Dean important. Other restrictions on the freedom\nof choice will readily be understood without explanation. Advanced\nstudies cannot be taken till preliminary ones are passed. Notices are\npublished by the French and German departments that students who elect\nthose languages must be placed where proficiency fits them to go.\nCourses especially technical in character are marked with a star in the\nElective Pamphlet, and cannot be chosen till the instructor is\nconsulted.\n\nBy means like these the Faculty try to prevent the wasting of time over\nunprofitable studies. Of course they do not succeed. I should roughly\nguess that a quarter, possibly a third, of the choices made might be\nimproved. This estimate is based on the answers I have received to a\nquestion put to some fifty recent graduates: \"In the light of your\npresent experience, how many of your electives would you change?\" I\nseldom find a man who would not change some; still more rarely one who\nwould change one half. As I look back on my own college days, spent\nchiefly on prescribed studies, I see that to make these serve my needs\nmore than half should have been different. There was Anglo-Saxon, for\nexample, which was required of all, no English literature being\npermitted. A course in advanced chemical physics, serviceable no doubt\nto some of my classmates, came upon me prematurely, and stirred so\nintense an aversion to physical study that subsequent years were\ntroubled to overcome it. One meagre meal of philosophy was perhaps as\nmuch as most of us seniors could digest, but I went away hungry for\nmore. I loved Greek, but for two years I was subject to the instructions\nof a certain professor, now dead, who was one of the most learned\nscholars and unprofitable teachers I ever knew. Of the studies which\nbrought me benefit, few did so in any vigorous fashion. Every reader\nwill parallel my experience from his own. Prescribed studies may be\nill-judged or ill-adapted, ill-timed or ill-taught, but none the less\ninexorably they fall on just and unjust. The wastes of choice chiefly\naffect the shiftless and the dull, men who cannot be harmed much by\nbeing wasted. The wastes of prescription ravage the energetic, the\nclear-sighted, the original,--the very classes who stand in greatest\nneed of protection. What I would assert, therefore, is not that in the\nelective system we have discovered the secret of stopping educational\nwaste. That will go on as long as men need teaching. I simply hold that\nthe monstrous and peculiarly pernicious wastes of the old system are now\nbeing reduced to a minimum. Select your cloth discreetly, order the best\ntailor in town to make it up, and you will still require patience for\nmany misfits; but they will be fewer, at any rate, than when garments\nare served out to you and the whole regiment by the government\nquartermaster.\n\nNobody who has taught both elective and prescribed studies need be told\nhow the instruction in the two cases differs. With perfunctory students,\na teacher is concerned with devices for forcing his pupils onward.\nTeaching becomes a secondary affair; the time for it is exhausted in\nquestioning possible shirks. Information must be elicited, not imparted.\nThe text-book, with its fixed lessons, is a thing of consequence. It is\nthe teacher's business to watch his pupils, to see that they carry off\nthe requisite knowledge; their business, then, it soon becomes to try to\nescape without it. Between teacher and scholar there goes on an ignoble\ngame of matching wits, in which the teacher is smart if he can catch a\nboy, and the boy is smart if he can know nothing without being found\nout. Because of this supposed antagonism of interests American higher\neducation seldom escapes an air of unreality. We seem to be at the opera\nbouffe. A boy appears at the learning-shop, purchases his parcel of\nknowledge, and then tries to toss it under the counter and dodge out of\nthe door before the shopman can be quick enough to make him carry off\nthe goods. Nothing can cure such folly except insistence that pupil's\nneglect is not teacher's injury. The elective system points out to a man\nthat he has something at stake in a study, and so trains him to look\nupon time squandered as a personal loss. Where this consciousness can be\npresumed, a higher style of teaching becomes possible. Methods spring up\nunlike formal lectures, unlike humdrum recitations. The student\nacquires--what he will need in after life--the power to look up a single\nsubject in many books. Theses are written; discussions held; in higher\ncourses, problems of research supersede defined tasks. During 1860-61,\nfifty-six per cent of the Harvard undergraduates consulted the college\nlibrary; during 1883-84, eighty-five per cent.\n\nIn a similar way governmental problems change their character.\nFormerly, it was assumed that a student who followed his own wishes\nwould be indisposed to attend recitations. Penalties were accordingly\nestablished to compel him to come. At present, there is not one of his\ntwelve recitations a week which a Harvard student might not \"cut.\"\nOf course I do not mean that unlimited absence is allowed. Any one\nwho did not appear for a week would be asked what he was doing. But\nfor several years there has been no mechanical regulation,--so much\nabsence, so much penalty. I had the curiosity to see how largely,\nunder this system of trust, the last senior class had cared to stay\naway. I counted all absences, excused and unexcused. Some men had been\nsick for considerable periods; some had been worthless, and had\nshamelessly abused their freedom. Reckoning in all misdeeds and all\nmisfortunes, I found that on the average each man had been absent a\nlittle less than twice a week.[5] The test of high character is the\namount of freedom it will absorb without going to pieces. The elective\nsystem enlarges the capacity to absorb freedom undisturbed. But it\nwould be unfair to imply that the new spirit is awakened in students\nalone. Professors are themselves instructed. The obstacles to their\nproper work, those severest of all obstacles which come from\ndefective sympathy, are cleared away. A teacher draws near his class,\nand learns what he can do for it. Long ago it was said that among the\nGentiles--people spiritually rude--great ones exercised authority,\nwhile in a state of righteousness this should not be so; there the\nleader would estimate his importance by his serviceability. It was a\nteacher who spoke, and he spoke to teachers. To-day teachers'\ndangers lie in the same direction. Always dealing with inferiors,\nisolated from criticism, by nature not less sluggish than others,\nthrough the honorable passion which they feel for their subject\ndisposed to set the private investigation of it above its exposition,\nteachers are continually tempted to think of a class as if it existed\nfor their sakes rather than they for its. Fasten pupils to the\nbenches, and nothing counteracts this temptation except that individual\nconscience which in all of us is a faculty that will well bear\nstrengthening. It may be just to condemn the dull, the intolerant, the\nself-absorbed teacher; but why not condemn also the system which\nperpetuates him? Nobody likes to be inefficient; slackness is largely\na fault of inadvertence. That system is good which makes inadvertence\ndifficult and opens the way for a teacher to discover whether his\ninstructions hit. Give students choice, and a professor gets the power\nto see himself as others see him.\n\nHow this is accomplished appears by examining three possible cases.\nSuppose, in the first place, I become negligent this year, am busy with\nprivate affairs, and so content myself with imparting nothing, with\ncalling off questions from a text-book, or with reading my old lectures;\nI shall find out my mistake plainly enough next June, when fewer men\nthan usual elect my courses. Suppose, secondly, I give my class\nimportant matter, but put it in such a form that young minds cannot\nreadily assimilate it; the same effect follows, only in this case I\nshall probably attract a small company of the hardier spirits,--in some\nsubjects the very material a teacher desires. Or suppose, lastly, I seek\npopularity, aim at entertainment, and give my pupils little work to do;\nmy elective becomes a kind of sink, into which are drained off the\nintellectual dregs of the college. Other teachers will get rid of their\nloafers; I shall take them in. But I am not likely to retain them. A\nteacher is known by the company he keeps. In a vigorous community a\n\"soft\" elective brings no honor to its founder. I shall be apt to\nintroduce a little stiffening into my courses each year, till the\nappearance of the proper grade of student tells me I am proved to have a\nvalue. There is, therefore, in the new method a self-regulating\nadjustment. Teacher and taught are put on their good behavior. A spirit\nof faithfulness is infused into both, and by that very fact the\nfriendliest relation is established between them.\n\nI have left myself little room to explain why the elective system should\nbe begun as early as the freshman year, and surely not much room is\nneeded. A system proved to exert a happy influence over character, and\nthence over manners and scholarly disposition, is exactly the maturing\nagency needed by the freshman of eighteen. It is the better suited to\nhim because the early years of college life are its least valuable\nportion, which can bear, therefore, most economically the disciplining\nlosses sure to come when a student is learning to choose. More than\nthis, the change from school methods to character methods is too grave a\none to be passed over as an incident in the transition from year to\nyear. A change of residence should mark it. It should stand at the\nentrance to a new career. Parents should be warned, and those who have\nbrought up their sons to habits of luxurious ease should be made fully\naware that a college which appeals to character has no place for\nchildren of theirs.\n\nEvery mode of training has its exclusions. I prefer the one which brings\nleast profit to our dangerous classes,--the indolent rich. Leslie\nStephen has said that the only argument rascals can understand is the\nhangman. The only inducement to study, for boys of loose early life, is\ncompulsion. But for the plain democratic many, who have sound seed in\nthemselves, who have known duty early, and who have found in worthy\nthings their law and impulse, the elective system, even during the\nfreshman year, gives an opportunity for moral and mental expansion such\nas no compulsory system can afford.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPerhaps in closing I ought to caution the reader that he has been\nlistening to a description of tendencies merely, and not of completed\nattainment. In no college is the New Education fully embodied. It is an\nideal, toward which all are moving, and a powerfully influential ideal.\nIn explaining it, for the sake of simplicity I have confined myself to\ntracing the working of its central principle, and I have drawn my\nillustrations from that Harvard life with which I am most familiar. But\nsimplicity distorts; the shadows disappear. I am afraid I may seem to\nhave hinted that the Harvard training already comes pretty near\nperfection. It does not--let me say so distinctly. We have much to\nlearn. Side by side with nobler tendencies to which I have directed\nattention, disheartening things appear. The examination paper still\nattacks learning on its intellectual side, the marking system on its\nmoral. All I have sought to establish is this: there is a method which\nwe and many other colleges in different degrees have adopted, which is\ndemonstrably a sound method. Its soundness should by this time be\ngenerally acknowledged, and criticism should now turn to the important\nwork of bettering its details of operation. May what I have written\nencourage such criticism and help to make it wise, penetrative, and\nfriendly.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [4] But a great deal of the expense also. How much larger the staff of\n       teachers must be where everything is taught to anybody than where\n       a few subjects are offered to all, may be seen by comparing the\n       number of teachers at Harvard--146, instructing 1586 men--with\n       those of Glasgow University in 1878--42, instructing 2018 men.\n\n   [5] Or sixteen per cent of his recitations. Readers may like to\n       compare this result with the number of absences elsewhere. At\n       a prominent New England college, one of the best of those which\n       require attendance, a student is excused from ten per cent of\n       his exercises. But this amount does not cover absences of\n       necessity,--absences caused by sickness, by needs of family,\n       and by the many other perfectly legitimate hindrances to\n       attendance. The percentage given for the Harvard seniors\n       includes all absences whatsoever.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nERRONEOUS LIMITATIONS OF THE ELECTIVE SYSTEM\n\n\nIn a paper published in the Andover Review a year ago, I called\nattention to the fact that a new principle is at work in American\neducation. That principle, briefly stated, is this: the student now\nconsciously shares in his own upbuilding. His studies are knitted\nclosely to his personal life. Under this influence a new species of\npower is developed. Scholarship broadens and deepens, boyishness\ndiminishes, teacher and pupil meet less artificially. The college, as an\ninstitution, wins fresh life. Public confidence awakens; pupils,\nbenefactions, flow in. Over what I wrote an eager controversy has\narisen, a controversy which must have proved instructive to those who\nneed instruction most. In the last resort questions of education are\ndecided by educators, as those of sanitation by sanitary engineers; but\nin both cases the decision has reference to public needs, and people\nrequire to be instructed in the working of appliances which are designed\nfor their comfort. There is danger that such instruction may not be\ngiven. Professional men become absorbed in their art and content\nthemselves with reticence, leaving the public ignorant of the devices by\nwhich its health is to be preserved. A great opportunity, therefore,\ncomes to the common householder when these professional men fall foul of\none another. In pressing arguments home they frequently take to ordinary\nspeech, and anybody who then lends an ear learns of the mysteries. The\npresent discussion, I am sure, has brought this informatory gain to\nevery parent who reads the Andover Review and has a studious boy. The\ngain will have been greater because of the candor and courtesy with\nwhich the attacking party has delivered its assault. The contest has\nbeen earnest. Its issues have been rightly judged momentous. For good or\nfor ill, the choice youth of the land are to be shaped by whatever\neducational policy finally wins. Yet, so far as I recall, no unkind word\nhas slipped from the pen of one of my stout opponents; no disparagement\nof man or college has mixed with the energetic advocacy of principle;\nthe discussion has set in well toward things. I cannot call this\nremarkable. Of course it is not easy to be fair and strong at once.\nSweetness and light are often parted. Yet we rightly expect the\nscholar's life to civilize him who pursues it, and we anticipate from\nbooks a refinement of the spirit and the manners as well as the\nunderstanding. My opponents have been scholars, and have spoken as\nscholars speak. It is a pleasure to linger in their kindly contentious\ncompany. So I gladly accept the invitation of the editors of the Review\nto sum up our discussion and to add some explanatory last words.\n\nThe papers which have appeared fall into two easily distinguishable\nclasses, the descriptive and the critical. To the former I devote but a\nbrief space, so much more direct is the bearing of the latter on the\nmain topic of debate--the question, namely, what course the higher\neducation can and what it cannot now take. Yet the descriptive papers\nperform a service and deserve a welcome word. Suspecting that I was\nshowing off Harvard rather favorably, professors planted elsewhere have\nattempted to make an equally favorable exhibit of their own colleges. In\nmy manifesto they have seen \"a coveted opportunity to bring forward\ncorresponding statistics which have not been formed under the Harvard\nmethod.\" Perhaps this was to mistake my aim a little. I did intend to\nadvance my college in public esteem; she deserves that of me in\neverything I write. But primarily I thought of myself as the expounder\nof an important policy, which happens to have been longer perceived and\nmore elaborately studied at Harvard than elsewhere. I hope I did not\nimply that Harvard, having this excellence, has all others. She has many\nweaknesses, which should not be shielded from discerning discussion. Nor\ndid I intend to commit the injustice to Harvard--an injustice as gross\nas it is frequent--of treating her as a mere embodiment of the elective\nsystem. Harvard is a complex and august institution, possessed of all\nthe attractions which can be lent by age, tradition, learning,\ncontinually renewed resources, fortunate situation, widespread\nclientage, enthusiastic loyalty, and forceful guidance. She is the\nintellectual mother of us all, honored certainly by me, and I believe by\nthousands of others, for a multiplicity of subtle influences which\nstretch far outside her special modes of instruction. But for the last\nhalf-century Harvard has been developing a new and important policy of\neducation. Coincident with this development she has attained enormous\npopular esteem and internal power. The value and limits of this policy,\nthe sources of this esteem and power, I wish everybody, colleges and\npopulace, to scrutinize. To make these things understood is to help the\nhigher education everywhere.\n\nIn undertaking this _quasi_ philosophical task, I count it a piece of\ngood fortune to have provoked so many lucid accounts of what other\ncolleges are doing. The more of these the better. The public cannot be\ntoo persistently reminded of the distinctive merits of this college and\nof that. Let each be as zealous as possible; gains made by one are gains\nfor all. Depreciatory rivalry between colleges is as silly as it is\nwhen religious sects quarrel in the midst of a perishing world. Probably\nsuch rivalries have their rise in the dull supposition that a fixed\nconstituency of pupils exists somewhere, which if not turned toward one\ncollege may be drawn to another. As the old political economists tell of\na \"wages fund,\" fixed and constant in each community, so college\ngovernors are apt to imagine a public pupil-hoard, not susceptible of\nmuch increase or diminution, which may by inadvertence fall into other\nhands than their own. In reality each college creates its constituency.\nIts students come, in the main, from the inert mass of the uncollegiate\npublic. Only one in eight among Harvard students is a son of a Harvard\ngraduate; and probably the small colleges beget afresh an even larger\npercentage of their students. On this account the small colleges have\nbeen a power in the land. To disparage them shall never be my office. In\na larger degree than the great universities they spread the college idea\namong people who would not otherwise possess it. The boy who lives\nwithin fifty miles of one of them reflects whether he will or will not\nhave a college training. Were there no college in the neighborhood, he\nmight never consider the matter at all. It is natural enough for\nundergraduates to decry every college except their own; but those who\nlove education generously, and who seek to spread it far and wide,\ncannot afford the luxury of envy. One common danger besetting us all\nshould bind us together. In the allurements of commerce boys may forget\nthat college is calling. They do forget it. According to my computations\nthe number of persons in the New England colleges to-day is about the\nsame as the number in the insane asylums; but little more than the\nnumber of idiots. Probably this number is not increasing in proportion\nto population. Professor Newton, of Oberlin, finds that the increase of\nstudents during the ten years between 1870 and 1880, in twenty of our\noldest leading colleges, was less than three and a half per cent, the\npopulation of the United States increasing during the same period\ntwenty-three per cent. In view of facts like these, careful study of the\nline along which college growth is still possible becomes a necessity.\nIt will benefit all colleges alike. No one engaged in it has a side to\nmaintain. We are all alike seekers. Whatever instructive experience any\ncollege can contribute to the common study, and whatever pupils she may\nthereby gain, will be matter for general rejoicing.\n\nTo such a study the second, or critical, class of papers furnishes\nimportant stimulus; for these have not confined themselves to describing\ninstitutions: they have gone on to discuss the value and limits of the\nprinciple which actuates the new education everywhere. In many respects\ntheir writers and I are in full accord. In moral aim we always are, and\ngenerally too in our estimate of the present status. We all confess that\nthe conditions of college education have changed, that the field of\nknowledge has enlarged, that a liberal training nowadays must fit men\nfor more than the four professions of preaching, teaching, medicine, and\nlaw. We agree that the prescribed systems of the past are outgrown. We\ndo not want them. We doubt whether they were well suited to their own\ntime; we are sure they will never fit ours. Readjustments of curricula,\nwe all declare, must be undertaken if the higher education is to retain\nits hold on our people. Further still, we agree in the direction of this\nreadjustment. My critics, no less than I, believe that a widely extended\nscope must be given to individual choice. With the possible exception of\nProfessor Denison, about whose opinion I am uncertain, everybody who has\ntaken part in the controversy recognizes the elective principle as a\nbeneficial one and maintains that in some form or other it has come to\nstay, People generally are not aware what a consensus of opinion on this\npoint late years have brought about. To rid ourselves once for all of\nfurther controversy let us weigh well the words of my opponents.\n\nMr. Brearley begins his criticism addressed to the New York Harvard Club\nthus: \"We premise that every one accepts the elective principle. Some\nsystem based on that principle must be established. No one wants the\nold required systems back, or any new required system.\" Professor\nHowison says: \"An elective system, in its proper place, and under its\ndue conditions, is demonstrably sound.\" Professor Ladd does not express\nhimself very fully on this point in the Andover Review, but his opinions\nmay be learned from the New Englander for January, 1885. When, in 1884,\nYale College reformed its curriculum and introduced elective studies, it\nbecame desirable to instruct the graduates about the reasons for a step\nwhich had been long resisted. After a brief trial of the new system,\nProfessor Ladd published his impressions of it. I strongly commend his\ncandid paper to the attention of those who still believe the old methods\nthe safer. He asserts that \"a perfect and final course of college study\nis, if not an unattainable ideal, at present an impossible achievement.\"\nThe considerations which were \"the definite and almost compulsory\nreasons for instituting a comprehensive change\" he groups under the\nfollowing heads: (1) the need of modern languages; (2) the crowding of\nstudies in the senior year; (3) the heterogeneous and planless character\nof the total course; (4) the need of making allowance for the tastes,\nthe contemplated pursuits, and the aptitudes of the individual student.\nSubstantially, these are the evils of prescription which I pointed out;\nonly, in my view, they are evils not confined to a single year. Stating\nhis observation of the results of election, Professor Ladd says:\n\"Increased willingness in study, and even a new and marked enthusiasm on\nthe part of a considerable number of students, is another effect of the\nnew course already realized. The entire body of students in the upper\nclasses is more attentive, regular, interested, and even eager, than\never before.\" \"More intimate and effective relations are secured in many\ncases between teachers and pupils.\"\n\nThese convictions in regard to the efficiency which the elective\nprinciple lends to education are not confined to my critics and myself.\nLet me cite testimony from representatives of other colleges. The last\nAmherst Catalogue records (page 24) that \"excellent results have\nappeared from this [the elective] method. The special wants of the\nstudent are thus met, his zest and progress in his work are increased,\nand his association with his teachers becomes thus more close and\nintimate.\" President Robinson says, in his annual report for 1885 to the\nCorporation of Brown University: \"There are advantages in a carefully\nguarded system of optional studies not otherwise obtainable. The saving\nof time in preparing for a special calling in life is something, and the\ncumulative zeal in given lines of study, where a gratified and growing\ntaste is ever beckoning onward, is still more. But above all, some\nprovision for choice among ever-multiplying courses of study has become\na necessity.\" In addressing the American Institute of Instruction at Bar\nHarbor, July 7, 1886, Professor A. S. Hardy, of Dartmouth, is reported\nas saying: \"Every educator now recognizes the fact that individual\ncharacteristics are always sufficiently marked to demand his earliest\nattention; and, furthermore, that there is a stage in the process of\neducation where the choice, the responsibility, and the freedom of the\nindividual should have a wide scope.\" President Adams, in his inaugural\naddress at Cornell in 1885, asserted that \"there are varieties of gifts,\ncall them, if you will, fundamental differences, that make it impossible\nto train successfully all of a group of boys to the same standard. These\ndifferences are partly matters of sheer ability, and partly matters of\ntaste; for if a boy has so great an aversion to a given study that he\ncan never be brought to apply himself to it with some measure of\nfondness, he is as sure not to succeed in it as he would be if he were\nlacking the requisite mental capacity.\"\n\nIn determining, then, what the new education may wisely be, let this be\nconsidered settled: it must contain a large element of election. That is\nthe opinion of these unbiased judges. They find personal choice\nnecessary for promoting a wider range of topics in the college, a\ngreater zeal on the part of the student, and more suitable relations\nbetween teacher and pupil. With this judgment I, of course, heartily\nagree, though I should make more prominent the moral reason of the\nfacts. I should insist that a right character and temper in the\nreceiving mind is always a prerequisite of worthy study.[6] But I\nmisrepresent these gentlemen if I allow their testimony to stop here.\nThey maintain that the elective principle as thus far carried out,\nthough valuable, is still meagre and one-sided. They do not think it\nwill be found self-sufficing and capable of guarding its own working.\nThey see that it has dangers peculiar to itself, and believe that to\nescape them it will require to be restricted and furnished with\nsupplemental influences. I believe so too. Choice is important, but it\nis also important that one should choose well. The individual is sacred,\nbut only so far as he is capable of recognizing the sacredness of laws\nwhich he has had no part in making. Unrestricted arbitrary choice is\nindistinguishable from chaos; and undoubtedly every method of training\nwhich avoids mechanism and includes choice as a factor leaves a door\nopen in the direction of chaos. Infinite Wisdom left that door open when\nman was created. To dangers from this source I am fully alive. I totally\ndissent from those advocates of the elective system who would identify\nit with a _laissez-faire_ policy. The cry that we must let nature take\ncare of itself is a familiar one in trade, in art, in medicine, in\nsocial relations, in the religious life, in education; but in the long\nrun it always proves inadequate. Man is a personal spirit, a director, a\nbeing fitted to compare and to organize forces, not to take them as they\nrise, like a creature of nature. The future will certainly not tolerate\nan education less organic than that of the past; but just as certainly\nwill it demand that the organic tie shall be a living one,--one whose\nbond may assist those whom it restricts to become spontaneous, forcible,\nand diverse. If I am offered only the alternative of absolutism or\n_laissez-faire_, I choose _laissez-faire_. Out of chaotic nature\nbeautiful forms do continually come forth. But absolutism kills in the\ncradle. It cannot tolerate a life that is imperfect, and so it stifles\nwhat it should nourish.\n\nUp to this point my critics and I have walked hand in hand. Henceforth\nwe part company. I shall not follow out all our little divergencies. My\nobject from the first has been to trace the line along which education\nmay now proceed. It must, it seems, be a line including election; but\nelection limited how? To disentangle an answer to this vexed question, I\npass by the many points in which my critics have shown that I am\nfoolish, and the few others in which I might show them so, and turn to\nthe fundamental issue between us, our judgment of what the supplemental\ninfluences are which will render personal initiative safe. Personal\ninitiative is assured. The authoritative utterances I have just quoted\nshow that it can never again be expelled from American colleges. But\nwhat checks are compatible with it? Accepting choice, what treatment\nwill render it continually wiser? Here differences of judgment begin to\nappear, and here I had hoped to receive light from my critics. The\nquestion is one where cooperative experience is essential. But those who\nhave written against me seem hardly to have realized its importance.\nThey generally confine themselves to showing how bad my plans are, and\nmerely hint at better ones which they themselves might offer. But what\nare these plans? Wise ways of training boys are of more consequence than\nHarvard misdeeds. We want to hear of a constructive policy which can\ntake a young man of nineteen and so train him in self-direction that\nfour years later he may venture out alone into a perplexing, and for the\nmost part hostile, world. The thing to be done is to teach boys how to\nmanage themselves. Admit that the Harvard discipline does not do this\nperfectly at present; what will do it better? Here we are at an\neducational crisis. We stand with this aim of self-guidance in our\nhands. What are we going to do with it? It is as dangerous as a bomb.\nBut we cannot drop it. It is too late to objurgate. It is better to\nthink calmly what possible modes of treatment are still open. When\nrailroads were found dangerous, men did not take to stage-coaches again;\nthey only studied railroading the more.\n\nNow in the mass of negative criticism which the last year has produced I\ndetect three positive suggestions, three ways in which it is thought\nlimitation may be usefully applied to supplement the inevitable personal\ninitiative. These modes of limitation, it is true, are not worked out\nwith any fulness of practical detail, as if their advocates were\nconvinced that the future was with them. Rather they are thrown out as\nhints of what might be desirable if facts and the public would not\ninterfere. But as they seem to be the only conceivable modes of\nrestricting the elective principle by any species of outside checkage, I\npropose to devote the remainder of this paper to an examination of their\nfeasibility. In a subsequent paper I shall indicate what sort of\ncorrective appears to me more likely to prove congruous and lasting.\n\nI. The first suggestion is that the elective principle should be\nlimited from beneath. Universities and schools are to advance their\ngrade, so that finally the universities will secure three or four years\nof purely elective study, while the schools, in addition to their\npresent labors, will take charge of the studies formerly prescribed by\nthe college. The schools, in short, are to become German gymnasia, and\nthe colleges to delay becoming universities until this regeneration\nof the schools is accomplished.[7] A certain \"sum of topics\" is said\nto be essential to the culture of the man and the citizen. In the\ninterest of church and state, young minds must be provided with\ncertain \"fact forms,\" with a \"common consciousness,\" a \"common basis\nof humanism.\" Important as personal election is, to allow it to take\nplace before this common basis is laid is \"to strike a blow at the\nhistoric substance of civilization.\" How extensive this common\nconsciousness is to be may be learned from Professor Howison's remark\nthat \"languages, classical and modern; mathematics, in all its\ngeneral conceptions, thoroughly apprehended; physics, acquired in a\nsimilar manner, and the other natural sciences, though with much less of\ndetail; history and politics; literature, especially of the mother\ntongue, but, indispensably, the masterpieces in other languages,\nparticularly the classic; philosophy, in the thorough elements of\npsychology, logic, metaphysics, and ethics, each historically\ntreated, and economics, in the history of elementary principles, must\nall enter into any education that can claim to be liberal.\"\n\nThe practical objections to this monarchical scheme are many. I call\nattention to three only.\n\nIn the first place, the argument on which it is based proves too much.\nIf we suppose a common consciousness to be a matter of such importance,\nand that it cannot be secured except by sameness of studies, then that\nstate is criminally careless which allows ninety-nine hundredths of its\nmembers to get an individual consciousness by the simple expedient of\nnever entering college. The theory seems to demand that every male--and\nwhy not female?--between sixteen and twenty be indoctrinated in \"the\nessential subject-matters,\" without regard to what he or she may\npersonally need to know or do. This is the plan of religious teaching\nadopted by the Roman Church, which enforces its \"fact forms\" of doctrine\non all alike; without securing, however, by this means, according to the\njudgment of the outside world, any special freshness of religious life.\nI do not believe the results would be better in the higher secular\nculture, and I should be sorry to see Roman methods applied there; but\nif they are to be applied, let them fall impartially on all members of\nthe community. To put into swaddling clothes the man who is wise enough\nto seek an education, and to leave his duller brother to kick about as\nhe pleases, seems a little arbitrary.\n\nBut secondly, there is no more prospect of persuading our high schools\nto accept the prescribed subjects of the colleges than there is of\npersuading our government to transform itself into the German. Already\nthe high schools and the colleges are unhappily drawing apart. The only\nhope of their nearer approach is in the remission by the colleges of\nsome of the more burdensome subjects at present exacted. Paid for by\ncommon taxation, these schools are called on to equip the common man for\nhis daily struggle. That they will one day devote themselves to laying\nthe foundations of an ideally best education for men of leisure is\ngrotesquely improbable. Although Harvard draws rather more than\none-third of her students from states outside New England, the whole\nnumber of students who have come to her from the high schools of these\nstates, during a period of the last ten years, is but sixty-six. Fitting\nfor college is becoming an alarmingly technical matter, and is falling\nlargely into the hands of private tutors and academies.\n\nIt may be said, however, thirdly, that it is just these academies which\nmight advantageously take the present freshmen and sophomore studies.\nThey would thus become the exclusive avenues to the university of the\nfuture, leaving it free to do its own proper work with elective studies.\nConsidering the great expense which this lengthening of the curriculum\nof the academy implies, it is plain that the number of schools capable\nof fitting boys in this way would always be small. These few academies,\nwith their monopoly of learned training, would lose their present\ncharacter and be erected into little colleges,--colleges of a second\ngrade. That any such thing is likely to occur, I do not believe; but if\nit were, would it aid the higher education and promote its wide\ndispersion? Precisely the contrary. Instead of going to the university\nfrom the academies, boys would content themselves with the tolerable\neducation already received. For the most part they would decline to go\nfarther. It is useless to say that this does not happen in Germany,\nwhere the numbers resorting to the university are so large as to have\nbecome the subject of complaint; for the German government, controlling\nas it does all access to the professions, is able to force through the\ngymnasia and through special courses at the university a body of young\nmen who would otherwise be seeking their fortunes elsewhere. Whether\nsuch control would be desirable in this country, I will not consider.\nSome questions are not feasible even for discussion. But it is to\nEnglish experience we must look to see what our case would be. The great\npublic schools of England--Eton, Rugby, Harrow, Winchester, Westminster,\nCheltenham--are of no higher order than under the proposed plan Andover\nand Exeter would become. From these two academies nearly ninety-five\nper cent of the senior classes now enter some college. But of the young\nmen graduating from the English schools named, so far as I can\nascertain, less than fifty per cent go to the university. With the\ngreater pressure toward commercial life in this country, the number\nwould certainly be less than in England. To build up colleges of a\nsecond grade, and to permit none but those who have passed them to enter\ncolleges of the first, is to cut off the higher education from nearly\nall those who do not belong to the privileged classes; it is to make the\n\"common consciousness\" less common, and to turn it, even more\neffectually than at present, into the consciousness of a clique. He who\nmust make a living for himself or for others cannot afford to reach his\nprofession late. The age of entering college is already too high. With\nimproved methods of teaching I hope it maybe somewhat reduced. At any\nrate, every study now added to the high schools or academies is a fresh\nbarrier between education and the people.\n\nII. If, then, by prescribing a large amount of study outside the\nuniversity the elective principle is not likely to be successfully\nlimited, is it not probable that within the college itself the two\ncounter principles of election and prescription, mutually limiting,\nmutually supporting, will always be retained? This is the second\nsuggestion; to bring studies of choice and studies commanded into\njuxtaposition. The backbone of the college is to be kept prescribed,\nthe fleshy parts to be made elective. By a special modification of the\nplan, the later years are turned largely, perhaps wholly, toward\nelection, and a line is drawn at the junior, or even the sophomore year,\nbelow which elective studies are forbidden to penetrate. Is not this the\nplan that will finally be judged safest? It certainly is the safest for\na certain number of years. Before it can securely reach anything else,\nevery college must pass through this intermediate state. After half a\ncentury of testing election Harvard still retains some prescribed\nstudies. The Harvard juniors chose for nineteen years before the\nsophomores, and the sophomores seventeen years before the freshmen. In\nintroducing electives a sober pace is commendable. A university is\ncharged with the greatest of public trusts. The intelligence of the\ncommunity is, to a large extent, in its keeping. It is bound to keep\naway from risky experiments, to disregard shifting popular fancies, and\nto be as conservative as clearness of sight will permit. I do not plead,\ntherefore, that Harvard and Yale should abolish all prescription the\ncoming year. They certainly should not. In my opinion most colleges are\nmoving too fast in the elective direction already. I merely plead that\nwe must see where we are going. As public guides, we must forecast the\ntrack of the future if we would avoid stumbling into paths which lead\nnowhere. That is all I am attempting here. I want to ascertain whether\nthe dual system of limitation is a stable system, one in which we can\nput our trust, or whether it is a temporary convenience, likely to slip\naway a little year after year. What does history say? Let us examine the\nfacts of the past. The following table shows at the left the fifteen New\nEngland colleges. In the next three parallel columns is printed the\npercentage of elective studies which existed in these colleges in\n1875-76; in the last three, the percentage which exists to-day. To\nrender the comparison more exact, I print the sophomore, junior, and\nsenior years separately, reserving the problem of the freshman year for\nlater discussion.\n\n            |      1875-76     |     1885-86\n            +------+-----+-----+------+-----+-----\n            | Soph.| Jun.| Sen.| Soph.| Jun.| Sen.\n  ----------+------+-----+-----+------+-----+-----\n  Amherst   |  .04 | .20 | .08 |  .20 | .75 | .75\n  Bates     |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 |   0 |   0\n  Boston    |    0 |   0 |   0 |  .35 | .66 | .82\n  Bowdoin   |    0 |   0 |   0 |  .15 | .25 | .25\n  Brown     |    0 | .04 | .04 |  .14 | .37 | .55\n  Colby     |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 | .08 | .16\n  Dartmouth |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 | .41 | .36\n  Harvard   |  .50 | .78 |1.00 | 1.00 |1.00 |1.00\n  Middlebury|    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 |   0 |   0\n  Trinity   |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 | .25 | .25\n  Tufts     |    0 | .17 | .17 |    0 | .28 | .43\n  Vermont   |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 |   0 |   0\n  Wesleyan  |    0 | .47 | .47 |  .16 | .47 | .64\n  Williams  |    0 |   0 |   0 |    0 |   0 | .37\n  Yale      |    0 |   0 |   0 |  .13 | .53 | .80\n\nThis table yields four conclusions: (1) A rapid and fateful revolution\nis going on in the higher education of New England. We do not exaggerate\nthe change when we speak of an old education and a new. (2) The spread\nof it is in tolerable proportion to the wealth of the college concerned.\nThe new modes are expensive. It is not disapproval which is holding the\ncolleges back; it is inability to meet the cost. I am sorry to point out\nthis fact. To my mind one of the gravest perplexities of the new\neducation is the query, What are the small colleges to do? They have a\nusefulness altogether peculiar; yet from the life-giving modern methods\nof training they are of necessity largely cut off. (3) The colleges\nwhich long ago foresaw their coming necessities have been able to\nproceed more cautiously than those which acknowledged them late. (4) The\nmovement is one of steady advance. There is no going back. It must be\nremembered, too, that the stablest colleges have been proceeding with\nthese changes many more years than the period shown in the table. Are\nwe, then, prepared to dismiss prejudice from our minds and to recognize\nwhat steadiness of advance means? In other matters when a general\ntendency in a given direction is discovered, extending over a long\nseries of years, visible in individuals widely unlike, and presenting no\nsolitary case of backward turning, we are apt to conclude that there is\na force in the movement which will carry it still further onward. We\nare not disposed to seize on some point in its path and to count that an\nultimate holding-ground. This, I say, would be a natural conclusion\nunless we could detect in the movement tendencies at work in an opposite\ndirection. Are there any such tendencies here? I cannot find them.\nPrescription invariably loses; election invariably gains.\n\nBut in order to make a rational prediction about the future we must know\nmore than the bare facts of the past; we need to know why these\nparticular facts have arisen. What are the reasons that whenever\nelective and prescribed studies are mixed, an extrusive force regularly\nappears in the elective? The reasons are not far to seek. Probably every\nprofessor in New England understands them. The two systems are so\nincongruous that each brings out the vices rather than the virtues of\nits incompatible brother. Prescribed studies, side by side with\nelective, appear a bondage; elective, side by side with prescribed, an\nindulgence. So long as all studies are prescribed, one may be set above\nanother in the mind of the pupil on grounds of intrinsic worth; let\ncertain studies express the pupil's wishes, and almost certainly the\nremainder, valuable as they may be in themselves, will express his\ndisesteem. It is useless to say this should not be so. It always is. The\nzeal of work, the freshness of interest, which now appear in the chosen\nstudies, are deducted from those which are forced. On the latter as\nlittle labor as possible is expended. They become perfunctory and\nmechanical, and soon restive pupils and dissatisfied teachers call for\nfresh extension of energizing choice. This is why the younger officers\nin all the colleges are eager to give increased scope to the elective\nstudies. They cannot any longer get first-rate work done in the\nprescribed. Alarmed by the dangers of the new principle, as they often\nand justly are, they find that the presence of prescription, instead of\ndiminishing the dangers, adds another and a peculiarly enfeebling one to\nthose which existed before. So certain are these dangers, and so\ninevitable the expanding power of the elective principle, that it is\nquestionable whether it would not be wise for a college to refuse to\nhave anything to do with elective studies so soon as it knows itself too\nweak to allow them to spread.\n\nFor where will the spreading stop? It cannot stop till the causes of it\nstop. The table just given shows no likelihood of its stopping at all,\nand a little reflection will show that each enlargement increases the\nreasons for another enlargement still. If prescribed studies are ever\nexceptional, ineffective, and obnoxious, they certainly become more so\nas they diminish in number. A college which retains one of them is in a\ncondition of unstable equilibrium. But is this true of the freshman\nyear? Will not a special class of considerations keep prescription\nenduring and influential there, long after it has lost its usefulness in\nthe later years? A boy of nineteen comes from home about as untrained in\nwill as in intelligence. Will it not always be thought best to give him\na year in which to acquaint himself with his surroundings and to learn\nwhat studies he may afterwards profitably select? Possibly it will. I\nincline to think not. The case of the freshman year is undoubtedly\npeculiar. Taking a large body of colleges, we have direct evidence that\nduring their last three years the elective principle steadily wins and\nnever loses. We have but a trifle of such evidence as regards the\nfreshman year. There the struggle of the two forces has barely begun. It\nhas begun at Harvard, and the usual result is already foreshadowed. The\nprescribed studies are disparaged studies; they are not worked at the\nbest advantage. Still, I do not like to prophesy on evidence so narrow.\nI will merely say I see no reason to suppose that colleges will meet\nwith permanent success in mingling incompatible kinds of study in their\nfreshman year. But I can only surmise. Let any college that inclines to\ntry the experiment do so.\n\nIt may be thought, however, a wiser course to keep the freshman year\nuntouched by choice. A solid year of prescription is thus secured as a\nlimitation on the election that is to follow. This plan is so often\nadvised, especially by persons unacquainted with the practical working\nof colleges, that it requires a brief examination by itself.\n\nLet us suppose the revolution which we have traced in the sophomore,\njunior, and senior years to have reached its natural terminus; let us\nsuppose that in these years all studies have become elective, while the\nfreshman year remains completely prescribed; the college will then\nfall into two parts, a preparatory department and a university\ndepartment. In these two departments the character of the instruction,\nthe methods of study, the consciousness of the students, will be\naltogether dissimilar. The freshmen will not be taken by upper\nclassmen as companions; they will be looked down upon as children.\nHazing will find abundant excuse. An abrupt line will be drawn, on\nwhose farther side freedom will lie, on whose hither side, bondage.\nThe sophomore, a being who at best has his peculiarities, will find his\nsense of self-sufficiency doubled. Whatever badly-bred boy parents\nincline to send to college will seem to them safe enough for a year,\nand they will suppose that during this period he will learn how to\nbehave. Of course he will learn nothing of the sort. Manly discipline\nhas not yet begun. At the end of the freshman year a boy will be\nonly so much less a boy as increase of age may make him. Through\nbeing forced to study mathematics this year there comes no sustaining\ninfluence fitted to fortify the judgment when one is called the next\nyear to choose between Greek and German. On the contrary, the change\nfrom school methods to maturing methods is rendered as dangerous as\npossible by allowing it to take place quite nakedly, by itself,\nunsupported by other changes, and at the mere dictation of the\nalmanac. An emancipation so bare and sudden is not usual elsewhere.\nFor boys who do not go to college, departure from home is commonly\nrecognized as a fit occasion for putting on that dangerous garment, the\n_toga virilis_. Entrance to the university constitutes a similar epoch,\nwhen change of residence, new companions, altered conditions of\nliving, a realization that the old supports are gone, and the\npresumption with which every one now meets the youth that he is to be\ntreated as a man among men, become helpful influences cooperating to\nease the hard and inevitable transition from parental control to\npersonal self-direction. A safer time for beginning individual\nresponsibility cannot be found. At any rate, whether my diagnosis of\nreasons is correct or not, the fact is clear,--self-respecting colleges\ndo not tolerate preparatory departments. They do not work well. They\nare an element of weakness in the institution which harbors them.\nEven where at first they are judged necessary, so soon as the college\ngrows strong they are dropped. When we attempt to plan an education\nfor times to come, we must bear in mind established facts. Turn the\nfreshman year into a preparatory department, fill it with studies\nantithetic in aim, method, and spirit to those of later years, and\nsomething is established which no sober college ever permitted to remain\nlong within its borders. This is the teaching of the past without an\nexception. To suppose the future will be different is but the blind\nhope of a timid transitionalism.\n\nIII. The third suggestion for restricting election is the group system.\nThis deserves a more respectful treatment than the methods hitherto\ndiscussed, for it is something more than a suggestion: it is a system, a\nconstructive plan of education, thought out in all its parts, and\ndirected toward an intended end. The definition which I have elsewhere\noffered of the elective system, that it demands a fixed quantity and\nquality of study with variable topic, would be applicable also to the\ngroup system. Accordingly it belongs to the new education rather than to\nthe old. No less than the elective system it is opposed to the methods\nof restriction thus far described. These latter methods attempt to limit\nelection by the ballast of an alien principle lodged beneath it or by\nits side. They put a weight of prescription into the preparatory\nschools, into the early college years, or into parallel lines of study\nextending throughout the college course. The source of their practical\ntrouble lies here: the two principles, election and prescription, are\nnowhere united; they remain sundered and at war, unserviceable for each\nother's defects. The group system intertwines them. It permits choice in\neverything, but at the same time prescribes everything. This it effects\nby enlarging the unit of choice and prescribing its constituent factors.\nA group or block of studies is offered for choice, not a single study.\nAll the studies of a group must be taken if any are, the \"if\" being the\nonly matter left for the student to settle. The group may include all\nthe studies open to a student at the university. One decision may\ndetermine his entire course. Or, as in the somewhat analogous\narrangement of the English universities, one group may be selected at\nthe beginning and another in the middle of the university life. The\ngroup itself is sometimes contrived so as to allow an individual\nvariation; different students read different books; a special phase of\nphilosophy, history, or science receives prominence. But the boundaries\nof the group cannot be crossed. All the studies selected by the college\nauthorities to form a single group must be taken; no others can be.\n\nIn this method of limiting choice there is much that is attractive. I\nfeel that attraction strongly. Under the exceptional conditions which\nexist at the Johns Hopkins University, a group system has done\nexcellent work. Like all the rest of the world, I honor that work and\nadmire its wise directors. But group systems seem to me to possess\nfeatures too objectionable to permit them to become the prevalent type\nof the future, and I do not see how these features can be removed\nwithout abandoning what is distinctive, and changing the whole plan\ninto the elective system, pure and simple. The objectionable features\nconnect themselves with the size of the unit of choice, with\ndifficulties in the construction of the groups, and with the attempt\nto enforce specialization. But these are enigmatic phrases; let me\nexplain them.\n\nObviously, for the young, foresight is a hard matter. While disciplining\nthem in the intricate art of looking ahead, I should think it wise to\nfurnish frequently a means of repairing errors. Penalties for bad\nchoices should not be too severe. Now plainly the larger the unit of\nchoice, the graver the consequences of erroneous judgment. The group\nsystem takes a large unit, a body of studies; the simple elective\nsystem, a small unit, the single study. Errors of choice are\nconsequently less reparable under the group system than under pure\nelection. To meet this difficulty the college course at Baltimore has\nbeen reduced from four years to three; but even so, a student who\nselects a group for which he finds himself unfit cannot bring himself\ninto proper adjustment without the loss of a year. If he does not\ndiscover his unfitness until the second year has begun, he loses two\nyears. Under the elective system, the largest possible penalty for a\nsingle mistake is the loss of a single study, one quarter of a year's\nwork. This necessary difference in ease of reparability appears to me to\nmark an inferiority in group systems, considered as methods of educating\nchoice. To the public it may seem otherwise. I am often astonished to\nfind people approving irreparable choices and condemning reparable ones.\nThat youths between nineteen and twenty-three should select studies for\nthemselves shocks many people who look kindly enough on marriages\ncontracted during those years. Boys still unbearded have a large share\nin deciding whether they will go to college, to a scientific school, to\na store, to sea, or to a cattle-ranch. Their lives are staked on the\nwisdom of the step taken. Yet the American mode of meeting these family\nproblems seems to our community, on the whole, safer than the English\nway of regulating them by tradition and dictation. The choice with heavy\nstakes of the boy who does not go to college is frequently set off\nfavorably against the choices with light stakes of the boy who goes.\nPerhaps a similarly lenient judgment will in the long run be passed on\nthe great stakes involved in group systems. I doubt it. I think it will\nultimately be judged less dangerous and more maturing to grant a young\nman, in his passage through a period of moral discipline, frequent\nopportunities of repair.\n\nAgain, the practical difficulties of deciding what groups shall be\nformed are enormous. What studies shall enter into each? How many groups\nshall there be? If but one, we have the old-fashioned college with no\nelection. If two, we have the plan which Yale has just abandoned, a\nfixed undergraduate department maintained in parallel vigor with a fixed\nscientific school. But in conceding the claims of variety even to this\ndegree, we have treated the fundamental differences between man and man\nas worthy, not reprehensible; and can we say that the proper differences\nare only two? Must we not acknowledge a world at least as complex as\nthat they have in Baltimore, where there appear to be seven reputable\nspecies of mankind: \"Those who wish a good classical training; those who\nlook toward a course in medicine; those who prefer mathematical studies\nwith reference to engineering, astronomy, and teaching; those who wish\nan education in scientific studies, not having chosen a specialty; those\nwho expect to pursue a course in theology; those who propose to study\nlaw; those who wish a literary training not rigidly classical.\" Here a\nclassification of human wishes is attempted, but one suspects that there\nare legitimate wishes which lie outside the scheme. It does not, for\nexample, at once appear why a prospective chemist should be debarred\nfrom all regular study of mathematics. It seems hard that a youth of\nliterary tastes should be cut off from Greek at entrance unless he will\nagree to take five exercises in it each week throughout his college\ncourse. One does not feel quite easy in allowing nobody but a lawyer or\na devotee of modern languages to read a page of English or American\nhistory. The Johns Hopkins programme is the most ingenious and the most\nflexible contrivance for working a group system that I have ever seen.\nFor this reason I mention it as the most favorable type of all.\nConsidering its purposes, I do not believe it can be much improved. As\napplied to its little band of students, 116, it certainly works few\nhardships. Yet all the exclusions I have named, and many more besides,\nappear in it. I instance these simply to show what barriers to knowledge\nthe best group system erects. Remove these, and others quite as great\nare introduced. Try to avoid them by allowing the student of one group\nto take certain studies in another, and the sole line which parts the\ngroup system from the elective is abandoned. In practice, it usually is\nabandoned. Confronted with the exigencies of operation, the so-called\ngroup system turns into an elective system, with highly specialized\nlines of study strongly recommended. With this more genial working I\nhave nothing now to do. My point is this: a system of hard and fast\ngroups presents difficulties of construction and maintenance too great\nto recommend it to the average college of the future as the best mode of\nlimiting the elective principle.\n\nProbably, however, this difficulty will chiefly be felt by persons\nengaged in the actual work of educational organization. The outer public\nwill think it a more serious objection that grouped colleges are in\nreality professional schools carried down to the limits of boyhood. So\nfar as they hold by their groups, they are nurseries of specialization.\nThat this is necessarily so may not at first be apparent. A little\nconsideration of the contrast in aim between group systems and\nprescribed will make the matter plain. Prescribed systems have gained\ntheir long hold on popular confidence by aiming at harmonious culture.\nThey argue, justly enough, that each separate sort of knowledge\nfurnishes something of its own to the making of a man. This particular\n\"something,\" they say, can be had from no other source. The sum of these\n\"somethings\" constitutes a rounded whole. The man who has not\nexperienced each of them in some degree, however small, is imperfectly\nplanned. One who has been touched by all has laid the foundations of a\nliberal education. Degree of acquaintance with this subject or with that\nmay subsequently enlarge. Scholarly interest may concentrate. But at the\nfirst, the proper aim is balanced knowledge, harmonious development of\nall essential powers, avoidance of one-sidedness.\n\nOn this aim the group system bestows but a secondary attention.\nRegarding primarily studies, not men, it attempts to organize single\nconnected departments of knowledge. Accordingly it permits only those\nstudies to be pursued together which immediately cohere. It lays out\nfive, ten, any number of paths through the field of knowledge, and to\none of these paths the pilgrim is confined. Each group constitutes a\nspecialty,--a specialty intensified in character as, in order to escape\nthe difficulties of maintenance just pointed out, the number of groups\nis allowed to increase. By insistence on specialization regard for\ngeneral culture is driven into a subordinate place. The advocates of\nprescription maintain that there are not half a dozen ground-plans of\nperfected humanity. They say there is but one. If we introduce variety\nof design into a curriculum, we neglect that ideal man who resides alike\nin all. We trust, on the contrary, in our power to hit some line of\nstudy which may deservedly appeal to one human being while not so\nappealing to another. We simply note the studies which are most\ncongruous with the special line selected, and by this congruity we shape\nour group. In the new aim, congruity of studies, adaptation to a\nprofessional purpose, takes precedence of harmonious development of\npowers.\n\nI have no doubt that specialization is destined to become more marked in\nthe American education of the future. It must become so if we are to\nproduce the strong departmental scholars who illuminate learning in\nother countries; indeed, it must become so if we are to train competent\nexperts for the affairs of daily life. The popular distrust of\nspecializing is sure to grow less as our people become familiar with its\neffects and see how often narrow and thorough study, undertaken in early\nlife, leads to ultimate breadth. It is a pretty dream that a man may\nstart broad and then concentrate, but nine out of every ten strong men\nhave taken the opposite course. They have begun in some one-sided way,\nand have added other sides as occasion required. Almost in his teens\nShakespeare makes a specialty of the theatre, Napoleon of military\nscience, Beethoven of music, Hunter of medicine, Faraday of chemistry,\nHamilton of political science. The great body of painters, musicians,\npoets, novelists, theologians, politicians, are early specialists. In\nfact, self-made men are generally specialists. Something has aroused an\ninterest, and they have followed it out until they have surveyed a wide\nhorizon from a single point of view. In offering wider opportunities for\nspecialization, colleges have merely been assimilating their own modes\nof training to those which prevail in the world at large.\n\nIt does not, therefore, seem to me objectionable that group systems set\na high value on specialization. That is what every man does, and every\nclear-eyed college must do it too. What I object to is that group\nsystems, so far as they adhere to their aim, _enforce_ specialization.\nAmong every half-dozen students, probably one will be injured if he\ncannot specialize largely; two or three more might wisely specialize in\nlower degree; but to force the remaining two or three into curricula\nshaped by professional bias is to do them serious damage. There are\nsober boys of little intrepidity or positive taste, boys who properly\nenough wish to know what others know. They will not make scholars. They\nwere not born to enlarge the boundaries of knowledge. They have another\nfunction: they preserve and distribute such knowledge as already exists.\nMany of them are persons of wealth. To furnish them glimpses of varied\nlearning is to save them from barbarism. Still another large class is\ncomposed of boys who develop late. They are boys who will one day\nacquire an interest of their own, if they are allowed to roam about\nsomewhat aimlessly in the domain of wisdom until they are twenty-one.\nBoth of these classes have their rights. The prescribed system was built\nto support them; the elective shelters and improves them; but a group\nsystem shuts them all out, if they will not on leaving school adopt\nprofessional courses. Whenever I can hear of a group system which like\nthe old college has a place for the indistinct young man, and like the\nnew elective college matures him annually by suggesting that he take\npart in shaping his own career, I will accept the group system. Then,\ntoo, the public will probably accept it. Until then, rigid groups will\nbe thought by many to lay too great a strain on unseasoned powers of\nchoice, to present too many practical difficulties of construction, and\nto show too doctrinaire a confidence that every youth will fit without\npinching into a specialized class.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [6] These conditions of intellectual nourishment were long ago\n       recognized in other, less formal, departments of mental training.\n       In his essays on _Books and Reading_ President Porter wrote in\n       1871: \"The person who asks. What shall I read? or, With what\n       shall I begin? may have read for years in a mechanical routine,\n       and with a listless spirit; with scarcely an independent thought,\n       with no plans of self-improvement, and few aspirations for\n       self-culture. To all these classes the advice is full of meaning:\n       'Read what will satisfy your wants and appease your desires, and\n       you will comply with the first condition to reading with interest\n       and profit.' Hunger and thirst are better than manifold\n       appliances and directions, in respect to other than the bodily\n       wants, towards a good appetite and a healthy digestion. If a man\n       has any self-knowledge or any power of self-direction, he is\n       surely competent to ask himself what is the subject or subjects\n       in respect to which he stands most in need of knowledge or\n       excitement from books. If he can answer this question, he has\n       gone very far towards answering the question, 'What book or books\n       can I read with satisfaction and profit?'\" (Chap. iv, p. 39.)\n\n   [7] In deference to certain writers I employ their favorite term\n       \"university\" in contrast with the term \"college,\" yet I must own\n       I do not know what it means. An old signification is clear. A\n       university is an assemblage of schools, as our government is\n       an assemblage of states. In England, different corporations,\n       giving substantially similar instruction, are brought together\n       by a common body which confers the degrees. In this country, a\n       group of professional schools--law, medicine, theology, and\n       science--are associated through one governing body with the\n       college proper, that is, with the candidates for the B.A. degree.\n       In this useful sense, Tufts and Bowdoin are universities; Amherst\n       and Brown, colleges. But Germany, which has thrown so many\n       parts of the world into confusion, has introduced exaltation\n       and mystery here. A university now appears to mean \"a college\n       as good as it can be,\" a stimulating conception, but not a\n       finished or precise one. I would not disparage it. It is a term\n       of aspiration, good to conjure with. When we want to elevate\n       men's ideas, or to obtain their dollars, it is well to talk\n       about creating a true university: just as it is wise to bid the\n       forward-reaching boy to become \"a true gentleman.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nNECESSARY LIMITATIONS OF THE ELECTIVE SYSTEM\n\n\nThe preceding paper has sufficiently discussed the impossible\nlimitations of the elective system, and has shown with some minuteness\nthe grounds of their impossibility. The methods there examined are the\nonly ones suggested by my critics. They all agree in this, that they\nseek to narrow the scope of choice. They try to combine with it a\nhostile factor, and they differ merely in their mode of combination. The\nfirst puts a restraining check before election; the second puts one by\nits side; the third makes the two inseparable by allowing nothing to be\nchosen which is not first prescribed. The general purpose of all these\nmethods is mine also. Election must be limited. Unchartered choice is\nlicentious and self-destructive. I quarrel with them only because the\nmodes of effecting their purpose tend to produce results of a transient\nand inappropriate sort. The aim of education, as I conceive it, is to\nspiritualize the largest possible number of persons, that is, to teach\nthem how to do their own thinking and willing and to do it well. But\nthese methods effect something widely different. They either\naristocratize where they should democratize, or they belittle where they\nshould mature, or else they professionalize where they should humanize.\nA common trouble besets them all: the limiting authority is placed in\nexternal and arbitrary juxtaposition to the personal initiative which it\nprofesses to support. It should grow out of this initiative and be its\ninterpreter and realization. By limitation of choice the proposers of\nthese schemes appear to mean making choice less. I mean fortifying it,\nkeeping it true to itself, making it more. Control that diminishes the\nquantity of choice is one thing; control that raises the quality, quite\nanother. How important is this distinction and how frequently it is\nforgotten! Words like \"limitation,\" \"control,\" \"authority,\" \"obedience,\"\nare words of majesty, but words also of doubtful import. They carry a\nfreight of wisdom or of folly, according to the end towards which they\nsteer. In order to sanction or discard limitations which induce\nobedience, we must bear that end in mind. Let us stop a moment, and see\nthat we have it in mind now.\n\nOld educational systems are often said to have erred by excess of\nauthority. I could not say so. The elective system, if it is to\npossess the future, must become as authoritative as they. More\naccurately we say that their authority was of a wrong sort. A father may\nexercise an authority over his child no less directive than that of\nthe master over the slave; but the father is trying to accomplish\nsomething which the master disregards; the father hopes to make the\nwill of another strong, the master to make it weak; the father\ncommands what the child himself would wish, had he sufficient\nexperience. The child's obedience accordingly enlightens, steadies,\ninvigorates his independent will. Invigoration is the purpose of the\ncommand. The authority is akin--secretly akin--to the child's own\ndesires. No alien power intervenes, as when a slave obeys. Here a\nforeign will thwarts the slave's proper motions. Over against his own\nlegitimate desires, the desire of a totally different being appears\nand claims precedence. Obedience like this brings no ennoblement.\nThe oftener a child obeys, the less of a child is he; the oftener a\nslave, the more completely he is a slave. Roughly to say, then, that\nsubmission to authority is healthy for a college boy, argues a mental\nconfusion. There are two kinds of authority,--the authority of moral\nguidance, and the authority of repressive control: parental authority,\nrespecting and vivifying the individual life and thus continually\ntending to supersede itself; and masterly authority, whose command,\nout of relation to the obeyer's wish, tends ever to bring the obedient\ninto bondage. Which shall college authority be? Authority is necessary,\never-present authority. If the young man's choice is to become a\nthing of worth, it must be encompassed with limitations. But as the\nneed of these limitations springs from the imperfections of choice,\nso should their aim be to perfect choice, not to repress it. To impose\nlimitations which do not ultimately enlarge the youth they bind is to\nmake the means of education \"oblige against its main end.\"\n\nThis moral authority is what the new education seeks. To a casual eye,\nthe colleges of to-day seem to be growing disorganized; a closer view\nshows construction taking place, but taking place along the lines of the\nvital distinction just pointed out. Men are striving to bring about a\ngermane and ethical authority in the room of the baser mechanical\nauthorities of the past. In this distinction, then, a clue is to be\nfound which, if followed up, will lead us away from impossible\nlimitations of the elective system, and conduct us at length to the\npossible, nay, to the inevitable ones. As the elective principle is\nessentially ethical, its limitations, if helpfully congruous, must be\nethical too. They must be simply the means of bringing home to the young\nchooser the sacred conditions of choice; which conditions, if I rightly\nunderstand them, may compactly be entitled those of intentionality,\ninformation, and persistence. To secure these conditions, limitations\nexist. In the very nature of choice such conditions are implied. Choice\nis sound as they prevail, whimsical as they diminish. An education\nwhich lays stress on the elective principle is bound to lay stress on\nthese conditions also. It cannot slip over into lazy ways of letting its\nstudents drift, and still look for credit as an elective system. People\nwill distrust it. That is why they distrust Harvard to-day. The\nobjections brought against the elective system of Harvard are in reality\nnot levelled against the elective system at all. They are directed\nagainst its bastard brother, _laissez-faire_. Objectors suspect that the\nconditions of choice which I have named are not fulfilled. They are not\nfulfilled, I confess, or rather I stoutly maintain. To come anywhere\nnear fulfilling them requires long time and study, and action unimpeded\nby a misconceiving community. Both time and study Harvard has given, has\ngiven largely. The records of scholarship and deportment which I\nexhibited in my first paper show in how high a degree Harvard has\nalready been able to remove from choice the capricious, ignorant, and\nunsteadfast characteristics which rightly bring it into disrepute. But\nmuch remains to do, and in that doing we are hampered by the fact that a\nportion of the public is still looking in wrong directions. It cannot\nget over its hankering after the delusive modes of limitation which I\nhave discussed. It does not persistently see that at present the proper\nwork of education is the study of means by which self-direction may be\nrendered safe. Leaders of education themselves see this but dimly, as\nthe papers of my critics naively show. Until choice was frankly accepted\nas the fit basis for the direction of a person by a person, its\nfortifying limitations could not be studied. Now they must be studied,\nnow that the old methods of autocratic control are breaking down. As a\nmoral will comes to be recognized as the best sort of steam power, the\nmodes of generating that power acquire new claims to attention.\nHenceforth the training of the will must be undertaken by the elective\nsystem as an integral part of its discipline.\n\nI am not so presumptuous as to attempt to prophesy the precise forms\nwhich methods of moral guidance will take. Moral guidance is a delicate\naffair. Its spirit is more important than its procedure. Flexibility is\nits strength. Methods final, rigid, and minute do not belong to it. Nor\ncan it afford to forget the one great truth of _laissez-faire_, that\nwills which are to be kept fresh and vigorous will not bear much looking\nafter. Time, too, is an important factor in the shaping of moral\ninfluences. Experiments now in progress at Harvard and elsewhere must\ndiscriminate safe from unsafe limitations. Leaving then to the future\nthe task of showing how wide the scope of maturing discipline may\nbecome, I will merely try to sketch the main lines along which\nexperiments are now proceeding, I will give a few illustrative examples\nof what is being done and why, and I will state somewhat at large how,\nin my judgment, more is yet to be accomplished. To make the matter\nclear, a free exposition shall be given of the puzzling headings already\nnamed; that is, I will first ramblingly discuss the limitations on\nchoice which may deepen the student's intentionality of aim; secondly,\nthose which increase his information in regard to means; and thirdly,\nthose which may strengthen his persistence in a course once chosen.\n\nI. That intentionality should be cultivated, I need not spend many words\nin explaining. Everybody acknowledges that without a certain degree of\nit choice is impossible. Many persons assert also that boys come to\ncollege with no clear intentions, not knowing what they want, waiting to\nbe told; for such, it is said, an elective system is manifestly absurd.\nI admit the fact. It is true. The majority of the freshmen whom I have\nknown in the last seventeen years have been, at entrance, deficient in\nserious aims. But from this fact I draw a conclusion quite opposite to\nthe one suggested. It is election, systematized election, which these\nboys need; for when we say a young student has no definite aims, we\nimply that he has never become sufficiently interested in any given\nintellectual line to have acquired the wish to follow that line farther.\nSuch a state of things is lamentable, and certainly shows that\nprescribed methods--the proper methods, in my judgment, for the school\nyears--have in his case proved inadequate. It is useless to continue\nthem into years confessedly less suited to their exercise. Perhaps it is\nabout equally useless to abandon the ill-formed boy to unguided choice.\nPrescription says, \"This person is unfit to choose, keep him so\";\n_laissez-faire_ says, \"If he is unfit to choose, let him perish\"; but a\nwatchful elective system must say, \"Granting him to be unfit, if he is\nnot spoiled, I will fit him.\" And can we fit him? I know well enough\nthat indifferent teachers incline to shirk the task. They like to divide\npupils into the deceptive classes of good and bad, meaning by the former\nthose who intend to work, and by the latter those who intend not to. But\nwe must get rid of indifferent teachers. Teachers with enthusiasm in\nthem soon discover that the two classes of pupils I have named may as\nwell be dismissed from consideration. Where aims have become definite, a\nteacher has little more to do. The boy who means to work will get\nlearning under the poorest teacher and the worst system; while the boy\nwho means not to work may be forced up to the Pierian spring, but will\nhardly be made to drink. A vigorous teacher does not assume intention to\nbe ready-made. He counts it his continual office to help in making it.\nOn the middle two quarters of a class he spends his hardest efforts, on\nstudents who are friendly to learning but not impassioned for it, on\nthose who like the results of study but like tennis also, and\npopularity, and cigars, and slackness. The culture of these weak wills\nis the problem of every college. Here are unintentional boys waiting to\nbe turned into intentional men. What limitations on intellectual and\nmoral vagrancy will help them forward?\n\nThe chief limitation, the one underlying all others, the one which no\nclever contrivance can ever supersede, is vitalized teaching. Suitable\nsubjects, attractively taught, awake lethargic intention as nothing else\ncan. An elective system, as even its enemies confess, enormously\nstimulates the zeal of teachers. It consequently brings to bear on\nunawakened boys influences of a strangely quickening character. When I\nhear a man trained under the old methods of prescription say, \"At the\ntime I was in college I could not have chosen studies for myself, and I\ndo not believe my son can,\" I see, and am not surprised to see, that he\ndoes not understand what forces the elective system sets astir. So\npowerful an influence have these forces over both teachers and pupils,\nthat questions of hard and easy studies do not, as outsiders are apt to\nsuppose, seriously disturb the formation of sound intentions. The many\nleaders in education whose opinions on election I quoted in my previous\npaper agree that the new modes tend to sobriety and intentionality of\naim. When Professor Ladd speaks of \"the unexpected wisdom and manliness\nof the choices already made\" in the first year of election at New Haven,\nhe well expresses the gratified surprise which every one experiences on\nperceiving in the very constitution of the elective system a sort of\nlimitation on wayward choice. This limitation seems to me, as Professor\nLadd says he found it,[8] a tolerable preventive of choices directly\naimed at ease. In a community devoted to athletics, baseball is not\nplayed because it is \"soft,\" and football avoided on account of its\ndifficulty. A similar state of things must be brought about in studies.\nIn a certain low degree it has come about already. As election breeds\nnew life in teaching, the old slovenly habit of liking best what costs\nleast begins to disappear. Easy courses will exist and ought to exist.\nPrescribed colleges, it is often forgotten, have more of them than\nelective colleges. The important matter is, to see that they fall to the\nright persons. Where everything is prescribed, students who do not wish\neasy studies are still obliged to take them. Under election, soft\ncourses may often be pursued with advantage. A student whose other\ncourses largely depend for their profit on the amount of private\nreading or of laboratory practice accomplished in connection with them\nis wise in choosing one or more in which the bulk of the work is taken\nby the teacher. I do not say that soft courses are always selected with\nthese wise aims in view. Many I know are not. We have our proper share\nof hardened loafers--\"tares in our sustaining corn\"--who have an\nunerring instinct as to where they can most safely settle. But large\nnumbers of the men in soft courses are there to good purpose; and I\nmaintain that the superficial study of a subject, acquainting one with\nbroad outlines, is not necessarily a worthless study. At Harvard to-day\nI believe we have too few such superficial courses. As I look over the\nElective Pamphlet, and note the necessarily varying degrees of\ndifficulty in the studies announced there, I count but six which can,\nwith any justice, be entitled soft courses; and several of these must be\nreckoned by anybody an inspiration to the students who pursue them.\nThere is a tendency in the elective system, as I have shown elsewhere,\nto reduce the number of soft courses somewhat below the desirable\nnumber.\n\nI insist, therefore, that under a pretty loose elective system boys are\nlittle disposed to intentionally vicious choices. My fears look in a\ndifferent direction. I do not expect depravity, but I want to head off\naimless trifling. I agree with the opponents of election in thinking\nthat there is danger, especially during the early years of college life,\nthat righteous intention may not be distinct and energetic. Boys drift.\nInadequate influences induce their decisions. The inclinations of the\nclique in which a young man finds himself are, without much thought,\naccepted as his own. Heedlessness is the young man's bane. It should not\nbe mistaken for vice; the two are different. A boy who will enter a\ndormitory at twelve o'clock at night, and go to the third story\nwhistling and beating time on the banisters, certainly seems a brutish\nperson; but he is ordinarily a kind enough fellow, capable of a good\ndeal of self-sacrifice when brought face to face with need. He simply\ndoes not think. So it is in study: there, too, he does not think. Now in\ncollege a boy should learn perpetually to think; and an excellent way of\nhelping him to learn is to ask him often what he is thinking about. The\nobject of the questioning should not be to thwart the boy's aims, rather\nto insure that they are in reality his own. Essentially his to the last\nthey should remain, even though intrinsically they may not be the best.\nYoung persons, much more than their elders, require to talk over plans\nfrom time to time with an experienced critic, in order to learn by\ndegrees the difficult art of planning. By such talk intentionality is\nfortified. There is much of this talk already; talk of younger students\nwith older, talk with wise persons at home, and more and more every\nyear with the teachers of the courses left and the courses entered. All\nthis is good. Haphazard modes breed an astonishing average of choices\nthat possess a meaning. The waste of a _laissez-faire_ system comes\nnowhere near the waste of a prescribed. But what is good when compared\nwith a bad thing may be poor when compared with excellence itself. We\nmust go on. A college, like a man, should always be saying, \"Never was I\nso good as to-day, and never again will I be so bad.\" We must welcome\ncriticisms more than praises, and seek after our weak points as after\nhid treasures. The elective system seems to me weak at present through\nlacking organized means of bringing the student and his intentions face\nto face. Intentions grow by being looked at. At the English universities\na young man on entering a college is put in charge of a special tutor,\nwithout whose consent he can do little either in the way of study or of\npersonal management.[9] Dependence so extreme is perhaps better suited\nto an infant school than to an American college; and even in England,\nwhere respectful subservience on the part of the young has been\ncultivated for generations, the system is losing ground. Since the\ntutors were allowed to marry and to leave the college home, tutorial\ninfluence has been changing. In most American colleges twenty-five years\nago there were officers known as class tutors, to whom, in case of need,\na student might turn. Petty permissions were received from these men,\ninstead of from a mechanical central office. So far as this plan set\npersonal supervision in the place of routine it was, in my eyes, good.\nBut the relation of a class tutor to his boys was usually one of more\nawe than friendship. At the Johns Hopkins University there is a board of\nadvisers, to some member of which each student is assigned at entrance.\nThe adviser stands _in loco parentis_ to his charges. The value of such\nadjustments depends on the nature of the parental tie. If the relation\nis worked so as to stimulate the student's independence, it is good; if\nso as to discharge him from responsibility, it unfits for the life that\nfollows. At Harvard special students not candidates for a degree have\nrecently been put in charge of a committee, to whom they are obliged to\nreport their previous history and their plans of study for each\nsucceeding year. The committee must know at all times what their charges\nare doing. Something of this sort, I am convinced, will be demanded at\nno distant day, as a means of steadying all students in elective\ncolleges. Large personal supervision need not mean diminution of\nfreedom. A young man may possess his freedom more solidly if he\nrecognizes an obligation to state and defend the reasons which induce\nhis choice. For myself, I should be willing to make the functions of\nsuch advisory committees somewhat broad. As a college grows, the old\nways of bringing about acquaintance between officers and students become\nimpracticable. But the need of personal acquaintance, unhappily, does\nnot cease. New ways should be provided. A boy dropped into the middle of\na large college must not be lost to sight; he must be looked after. To\nallow the teacher's work of instruction to become divorced from his\npastoral, his priestly, function is to cheapen and externalize\neducation. I would have every student in college supplied with somebody\nwho might serve as a discretionary friend; and I should not think it a\ndisadvantage that such an expectation of friendship would be as apt to\nbetter the instructor as the student.\n\nBefore leaving this part of my subject, I may mention a subordinate, but\nstill valuable, means of limiting choice so as to increase its\nintentionality. The studies open to choice in the early years should be\nfew and elementary. The significance of advanced courses cannot be\nunderstood till elementary ones are mastered, and immature choice should\nnot be confused by many issues. At Harvard this mode of limitation is\nlargely employed. Although the elective list for 1886-87 shows 172\ncourses, a freshman has hardly more than one eighth of these to choose\nfrom; in any given case this number will probably be reduced about one\nhalf by insufficient preparation or conflict of hours. Seemingly about a\nthird of the list is offered to the average sophomore; but this amount\nis again cut down nearly one half by the operation of similar causes.\nThe practice of hedging electives with qualifications is a growing one.\nIt may well grow more. It offers guidance precisely at the point where\nit is most needed. It protects rational choice, and guards against many\nof the dangers which the foes of election justly dread.\n\nII. A second class of limitations of the elective system, possible and\nfriendly, springs from the need of furnishing the young elector ample\ninformation about that which he is to choose. The best intentions\nrequire judicious aim. If studies are taken in the dark, without right\nanticipation of their subject-matter, or in ignorance of their relation\nto other studies, small results follow. Here, I think it will be\ngenerally agreed, prescribed systems are especially weak. Their pupils\nhave little knowledge beforehand of what a course is designed to\naccomplish. Work is undertaken blindly, minds consenting as little as\nwills. An elective system is impossible under such conditions. Its\nstudent must know when he chooses, what he chooses. He must be able to\nestimate whether the choice of Greek 5 will further his designs better\nthan the choice of Greek 8.\n\nAt Harvard, methods of furnishing information are pretty fully\ndeveloped. In May an elective pamphlet is issued, which announces\neverything that is to be taught in the college during the following\nyear. Most departments, also, issue additional pamphlets, describing\nwith much detail the nature of their special courses, and the\nconsiderations which should lead a student to one rather than\nanother. If the courses of a department are arranged properly, pursuing\none gives the most needful knowledge about the available next. This\nknowledge is generally supplemented at the close of the year by\nexplanations on the part of the instructor about the courses that\nfollow. In the Elective Pamphlet a star, prefixed to courses of an\nadvanced and especially technical character, indicates that the\ninstructor must be privately consulted before these courses can be\nchosen. Consultations with instructors about all courses are frequent.\nThat most effective means of distributing information, the talk of\nstudents, goes on unceasingly. With time, perhaps, means may be devised\nfor informing a student more largely what he is choosing. The fullest\ninformation is desirable. That which is at present most needed is, I\nthink, some rough indication of the relations of the several provinces\nof study to one another. Information of this sort is peculiarly hard\nto supply, because the knowledge on which it professes to rest cannot\nbe precise and unimpeachable. We deal here with intricate problems,\nin regard to which experts are far from agreed, problems where the\ndifferent point of view provided in the nature of each individual\nwill rightly readjust whatever general conclusions are drawn. The old\ntype of college had an easy way of settling these troublesome matters\ndogmatically, by voting, in open faculty-meeting, what should be\ncounted the normal sequence of studies, and what their mixture. But\nas the votes of different colleges showed no uniformity, people have\ngradually come to perceive that the subject is one where only large\noutlines can distinctly be made out.[10] To these large outlines I\nthink it important to direct the attention of undergraduates. In most\nGerman universities a course of _Encyclopaedie_ is offered, a course\nwhich gives in brief a survey of the sciences, and attempts to fix\napproximately the place of each in the total organization of knowledge.\nI am not aware that such a course exists in any American college.\nIndeed, there was hardly a place for it till dogmatic prescription\nwas shaken. But if something of the kind were now established in the\nfreshman year, our young men might be relieved of a certain intellectual\nshort-sightedness, and the choices of one year might better keep in\nview those of the other three.\n\nIII. And now granting that a student has started with good intentions\nand is well informed about the direction where profit lies, still\nhave we any assurance that he will push those intentions with a fair\ndegree of tenacity through the distractions which beset his daily path?\nWe need, indeed we must have, a third class of helpful limitations\nwhich may secure the persistent adhesion of our student to his chosen\nline of work. Probably this class of limitations is the most\nimportant and complex of all. To yield a paying return, study must\nbe stuck to. A decision has little meaning unless the volition of\nto-day brings in its train a volition to-morrow. Self-direction\nimplies such patient continuance in well-doing that only after\npersistence has become somewhat habitual can choice be called mature. To\nestablish onward-leading habits, therefore, should be one of the\nchief objects in devising limitations of election. Only we must not\nmistake; we must look below the surface. Mechanical diligence often\ncovers mental sloth. It is not habits of passive docility that are\ndesirable, habits of timidity and uncriticising acceptance. Against\nforming these pernicious and easily acquired habits, it may be necessary\neven to erect barriers. The habit wanted is the habit of spontaneous\nattack. Prescription deadened this vital habit; it mechanized. His\ntask removed, the student had little independent momentum. Election\ninvigorates the springs of action. Formerly I did not see this, and I\nfavored prescribed systems, thinking them systems of duty. That\nabsence of an aggressive intellectual life which prescribed studies\ninduce, I, like many others, mistook for faithfulness. Experience\nhas instructed me. I no longer have any question that for the\naverage man sound habits of steady endeavor grow best in fields of\nchoice. Emerson's words are words of soberness:--\n\n  He that worketh high and wise\n      Nor pauses in his plan,\n  Will take the sun out of the skies\n      Ere freedom out of man.\n\nFurthermore, in attempting to stimulate persistence I believe we must\nultimately rely on the rational interest in study which we can arouse\nand hold. Undoubtedly much can be done to save this interest from\ndisturbance and to hold vacillating attention fixed upon it; but it, and\nit alone, is to be the driving force. Methods of college government must\nbe reckoned wise as they push into the foreground the intrinsic charm of\nwisdom, mischievous as they hide it behind fidelity to technical demand.\nIn other matters we readily acknowledge interest as an efficient force.\nWe call it a force as broad as the worth of knowledge, and as deep as\nthe curiosity of man. \"Put your heart into your work,\" we say, \"if you\nwill make it excellent.\" A dozen proverbs tell that it is love that\nmakes the world go round. Every employment of life springs from an\nunderlying desire. The cricketer wants to win the game; the fisherman to\ncatch fish; the farmer to gather crops; the merchant to make money; the\nphysician to cure his patient; the student to become wise. Eliminate\ndesire, put in its place allegiance to the rules of a game, and what, in\nany of these cases, would be the chance of persistent endeavor? It seems\nalmost a truism to say that limitations of personal effort designed to\nstrengthen persistency must be such as will heighten the wish and clear\nits path to its object.\n\nObvious as is the truth here presented, it seems in some degree to have\nescaped the attention of my critics. After showing that the grade of\nscholarship at Harvard steadily rises, that our students become more\ndecorous and their methods of work less childish, I stated that, under\nan extremely loose mode of regulating attendance five sixths of the\nexercises were attended by all our men, worst and best, sick and well,\nmost reckless and most discreet. Few portions of my obnoxious paper have\noccasioned a louder outcry. I am told of a neighboring college where the\nbenches show but three per cent of absentees. I wonder what the\npercentage is in Charlestown State Prison. Nobody doubts that attendance\nwill be closer if compelled. But the interesting question still remains,\n\"Are students by such means learning habits of spontaneous regularity?\"\nThis question can be answered only when the concealing restraint is\nremoved. It has been removed at Harvard,--in my judgment too largely\nremoved,--and the great body of our students is seen to desire learning\nand to desire it all the time. Is it certain that the students of other\ncolleges, if left with little or no restraint, would show a better\nrecord? The point of fidelity and regularity, it is said, is of supreme\nimportance. So it is. But fidelity and regularity in study, not in\nattending recitations. If ever the Harvard system is perfected, so that\nstudents here are as eager for knowledge as the best class of German\nuniversity men, I do not believe we shall see a lower rate of absence;\nonly then, each absence will be used, as it is not at present, for a\nstudious purpose. The modern teacher stimulates private reading, exacts\ntheses, directs work in libraries. Pupils engaged in these things are\nnot dependent on recitations as text-book schoolboys are. The grade of\nhigher education cannot rise much so long as the present extreme stress\nis laid on appearance in the class-room.\n\nIn saying this I would not be understood to defend the method of dealing\nwith absences which has for some years been practised at Harvard. I\nthink the method bad. I have always thought it so, and have steadily\nfavored a different system. The behavior of our students under a\nregulation so loose seems to me a striking testimony to the scholarly\nspirit prevalent here. As such I mentioned it in my first paper, and as\nsuch I would again call attention to it. But I am not satisfied with the\npresent good results. I want to impress on every student that absence\nfrom the class-room can be justified by nothing short of illness or a\nscholarly purpose. For a gainful purpose the merchant is occasionally\nabsent from his office; for a gainful purpose a scholar of mine may omit\na recitation. But Smith can be absent profitably when Brown would meet\nwith loss. I accordingly object to methods of limiting absence which\nexact the same numerical regularity of all. College records may look\nclean, yet students be learning little about duty. Limitation, in my\njudgment, should be so adjusted as to strengthen the man's personal\nadhesion to plans of daily study. Such limitations cannot be fixed by\nstatute and worked by a single clerk. Moral discipline is not a thing to\nbe supplied by wholesale. Professors must be individually charged with\nthe oversight of their men. I would have excuses for occasional absence\nmade to the instructor, and I should expect him to count it a part of\nhis work to see that the better purposes of his scholars did not grow\nfeeble. A professor who exercised such supervisory power slackly would\nmake his course the resort of the indolent; one who was over-stringent\nwould see himself deserted by indolent and earnest alike. My rule would\nbe that no student be allowed to present himself at an examination who\ncould not show his teacher's certificate that his attendance on daily\nwork was satisfactory. Traditions in this country and in Germany are so\ndifferent that I should have confidence in a method working well here\nthough it worked ill there. At any rate, whenever it fell into decay, it\ncould--a proviso necessary in all moral matters--be readjusted. A rule\nsomething like this the Harvard Faculty has recently adopted by voting\nthat \"any instructor, with the approval of the Dean, may at any time\nexclude from his course any student who in his judgment has neglected\nthe work of the course.\" Probably the amount of absence which has\nhitherto occurred at Harvard will under this vote diminish.\n\nSuppose, then, by these limitations on a student's caprice we have\nsecured his persistence in outward endeavor, still one thing more is\nneeded. We have brought him bodily to a recitation room; but his mind\nmust be there too, his aroused and active mind. Limitations that will\nsecure this slippery part of the person are difficult to devise.\nNevertheless, they are worth studying. Their object is plain. They are\nto lead a student to do something every day; to aid him to overcome\nthose tendencies to procrastination, self-confidence, and passive\nabsorption which are the regular and calculable dangers of youth. They\nare to teach him how not to cram, to inspire him with respect for steady\neffort, and to enable him each year to find such effort more habitual to\nhimself. These are hard tasks. The old education tried to meet them by\nthe use of daily recitations, a plan not without advantages. The new\neducation is preserving the valuable features of recitations by adopting\nand developing the _Seminar_. But recitations pure and simple have\nserious drawbacks. They presuppose a text-book, which, while it brings\ndefiniteness, brings also narrowness of view. The learner masters a\nbook, not a subject. After-life possesses nothing analogous to the\ntext-book. A struggling man wins what he wants from many books, from his\nown thought, from frequent consultations. Why should not a student be\ndisciplined in the ways he must afterwards employ? Moreover, recitations\nhave the disadvantage that no large number of men can take part on any\nsingle day. The times of trial either become amenable to reckoning, or,\nin order to prevent reckoning, a teacher must resort to schemes which do\nnot commend him to his class. Undoubtedly in recitation the reciter\ngains, but the gains of the rest of the class are small. The listeners\nwould be more profited by instruction. An hour with an expert should\ncarry students forward; to occupy it in ascertaining where they now\nstand is wasteful. For all these reasons there has been of late years a\nstrong reaction against recitations. Lectures have been introduced, and\nthe time formerly spent by a professor in hearing boys is now spent by\nboys in hearing a professor. Plainly in this there is a gain, but a gain\nwhich needs careful limitation if the student's persistence in work is\nto be retained. A pure lecture system is a broad road to ignorance.\nStudents are entertained or bored, but at the end of a month they know\nlittle more than at the beginning. Lectures always seem to me an\ninheritance from the days when books were not. Learning--how often must\nit be said!--is not acceptance; it is criticism, it is attack, it is\ndoing. An active element is everywhere involved in it. Personal sanction\nis wanted for every step. One who will grow wise must perform processes\nhimself, not sit at ease and behold another's performance.\n\nThese simple truths are now tolerably understood at Harvard. There\nremain in the college few courses of pure recitations or of pure\nlectures. I wish all were forbidden by statute. In almost all courses,\nin one way or another, frequent opportunity is given the student to show\nwhat he is doing. In some, especially in elementary courses, lectures\nrun parallel with a text-book. In some, theses, that is, written\ndiscussions, are exacted monthly, half-yearly, annually, in addition to\nexaminations. In some, examinations are frequent. In some, a daily\nquestion, to be answered in writing on the spot, is offered to the whole\nclass. Often, especially in philosophical subjects, the hour is occupied\nwith debate between officer and students. More and more, physical\nsubjects are taught by the laboratory, linguistic and historical by the\nlibrary. In a living university a great variety of methods spring up,\naccording to the nature of the subject and the personality of the\nteacher. Variety should exist. In constantly diversified ways each\nstudent should be assured that he is expected to be doing something all\nthe time, and that somebody besides himself knows what he is doing. As\nyet this assurance is not attained; we can only claim to be working\ntoward it. Every year we discover some fresh limitation which will make\npersistence more natural, neglect more strange. I believe study at\nHarvard is to-day more interested, energetic, and persistent than it has\never been before. But that is no ground for satisfaction. A powerful\ncollege must forever be dissatisfied. Each year it must address itself\nanew to strengthening the tenacity of its students in their zeal for\nknowledge.\n\nBy the side of these larger limitations in the interest of persistency,\nit may be well to mention one or two examples of smaller ones which have\nthe same end in view. By some provision it must be made difficult to\nwithdraw from a study once chosen. Choice should be deliberate and then\nbe final. It probably will not be deliberate unless it is understood to\nbe final. A few weeks may be allowed for an inspection of a chosen\ncourse, but at the close of the first month's teaching the Harvard\nFaculty tie up their students and allow change only on petition and for\nthe most convincing cause. An elective college which did not make\nchanges of electives difficult would be an engine for discouraging\nintentionality and persistence.\n\nI incline to think, too, that a regulation forbidding elementary courses\nin the later years would render our education more coherent. In this\nmatter elective colleges have an opportunity which prescribed ones\nmiss. In order to be fair to all the sciences, college faculties are\nobliged to scatter fragments of them throughout the length and breadth\nof prescribed curricula. Twenty-five years ago every Harvard man waited\ntill his senior year before beginning philosophy, acoustics, history,\nand political economy. To-day the fourteen other New England colleges,\nmost of whom, like the Harvard of twenty-five years ago, offer a certain\nnumber of elective studies, still show senior years largely occupied\nwith elementary studies. Five forbid philosophy before the senior year;\neight, political economy; two, history; six, geology. Out of the seven\ncolleges which offer some one of the eastern languages, all except\nHarvard oblige the alphabet to be learned in the senior year. Of the six\nwhich offer Italian or Spanish, Harvard alone permits a beginning to be\nmade before the junior year, while two take up these languages for the\nfirst time in the senior year. In three New England colleges German\ncannot be begun till the junior year. In a majority, a physical subject\nis begun in the junior and another in the senior year. At Yale nobody\nbut a senior can study chemistry. Such postponement, and by consequence\nsuch fragmentary work, may be necessary where early college years are\ncrowded with prescribed studies. But an elective system can employ its\nlater years to better advantage. It can bring to a mature understanding\nthe interests which freshmen and sophomores have already acquired.\nElementary studies are not maturing studies; they do not make the fibre\nof a student firm. To studies of a solidifying sort the last years\nshould be devoted. I should like to forbid seniors to take any\nelementary study whatever, and to forbid juniors all except philosophy,\npolitical economy, history, fine arts, Sanskrit, Hebrew, and law. Under\nsuch a rule we should graduate more men who would be first rate at\nsomething; and a man who is first rate at something is generally pretty\ngood at anything.\n\nSuch, then, are a few examples of the ways in which choice may be\nlimited so as to become strong. They are but examples, intended merely\nto draw attention to the three kinds of limitation still possible.\nHumble ways they may seem, not particularly interesting to hear about;\nbusiness methods one might call them. But by means of these and such\nas these the young scholar becomes clearer in intention, larger in\ninformation, hardier in persistence. In urging such means I shall be\nseen to be no thick and thin advocate of election. That I have never\nbeen. Originally a doubter, I have come to regard the elective\nsystem, that is, election under such limitations as I have described, as\nthe safest--indeed as the only possible--course which education can\nnow take, I advocate it heartily as a system which need not carry us\ntoo fast or too far in any one direction, as a system so inherently\nflexible that its own great virtues readily unite with those of an alien\ntype. Under its sheltering charge the worthier advantages of both\ngrouped and prescribed systems are attainable. I proclaim it,\ntherefore, not as a popular cry nor as an educational panacea, but as\na sober opportunity for moral and intellectual training. Limited as\nit is at Harvard, I see that it works admirably with the studious,\nstimulatingly with those of weaker will, not unendurably with the\ndepraved. These are great results. They cannot be set aside by calling\nthem the outcome of \"individualism.\" In a certain sense they are. But\n\"individualism\" is an uncertain term. In every one of us there is a\ncontemptible individuality, grounded in what is ephemeral and\ncapriciously personal. Systematic election, as I have shown, puts\nlimitations on this. But there is a noble individuality which should\nbe the object of our fostering care. Nothing that lends it strength\nand fineness can be counted trivial. To form a true individuality\nis, indeed, the ideal of the elective system. Let me briefly sketch my\nconception of that ideal.\n\nGeorge Herbert, praising God for the physical world which He has made,\nsays that in it \"all things have their will, yet none but thine.\" Such a\nfree harmony between thinking man and a Lord of his thought it is the\noffice of education to bring about. At the start it does not exist. The\nchild is aware of his own will, and he is aware of little else. He\nimagines that one pleasing fancy may be willed as easily as another. As\nhe matures, he discovers that his will is effective when it accords with\nthe make of the world and ineffective when it does not. This discovery,\nbringing as it does increased respect for the make of the world and even\nfor its Maker, degrades or ennobles according as the facts of the world\nare now viewed as restrictive finalities or as an apparatus for larger\nself-expression. Seeing the power of that which is not himself, a man\nmay become passively receptive, and say, \"Then I am to have no will of\nmy own\"; or he may become newly energetic, knowing that though he can\nhave no will of his separate own, yet all the power of God is his if he\nwill but understand. A man of the latter sort is spiritually educated.\nMuch still remains to be done in understanding special laws; and with\neach fresh understanding, a fresh possibility of individual life is\ndisclosed. The worth, however, of the whole process lies in the man's\nhonoring his own will, but honoring it only as it grows strong through\naccordance with the will of God.\n\nNow into our colleges comes a mixed multitude made up of all the three\nclasses named: the childish, who imagine they can will anything; the\ndocile, so passive in the presence of an ordered world that they have\nlittle individual will left; the spiritually-minded or original, who\nwith strong interests of their own seek to develop these through living\ncontact with truths which they have not made. Our educational modes must\nmeet them all, respecting their wills wherever wise, and teaching the\nfeeble to discriminate fanciful from righteous desires. For carrying\nforward such a training the elective system seems to me to have peculiar\naptitudes. What I have called its limitations will be seen to be\nspiritual assistances. To the further invention of such there is no end.\nA watchful patience is the one great requisite, patience in directors,\ninstructed criticism on the part of the public, and a brave expression\nof confidence when confidence is seen to have been earned.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n   [8] Doubtless some have carried out the intention of making everything\n       as soft as possible for themselves. But the choices, in fact, do\n       not as yet show the existence of any such intention in any\n       considerable number of cases; they show rather the very\n       reverse.--Professor Ladd in _The New Englander_, January, 1885,\n       p. 119.\n\n   [9] As the minute personal care given to individual students in the\n       English universities is often and deservedly praised, I may as\n       well say that it costs something. Oxford spends each year about\n       $2,000,000 on 2500 men; Harvard, $650,000 on 1700.\n\n  [10] I may not have a better opportunity than this to clear up a petty\n       difficulty which seems to agitate some of my critics. They say\n       they want the degree of A.B. to mean something definite, while at\n       present, under the elective system, it means one thing for John\n       Doe, and something altogether different for his classmate,\n       Richard Roe. That is true. Besides embodying the general\n       signification that the bearer has been working four years in a\n       way to satisfy college guardians, the stately letters do take on\n       an individual variation of meaning for every man who wins them.\n       They must do so as long as we are engaged in the formation of\n       living persons. If the college were a factory, our case would be\n       different. We might then offer a label which would keep its\n       identity of meaning for all the articles turned out. Wherever\n       education has been a living thing, the single degree has always\n       contained this element of variety. The German degree is as\n       diverse in meaning as ours. The degree of the English university\n       is diverse, and more diverse for Honors men--the only ones who\n       can properly be said to deserve it--than for inert Pass men.\n       Degrees in this country have, from the first, had considerable\n       diversity, college differing from college in requirement, and\n       certainly student from student in attainment. That twenty-five\n       years ago we were approaching too great uniformity in the\n       signification of degrees, I suppose most educators now admit.\n       That was a mechanical and stagnant period, and men have brought\n       over from it to the more active days of the present ideals formed\n       then. Precision of statement goes with figures, with etiquette,\n       with military matters; but descriptions of the quality of persons\n       must be stated in the round.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nCOLLEGE EXPENSES[11]\n\n\nThe subject of college expenses has been much debated lately. At our\nCommencement dinner, a year ago, attention was called to it. Our\nchairman on that occasion justly insisted that the ideal of the\nUniversity should be plain living and high thinking. And certainly there\nis apt to be something vulgar, as well as vicious, in the man of books\nwho turns away from winning intellectual wealth and indulges in tawdry\nextravagance. Yet every friend of Harvard is obliged to acknowledge with\nshame that the loose spender has a lodging in our yard. No clear-sighted\nobserver can draw near and not perceive that in all his native\nhideousness the man of the club and the dog-cart is among us.\n\nI do not think this strange. In fact, I regard it as inevitable. It is\nnecessarily connected with our growth. The old College we might compare,\nfor moral and intellectual range, with a country village; our present\nUniversity is a great city, and we must accept the many-sided life, the\ntemptations as well as the opportunities, of the great city. Probably\nnowhere on this planet can a thousand young men be found, between the\nages of eighteen and twenty-four, who will not show examples of the\nheedless, the temptable, and the depraved. Let us not, then, shrink from\nacknowledging the ugly fact; extravagance is here,--shameless, coarse\nextravagance. I hope nothing I say may diminish our sense of its\nindecency. But how widespread is it? We must not lose sight of that\nimportant question. How largely does it infect the College? Are many\nstudents large spenders? Must a man of moderate means on coming here be\nput to shame? Will he find himself a disparaged person, out of accord\nwith the spirit of the place, and unable to obtain its characteristic\nadvantages? These are the weighty questions. Only after we have answered\nthem can we determine the moral soundness of the University. Wherever we\ngo on earth we shall find the insolently rich and wasteful. They, like\nthe poor, are always with us; their qualities are cheap. But what we\nwant to know is whether, side by side with them, we have a company of\nsober men, who care for higher things and who spend no more than the\nhigher things require. Facts of proportion and degree form the firm\nbasis of general judgments, and yet I am aware that these are the\nhardest facts to obtain. Hitherto nobody has known any such facts in\nregard to the expenses of Harvard. Assertions about the style of living\nhere have only expressed the personal opinion of the assertor, or at\nbest have been generalizations from a few chance cases. No systematic\nevidence on the subject has existed. It is time it did exist, and I have\nmade an attempt to obtain it. To each member of the graduating class I\nsent a circular, a month ago, asking if he would be willing to tell me\nin confidence what his college course had cost. I desired him to include\nin his report all expenses whatever. He was to state not merely his\ntuition, board, and lodging, but also his furniture, books, clothing,\ntravel, subscriptions, and amusements; in fact, every dollar he had\nspent during the four years of his study, except his charges for Class\nDay and the summer vacations; these times varying so widely, it seemed\nto me, in their cost to different men that they could not instructively\nenter into an average.\n\nThe reply has been very large indeed. To my surprise, out of a class of\ntwo hundred and thirty-five men actually in residence, two hundred and\nnineteen, or ninety-three per cent, have sent reports. Am I wrong in\nsupposing that this very general \"readiness to tell\" is itself a sign of\nupright conduct? But I would not exaggerate the worth of the returns.\nThey cannot be trusted to a figure. It has not been possible to obtain\nitemized statements. College boys, like other people, do not always\nkeep accounts. But I requested my correspondents, in cases of\nuncertainty, always to name the larger figure; and though those who have\nlived freely probably have less knowledge about what they have spent\nthan have their economical classmates, I think we may accept their\nreports in the rough. We can be reasonably sure whether they have\nexceeded or fallen below a certain medium line, and for purposes more\nprecise I shall not attempt to use them. Anything like minute accuracy I\nwish expressly to repudiate. The evidence I offer only claims to be the\nbest that exists at present; and I must say that the astonishing\nfrankness and fulness of the reports give me strong personal assurance\nof the good faith of the writers. In these letters I have seen a vivid\npicture of the struggles, the hopes, the errors, and the repentings of\nthe manly young lives that surround me.\n\nWhat, then, are the results? Out of the two hundred and nineteen men who\nhave replied, fifty-six, or about one quarter of the class, have spent\nbetween $450 and $650 in each of the four years of residence;\nfifty-four, or again about a quarter, have spent between $650 and $975;\nbut sixty-one, hardly more than a quarter, have spent a larger sum than\n$1200. The smallest amount in any one year was $400; the largest,\n$4000.[12]\n\nI ask you to consider these figures. They are not startling, but they\nseem to me to indicate that a soberly sensible average of expense\nprevails at Harvard. They suggest that students are, after all, merely\nyoung men temporarily removed from homes, and that they are practising\nhere, without violent change, the habits which the home has formed.\nThose who have been accustomed to large expenditure spend freely here;\nthose of quiet and considerate habits do not lightly abandon them. I\ndoubt if during the last twenty-five years luxury has increased in the\ncolleges as rapidly as it has in the outside world.\n\nThere is no reason, either, to suppose that the addition of the sixteen\nmen who have not replied would appreciably affect my results. The\nstanding of these men on the last annual rank-list was sixty-eight per\ncent. They seem to me average persons. Their silence I attribute to\nmistakes of the mail, to business, to neglect, or to the very natural\ndisinclination to disclose their private affairs. To refuse to answer my\nintrusive questions, or even to acknowledge that college days were\ncostly, is not in itself evidence of wantonness. Small spenders are\nusually high scholars; but this is by no means always the case. In the\nmost economical group I found seven who did not reach a rank of seventy\nper cent. last year; whereas out of the seven largest spenders of the\nclass three passed seventy-five per cent. It would be rash to conclude\nthat large sums cannot be honorably employed.\n\nBut it may seem that the smallest of the sums named is large for a poor\nman. It may be believed that even after restraint and wisdom are used,\nHarvard remains the college of the rich. There is much in our\ncircumstances to make it so. An excellent education is unquestionably a\ncostly thing, and to live where many men wish to live calls for a good\ndeal of money. We have, it is true, this splendid hall, which lessens\nour expense for food and encompasses us with ennobling influences; but\nit costs $150 a year to board here. Our tuition bill each year is $150.\nThe University owns 450 rooms; but not a third of them rent for less\nthan $150 a year, the average rent being $146. These large charges for\ntuition and room-rent are made necessary by the smallness of the general\nfund which pays the running expenses of the college. Very few of the\nprofessorships are endowed, and so the tuition-fee and room-rent must\nmainly carry the expenses of teaching.\n\nStill, there is another side to the story. Thus far I have figured out\nthe expenses, and have said nothing about the means of meeting them.\nPerhaps to get the advantages of Harvard a student may need to spend\nlargely; but a certain circumstance enables him to do so,--I mean the\nmatchless benevolence of those who have preceded us here. The great sums\nintrusted to us for distribution in prizes, loan-funds, and scholarships\nmake it possible for our students to offset the cost of their education\nto such a degree that the net output of a poor boy here is probably less\nthan in most New England colleges. At any rate, I have asked a large\nnumber of poor students why they came to expensive Harvard, and again\nand again I have received the reply: \"I could not afford to go\nelsewhere.\"\n\nThe magnitude of this beneficiary aid I doubt if people generally\nunderstand, and I have accordingly taken pains to ascertain what was the\namount given away this year. I find that to undergraduates alone it was\n$36,000; to members of the graduate department, $11,000; and to the\nprofessional schools $6000: making in a single year a total of\nassistance to students of the University of more than $53,000. Next year\nthis enormous sum will be increased $13,000 by the munificent bequest of\nMr. Price Greenleaf. Fully to estimate the favorable position of the\npoor man at Harvard, we should take into account also the great\nopportunities for earning money through private tuition, through\ninnumerable avenues of trade, and through writing for the public press.\nA large number of my correspondents tell of money earned outside their\nscholarships.[13]\n\nThese immense aids provided for our students maintain a balance of\nconditions here, and enable even the poorest to obtain a Harvard\neducation. And what an education it is; how broad and deep and\nindividually stimulating,--the most truly American education which the\ncontinent affords! But I have no need to eulogize it. It has already\nentered into the very structure of you who listen. Let me rather close\nwith two pieces of advice.\n\nThe first shall be to parents. Give your son a competent allowance when\nyou send him to Harvard, and oblige him to stick to it. To learn\ncalculation will contribute as much to his equipment for life as any\nelective study he can pursue; and calculation he will not learn unless,\nafter a little experience, you tell him precisely what sum he is to\nreceive. If in a haphazard way you pour $2000 into his pocket, then in\nan equally haphazard way $2000 will come out. Whatever extravagance\nexists at Harvard to-day is the fault of you foolish parents. The\ncollege, as a college, cannot stop extravagance. It cannot take away a\nthousand dollars from your son and tell him--what would be perfectly\ntrue--that he will be better off with the remaining thousand; that you\nmust do yourselves. And if you ask, \"What is a competent allowance?\" out\nof what my correspondents say I will frame you five answers. If your son\nis something of an artist in economy, he may live here on $600, or less;\nhe will require to be an artist to accomplish it. If he will live\nclosely, carefully, yet with full regard to all that is required, he may\ndo so, with nearly half his class, on not more than $800. If you wish\nhim to live at ease and to obtain the many refinements which money will\npurchase, give him $1000. Indeed, if I were a very rich man, and had a\nboy whose character I could trust, so that I could be sure that all he\nlaid out would be laid out wisely, I might add $200 more, for the\npurchase of books and other appliances of delicate culture. But I should\nbe sure that every dollar I gave him over $1200 would be a dollar of\ndanger.\n\nLet my second piece of advice be to all of you graduates. When you meet\na poor boy, do not rashly urge him to come to Harvard. Estimate\ncarefully his powers. If he is a good boy,--docile, worthy,\ncommonplace,--advise him to go somewhere else. Here he will find himself\nborne down by large expense and by the crowd who stand above him. But\nwhenever you encounter a poor boy of eager, aggressive mind, a youth of\nenergy, one capable of feeling the enjoyment of struggling with a\nmultitude and of making his merit known, say to him that Harvard College\nis expressly constituted for such as he. Here he will find the largest\nprovision for his needs and the clearest field for his talents. Money is\na power everywhere. It is a power here; but a power of far more\nrestricted scope than in the world at large. In this magnificent hall\nrich and poor dine together daily. At the Union they debate together. At\nthe clubs which foster special interests,--the Finance Club, the\nPhilological Club, the Philosophical Club, the French Club, the Signet,\nand the O. K.--considerations of money have no place. If the poor man is\na man of muscle, the athletic organizations will welcome him; if a man\nskilled in words, he will be made an editor of the college papers; and\nif he has the powers that fit him for such a place, the whole body of\nhis classmates will elect him Orator, Ivy Orator, Odist, or Poet,\nwithout the slightest regard to whether his purse is full or empty. The\npoor man, it is true, will not be chosen for ornamental offices, for\npositions which imply an acquaintance with etiquette, and he may be cut\noff from intimacy with the frequenters of the ballroom and the opera;\nbut as he will probably have little time or taste for these things, his\nloss will not be large. In short, if he has anything in him,--has he\nscholarship, brains, wit, companionability, stout moral purpose, or\nquiet Christian character,--his qualities will find as prompt a\nrecognition at Harvard as anywhere on earth.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [11] Delivered in Memorial Hall, Cambridge, June 29, 1887. Since this\n       date the scale of expenditure in college, as elsewhere, has been\n       steadily rising.\n\n  [12] Perhaps I had better mention the adjustments by which these results\n       have been reached. When a man has been in college during only the\n       closing years of the course, I assume that he would have lived at\n       the same rate had he been here throughout it. I have added $150\n       for persons who board at home, and another hundred for those who\n       lodge there. Though I asked to have the expenses of Class Day and\n       the summer vacations omitted, in some instances I have reason to\n       suspect that they are included; but of course I have been obliged\n       to let the error remain, and I have never deducted the money\n       which students often say they expect to recover at graduation by\n       the sale of furniture and other goods. There is a noticeable\n       tendency to larger outlay as the years advance. Some students\n       attribute this to the greater cost of the studies of the later\n       years, to the more expensive books and the laboratory charges;\n       others, to societies and subscriptions; others, to enlarged\n       acquaintance with opportunities for spending.\n\n  [13] For the sake of lucidity, I keep the expense account and the income\n       account distinct. For example, a man reports that he has spent\n       $700 a year, winning each year a scholarship of $200, and earning\n       by tutoring $100, and $50 by some other means. The balance\n       against him is only $350 a year; but I have included him in the\n       group of $700 spenders.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nA TEACHER OF THE OLDEN TIME\n\n\nOn the 14th of February, 1883, Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles,\nProfessor of Ancient, Byzantine, and Modern Greek in Harvard University,\ndied at Cambridge, in the corner room of Holworthy Hall which he had\noccupied for nearly forty years. A past generation of American\nschoolboys knew him gratefully as the author of a compact and lucid\nGreek grammar. College students--probably as large a number as ever sat\nunder an American professor--were introduced by him to the poets and\nhistorians of Greece. Scholars of a riper growth, both in Europe and\nAmerica, have wondered at the precision and loving diligence with which,\nin his dictionary of the later and Bzyantine Greek, he assessed the\ncorrupt literary coinage of his native land. His brief contributions to\nthe Nation and other journals were always noticeable for exact knowledge\nand scrupulous literary honesty. As a great scholar, therefore, and one\nwho through a long life labored to beget scholarship in others,\nSophocles deserves well of America. At a time when Greek was usually\nstudied as the schoolboy studies it, this strange Greek came among us,\nconnected himself with our oldest university, and showed us an example\nof encyclopaedic learning, and such familiar and living acquaintance with\nHomer and AEschylus--yes, even with Polybius, Lucian, and Athenaeus--as we\nhave with Tennyson and Shakespeare and Burke and Macaulay. More than\nthis, he showed us how such learning is gathered. To a dozen generations\nof impressible college students he presented a type of an austere life\ndirected to serene ends, a life sufficient for itself and filled with a\nnever-hastening diligence which issued in vast mental stores.\n\nIt is not, however, the purpose of this paper to trace the influence\nover American scholarship of this hardly domesticated wise man of\nthe East. Nor will there be any attempt to narrate the outward events\nof his life. These were never fully known; and could they be discovered,\nthere would be a kind of impiety in reporting them. Few traits were\nso characteristic of him as his wish to conceal his history. His\nmotto might have been that of Epicurus and Descartes: \"Well hid is well\nlived.\" Yet in spite of his concealments, perhaps in part because of\nthem, few persons connected with Harvard have ever left behind them\nan impression of such massive individuality. He was long a notable\nfigure in university life, one of those picturesque characters who by\ntheir very being give impulse to aspiring mortals and check the\never-encroaching commonplace. It would be ungrateful to allow one\nformerly so stimulating and talked about to fall into oblivion. Now\nthat a decent interval after death has passed, a memorial to this\nunusual man may be reverently set up. His likeness may be drawn by a\nfond though faithful hand. Or at least such stories about him may be\nkindly put into the record of print as will reflect some of those\nrugged, paradoxical, witty, and benignant aspects of his nature which\nmarked him off from the humdrum herd of men.\n\nMy own first approach to Sophocles was at the end of my Junior year in\ncollege. It was necessary for me to be absent from his afternoon\nrecitation. In those distant days absences were regarded by Harvard law\nas luxuries, and a small fixed quantity of them, a sort of sailor's\ngrog, was credited with little charge each half-year to every student. I\nwas already nearing the limit of the unenlargeable eight, and could not\nwell venture to add another to my score. It seemed safer to try to win\nindulgence from my fierce-eyed instructor. Early one morning I went to\nSophocles's room. \"Professor Sophocles,\" I said, \"I want to be excused\nfrom attending the Greek recitation this afternoon.\" \"I have no power to\nexcuse,\" uttered in the gruffest of tones, while he looked the other\nway. \"But I cannot be here. I must be out of town at three o'clock.\" \"I\nhave no power. You had better see the president.\" Finding the situation\ndesperate, I took a desperate leap. \"But the president probably would\nnot allow my excuse. At the play of the Hasty Pudding Club to-night I am\nto appear as leading lady. I must go to Brookline this afternoon and\nhave my sister dress me.\" No muscle of the stern face moved; but he\nrose, walked to a table where his class lists lay, and, taking up a\npencil, calmly said: \"You had better say nothing to the president. You\nare here _now_. I will mark you so.\" He sniffed, he bowed, and, without\nsmile or word from either of us, I left the room. As I came to know\nSophocles afterwards, I found that in this trivial early interview I had\ncome upon some of the most distinctive traits of his character; here was\nan epitome of his _brusquerie_, his dignity, his whimsical logic, and\nhis kind heart.\n\nOutwardly he was always brusque and repellent. A certain savagery marked\nhis very face. He once observed that, in introducing a character, Homer\nis apt to draw attention to the eye. Certainly in himself this was the\nfeature which first attracted notice; for his eye had uncommon alertness\nand intelligence. Those who knew him well detected in it a hidden\nsweetness; but against the stranger it burned and glared, and guarded\nall avenues of approach. Startled it was, like the eye of a wild animal,\nand penetrating, \"peering through the portals of the brain like the\nbrass cannon.\" Over it crouched bushy brows, and all around the great\nhead bristled white hair, on forehead, cheeks, and lips, so that little\nflesh remained visible, and the life was settled in two fiery spots.\nThis concentration of expression in the few elementary features of\nshape, hair, and eyes made the head a magnificent subject for painting.\nRembrandt should have painted it. But he would never allow a portrait of\nhimself to be drawn. Into his personality strangers must not intrude.\nVenturing once to try for memoranda of his face, I took an artist to his\nroom. The courtesy of Sophocles was too stately to allow him to turn my\nfriend away, but he seated himself in a shaded window, and kept his head\nin constant motion. When my frustrated friend had departed, Sophocles\ntold me, though without direct reproach, of two sketches which had\nbefore been surreptitiously made,--one by the pencil of a student in his\nclass, another in oils by a lady who had followed him on the street.\nToward photography his aversion was weaker; perhaps because in that art\na human being less openly meddled with him.\n\nFrom this sense of personal dignity, which made him at all times\ndetermined to keep out of the grasp of others, much of his brusqueness\nsprang. On the morning after he returned from his visit to Greece a\nfellow professor saw him on the opposite side of the street, and,\nhastening across, greeted him warmly: \"So you have been home, Mr.\nSophocles; and how did you find your mother?\" \"She was up an\napple-tree,\" said Sophocles, confining himself to the facts of the case.\nA boy who snowballed him on the street he prosecuted relentlessly, and\nhe could not be appeased until a considerable fine was imposed; but he\npaid the fine himself. Many a bold push was made to ascertain his age;\nyet, however suddenly the question came, or however craftily one crept\nfrom date to date, there was a uniform lack of success. \"I see\nAllibone's Dictionary says you were born in 1805,\" a gentleman remarked.\n\"Some statements have been nearer, and some have been farther from the\ntruth.\" One day, when a violent attack of illness fell on him, a\nphysician was called for diagnosis. He felt the pulse, he examined the\ntongue, he heard the report of the symptoms, then suddenly asked, \"How\nold are you, Mr. Sophocles?\" With as ready presence of mind and as\npretty ingenuity as if he were not lying at the point of death,\nSophocles answered: \"The Arabs, Dr. W., estimate age by several\nstandards. The age of Hassan, the porter, is reckoned by his wrinkles;\nthat of Abdallah, the physician, by the lives he has saved; that of\nAchmet, the sage, by his wisdom. I, all my life a scholar, am nearing my\nhundredth year.\" To those who had once come close to Sophocles these\nlittle reserves, never asserted with impatience, were characteristic and\nendearing. I happen to know his age; hot irons shall not draw it from\nme.\n\nClosely connected with his repellent reserve was the stern independence\nof his modes of life. In his scheme, little things were kept small and\ngreat things large. What was the true reading in a passage of\nAristophanes, what the usage of a certain word in Byzantine\nGreek,--these were matters on which a man might well reflect and labor.\nBut of what consequence was it if the breakfast was slight or the coat\nworn? Accordingly, a single room, in which a light was seldom seen,\nsufficed him during his forty years of life in the college yard. It was\ntotally bare of comforts. It contained no carpet, no stuffed furniture,\nno bookcase. The college library furnished the volumes he was at any\ntime using, and these lay along the floor, beside his dictionary, his\nshoes, and the box that contained the sick chicken. A single bare table\nheld the book he had just laid down, together with a Greek newspaper, a\nsilver watch, a cravat, a paper package or two, and some scraps of\nbread. His simple meals were prepared by himself over a small open\nstove, which served at once for heat and cookery. Eating, however, was\nalways treated as a subordinate and incidental business, deserving no\nfixed time, no dishes, nor the setting of a table. The peasants of the\nEast, the monks of southern monasteries, live chiefly on bread and\nfruit, relished with a little wine; and Sophocles, in spite of\nCambridge and America, was to the last a peasant and a monk. Such simple\nnutriments best fitted his constitution, for \"they found their\nacquaintance there.\" The western world had come to him by accident, and\nwas ignored; the East was in his blood, and ordered all his goings. Yet,\nas a grave man of the East might, he had his festivities, and could on\noccasion be gay. Among a few friends he could tell a capital story and\nenjoy a well-cooked dish. But his ordinary fare was meagre in the\nextreme. For one of his heartier meals he would cut a piece of meat into\nbits and roast it on a spit, as Homer's people roasted theirs. \"Why not\nuse a gridiron?\" I once asked. \"It is not the same,\" he said. \"The juice\nthen runs into the fire. But when I turn my spit it bastes itself.\" His\ntaste was more than usually sensitive, kept fine and discriminating by\nthe restraint in which he held it. Indeed, all his senses, except sight,\nwere acute.\n\nThe wine he drank was the delicate unresinated Greek wine,--Corinthian,\nor Chian, or Cyprian; the amount of water to be mixed with each being\ncarefully debated and employed. Each winter a cask was sent him from a\nspecial vineyard on the heights of Corinth, and occasioned something\nlike a general rejoicing in Cambridge, so widely were its flavorous\ncontents distributed. Whenever this cask arrived, or when there came a\nbox from Mt. Sinai filled with potato-like sweetmeats,--a paste of\nfigs, dates, and nuts, stuffed into sewed goatskins,--or when his hens\nhad been laying a goodly number of eggs, then under the blue cloak a\nselection of bottles, or of sweetmeats, or of eggs would be borne to a\nfriend's house, where for an hour the old man sat in dignity and calm,\nopening and closing his eyes and his jack-knife; uttering meanwhile\ndetached remarks, wise, gruff, biting, yet seldom lacking a kernel of\nkindness, till bedtime came, nine o'clock, and he was gone, the\ngifts--if thanks were feared--left in a chair by the door. There were\nhalf a dozen houses and dinner tables in Cambridge to which he went with\npleasure, houses where he seemed to find a solace in the neighborhood of\nhis kind. But human beings were an exceptional luxury. He had never\nlearned to expect them. They never became necessities of his daily life,\nand I doubt if he missed them when they were absent. As he slowly\nrecovered strength, after one of his later illnesses, I urged him to\nspend a month with me. Refusing in a brief sentence, he added with\nunusual gentleness: \"To be alone is not the same for me and for you. I\nhave never known anything else.\"\n\nUnquestionably much of his disposition to remain aloof and to resist the\non-coming intruder was bred by the experiences of his early youth. His\nnative place, Tsangarada, is a village of eastern Thessaly, far up\namong the slopes of the Pindus. Thither, several centuries ago, an\nancestor led a migration from the west coast of Greece, and sought a\nrefuge from Turkish oppression. From generation to generation his\nfathers continued to be shepherds of their people, the office of\nProestos, or governor, being hereditary in the house. Sturdy men those\nancestors must have been, and picturesque their times. In late winter\nafternoons, at 3 Holworthy, when the dusk began to settle among the elms\nabout the yard, legends of these heroes and their far-off days would\nloiter through the exile's mind. At such times bloody doings would be\nnarrated with all the coolness that appears in Caesar's Commentaries, and\nover the listener would come a sense of a fantastic world as different\nfrom our own as that of Bret Harte's Argonauts. \"My great-grandfather\nwas not easily disturbed. He was a young man and Proestos. His stone\nhouse stood apart from the others. He was sitting in its great room one\nevening, and heard a noise. He looked around, and saw three men by the\nfarther door. 'What are you here for?' 'We have come to assassinate\nyou.' 'Who sent you?' 'Andreas.' It was a political enemy. 'How much did\nAndreas promise you?' 'A dollar.' 'I will promise you two dollars if you\nwill go and assassinate Andreas.' So they turned, went, and assassinated\nAndreas. My great-grandfather went to Scyros the next day, and remained\nthere five years. In five years these things are forgotten in Greece.\nThen he came back, and brought a wife from Scyros, and was Proestos once\nmore.\"\n\nAnother evening: \"People said my grandfather died of leprosy. Perhaps he\ndid. As Proestos he gave a decision against a woman, and she hated him.\nOne night she crept up behind the house, where his clothes lay on the\nground, and spread over his clothes the clothes of a leper. After that\nhe was not well. His hair fell off and he died. But perhaps it was not\nleprosy; perhaps he died of fear. The Knights of Malta were worrying the\nTurks. They sailed into the harbor of Volo, and threatened to bombard\nthe town. The Turks seized the leading Greeks and shut them up in the\nmosque. When the first gun was fired by the frigate, the heads of the\nGreeks were to come off. My grandfather went into the mosque a young\nman. A quarter of an hour afterwards, the gun was heard, and my\ngrandfather waited for the headsman. But the shot toppled down the\nminaret, and the Knights of Malta were so pleased that they sailed away,\nsatisfied. The Turks, watching them, forgot about the prisoners. But two\nhours later, when my grandfather came out of the mosque, he was an old\nman. He could not walk well. His hair fell off, and he died.\"\n\nSometimes I caught glimpses of Turkish oppression in times of peace. \"I\nremember the first time I saw the wedding gift given. No new-made bride\nmust leave the house she visits without a gift. My mother's sister\nmarried, and came to see us. I was a boy. She stood at the door to go,\nand my mother remembered she had not had the gift. There was not much to\ngive. The Turks had been worse than usual, and everything was buried.\nBut my mother could not let her go without the gift. She searched the\nhouse, and found a saucer,--it was a beautiful saucer; and this she gave\nher sister, who took it and went away.\"\n\n\"How did you get the name of Sophocles?\" I asked, one evening. \"Is your\nfamily supposed to be connected with that of the poet?\" \"My name is not\nSophocles. I have no family name. In Greece, when a child is born, it is\ncarried to the grandfather to receive a name.\" (I thought how, in the\nOdyssey, the nurse puts the infant Odysseus in the arms of his mother's\nfather, Autolycus, for naming.) \"The grandfather gives him his own name.\nThe father's name, of course, is different; and this he too gives when\nhe becomes a grandfather. So in old Greek families two names alternate\nthrough generations. My grandfather's name was Evangelinos. This he gave\nto me; and I was distinguished from others of that name because I was\nthe son of Apostolos, Apostolides. But my best schoolmaster was fond of\nthe poet Sophocles, and he was fond of me. He used to call me his little\nSophocles. The other boys heard it, and they began to call me so. It was\na nickname. But when I left home people took it for my family name. They\nthought I must have a family name. I did not contradict them. It makes\nno difference. This is as good as any.\" One morning he received a\ntelegram of congratulation from the monks in Cairo. \"It is my day,\" he\nsaid. \"How did the monks know it was your birthday?\" I asked. \"It is not\nmy birthday. Nobody thinks about that. It is forgotten. This is my\nsaint's day. Coming into the world is of no consequence; coming under\nthe charge of the saints is what we care for. My name puts me in the\nVirgin's charge, and the feast of the Annunciation is my day. The monks\nknow my name.\"\n\nTo the Greek Church he was always loyal. Its faith had glorified his\nyouth, and to it he turned for strength throughout his solitary years.\nIts conventual discipline was dear to him, and oftener than of his\nbirthplace at the foot of Mt. Olympus he dreamed of Mt. Sinai. On Mt.\nSinai the Emperor Justinian founded the most revered of all Greek\nmonasteries. Standing remote on its sacred mountain, the monastery\ndepends on Cairo for its supplies. In Cairo, accordingly, there is a\nbranch or agency which during the boyhood of Sophocles was presided over\nby his Uncle Constantius. At twelve he joined this uncle in Cairo. In\nthe agency there, in the parent monastery on Sinai itself, and in\njourneyings between the two, the happy years were spent which shaped his\nintellectual and religious constitution. Though he never outwardly\nbecame a monk, he largely became one within. His adored uncle\nConstantius was his spiritual father. Through him his ideals had been\nacquired,--his passion for learning, his hardihood in duty, his\nimperturbable patience, his brief speech which allowed only so many\nwords as might scantily clothe his thought, his indifference to personal\ncomfort. He never spoke the name of Constantius without some sign of\nreverence; and in his will, after making certain private bequests, and\nleaving to Harvard College all his printed books and stereotype plates,\nhe adds this clause: \"All the residue and remainder of my property and\nestate I devise and bequeath to the said President and Fellows of\nHarvard College in trust, to keep the same as a permanent fund, and to\napply the income thereof in two equal parts: one part to the purchase of\nGreek and Latin books (meaning hereby the ancient classics) or of Arabic\nbooks, or of books illustrating or explaining such Greek, Latin, or\nArabic books; and the other part to the Catalogue Department of the\nGeneral Library.... My will is that the entire income of the said fund\nbe expended in every year, and that the fund be kept forever unimpaired,\nand be called and known as the Constantius Fund, in memory of my\npaternal uncle, Constantius the Sinaite, Konstantios Sinaitnes.\"\n\nThis man, then, by birth, training, and temper a solitary; whose\nheritage was Mt. Olympus, and the monastery of Justinian, and the Greek\nquarter of Cairo, and the isles of Greece; whose intimates were Hesiod\nand Pindar and Arrian and Basilides,--this man it was who, from 1842\nonward, was deputed to interpret to American college boys the hallowed\nwritings of his race. Thirty years ago too, at the period when I sat on\nthe green bench in front of the long-legged desk, college boys were boys\nindeed. They had no more knowledge than the high-school boy of to-day,\nand they were kept in order by much the same methods. Thus it happened,\nby some jocose perversity in the arrangement of human affairs, that\nthroughout our Sophomore and Junior years we sportive youngsters were\nobliged to endure Sophocles, and Sophocles was obliged to endure us. No\nwonder if he treated us with a good deal of contempt. No wonder that his\npower of scorn, originally splendid, enriched itself from year to year.\nWe learned, it is true, something about everything except Greek; and the\nbest thing we learned was a new type of human nature. Who that was ever\nhis pupil will forget the calm bearing, the occasional pinch of snuff,\nthe averted eye, the murmur of the interior voice, and the stocky\nlittle figure with the lion's head? There in the corner he stood, as\nstranded and solitary as the Egyptian obelisk in the hurrying Place de\nla Concorde. In a curious sort of fashion he was faithful to what he\nmust have felt an obnoxious duty. He was never absent from his post, nor\ndid he cut short the hours, but he gave us only such attention as was\nnominated in the bond; he appeared to hurry past, as by set purpose, the\nbeauties of what we read, and he took pleasure in snubbing expectancy\nand aspiration.\n\n\"When I entered college,\" says an eminent Greek scholar, \"I was full of\nthe notion, which I probably could not have justified, that the Greeks\nwere the greatest people that had ever lived. My enthusiasm was fanned\ninto a warmer glow when I learned that my teacher was himself a Greek,\nand that our first lesson was to be the story of Thermopylae. After the\npassage of Herodotus had been duly read, Sophocles began: 'You must not\nsuppose these men stayed in the Pass because they were brave; they were\nafraid to run away.' A shiver went down my back. Even if what he said\nhad been true, it ought never to have been told to a Freshman.\"\n\nThe universal custom of those days was the hearing of recitations, and\nto this Sophocles conformed so far as to set a lesson and to call for\nits translation bit by bit. But when a student had read his suitable\nten lines, he was stopped by the raised finger; and Sophocles, fixing\nhis eyes on vacancy and taking his start from some casual suggestion of\nthe passage, began a monologue,--a monologue not unlike one of\nBrowning's in its caprices, its involvement, its adaptation to the\nspeaker's mind rather than to the hearer's, and its ease in glancing\nfrom heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. During these intervals the\nsluggish slumbered, the industrious devoted themselves to books and\npapers brought in the pocket for the purpose, the dreamy enjoyed the\nopportunity of wondering what the strange words and their still stranger\nutterer might mean. The monologue was sometimes long and sometimes\nshort, according as the theme which had been struck kindled the\nrhapsodist and enabled him, with greater or less completeness, to forget\nhis class. When some subtlety was approached, a smile--the only smile\never seen on his face by strangers--lifted for a moment the corner of\nthe mouth. The student who had been reciting stood meanwhile, but sat\nwhen the voice stopped, the white head nodded, the pencil made a record,\nand a new name was called.\n\nThere were perils, of course, in records of this sort. Reasons for the\nfigures which subsequently appeared on the college books were not\neasy to find. Some of us accounted for our marks by the fact that we\nhad red hair or long noses; others preferred the explanation that\nour professor's pencil happened to move more readily to the right\nhand or to the left. For the most part we took good-naturedly whatever\nwas given us, though questionings would sometimes arise. A little\nbefore my time there entered an ambitious young fellow, who cherished\nlarge purposes in Greek. At the end of the first month under his queer\ninstructor he went to the regent and inquired for his mark in Plato.\nIt was three, the maximum being eight. Horror-stricken, he penetrated\nSophocles's room. \"Professor Sophocles,\" he said. \"I find my mark is\nonly three. There must be some mistake. There is another Jones in the\nclass, you know, J. S. Jones\" (a lump of flesh), \"and may it not be\nthat our marks have been confused?\" An unmoved countenance, a little\nwave of the hand, accompanied the answer: \"You must take your\nchance,--you must take your chance.\" In my own section, when anybody\nwas absent from a certain bench, poor Prindle was always obliged to go\nforward and say, \"I was here to-day, Professor Sophocles,\" or else the\ngap on the bench where six men should sit was charged to Prindle's\naccount. In those easy-going days, when men were examined for entrance\nto college orally and in squads, there was a good deal of eagerness\namong the knowing ones to get into the squad of Sophocles; for it was\nbelieved that he admitted everybody, on the ground that none of us\nknew any Greek, and it was consequently unfair to discriminate.\nFantastic stories were attributed to him, for whose truth or error none\ncould vouch, and were handed on from class to class. \"What does\nPhiladelphia mean?\" \"Brotherly love,\" the student answers. \"Yes! It is\nto remind us of Ptolemy Philadelphus, who killed his brother.\" A German\ncommentator had somewhere mentioned lions in connection with the\nPeloponnesus, and Sophocles inquires of Brown if he knows the date when\nlions first appeared in the Peloponnesus. He does not, nor does Smith\nnor Robinson. At length Green, driven to bay, declares in desperation\nthat he doesn't believe there ever were lions in the Peloponnesus. To\nwhom Sophocles: \"You are right. There were none.\" \"Do you read your\nexamination books?\" he once asked a fellow instructor. \"If they are\nbetter than you expect, the writers cheat; if they are no better, time\nis wasted.\" \"Is to-day story day or contradiction day?\" he is reported\nto have said to one who, in the war time, eagerly handed him a\nnewspaper, and asked if he had seen the morning's news.\n\nHow much of this cynicism of conduct and of speech was genuine perhaps\nhe knew as little as the rest of us; but certainly it imparted a\npessimistic tinge to all he did and said. To hear him talk, one would\nsuppose the world was ruled by accident or by an utterly irrational\nfate; for in his mind the two conceptions seemed closely to coincide.\nHis words were never abusive; they were deliberate, peaceful even;\nbut they made it very plain that so long as one lived there was no use\nin expecting anything. Paradoxes were a little more probable than\nordered calculations; but even paradoxes would fail. Human beings\nwere altogether impotent, though they fussed and strutted as if they\ncould accomplish great things. How silly was trust in men's goodness and\npower, even in one's own! Most men were bad and stupid,--Germans\nespecially so. The Americans knew nothing, and never could know. A\nwise man would not try to teach them. Yet some persons dreamed of\nestablishing a university in America! Did they expect scholarship where\nthere were politicians and business men? Evil influences were far too\nstrong. They always were. The good were made expressly to suffer, the\nevil to succeed. Better leave the world alone, and keep one's self\ntrue. \"Put a drop of milk into a gallon of ink; it will make no\ndifference. Put a drop of ink into a gallon of milk; the whole is\nspoiled.\"\n\nI have felt compelled to dwell at some length on these cynical,\nillogical, and austere aspects of Sophocles's character, and even to\npoint out the circumstances of his life which may have shaped them,\nbecause these were the features by which the world commonly judged\nhim, and was misled. One meeting him casually had little more to\njudge by. So entire was his reserve, so little did he permit close\nconversation, so seldom did he raise his eye in his slow walks on the\nstreet, so rarely might a stranger pass within the bolted door of his\nchamber, that to the last he bore to the average college student the\ncharacter of a sphinx, marvellous in self-sufficiency, amazing in\nerudition, romantic in his suggestion of distant lands and customs,\nand forever piquing curiosity by his eccentric and sarcastic sayings.\nAll this whimsicality and pessimism would have been cheap enough, and\nlittle worth recording, had it stood alone. What lent it price and\nbeauty was that it was the utterance of a singularly self-denying and\ntender soul. The incongruity between his bitter speech and his kind\nheart endeared both to those who knew him. Like his venerable cloak, his\ngrotesque language often hid a bounty underneath. How many students\nhave received his surly benefactions! In how many small tradesmen's\nshops did he have his appointed chair! His room was bare: but in his\nnative town an aqueduct was built; his importunate and ungrateful\nrelatives were pensioned; the monks of Mt. Sinai were protected against\nwant; the children and grand-children of those who had befriended his\nearly years in America were watched over with a father's love; and by\ncare for helpless creatures wherever they crossed his path he kept\nhimself clean of selfishness.\n\nOne winter night, at nearly ten o'clock, I was called to my door. There\nstood Sophocles. When I asked him why he was not in bed an hour ago, \"A.\nhas gone home,\" he said. \"I know it,\" I answered; for A. was a young\ninstructor dear to me. \"He is sick,\" he went on. \"Yes.\" \"He has no\nmoney.\" \"Well, we will see how he will get along.\" \"But you must get him\nsome money, and I must know about it.\" And he would not go back into the\nstorm--this graybeard professor, solicitous for an overworked\ntutor--till I assured him that arrangements had been made for continuing\nA.'s salary during his absence. I declare, in telling the tale I am\nashamed. Am I wronging the good man by disclosing his secret, and saying\nthat he was not the cynical curmudgeon for which he tried to pass? But\nalready before he was in his grave the secret had been discovered, and\nmany gave him persistently the love which he still tried to wave away.\n\nToward dumb and immature creatures his tenderness was more frank, for\nthese could not thank him. Children always recognized in him their\nfriend. A group of curly-heads usually appeared in his window on Class\nDay. A stray cat knew him at once, and, though he seldom stroked her,\nwould quickly accommodate herself near his legs. By him spiders were\nwatched, and their thin wants supplied. But his solitary heart went out\nmost unreservedly and with the most pathetic devotion toward fragile\nchickens; and out of these uninteresting little birds he elicited a\ndegree of responsive intelligence which was startling to see. One of his\ndearest friends, coming home from a journey, brought him a couple of\nbantam eggs. When hatched and grown, they developed into a little\nfive-inch burnished cock, which shone like a jewel or a bird of\nparadise, and a more sober but exquisite hen. These two, Frank and Nina,\nand all their numerous progeny for many years, Sophocles trained to the\nhand. Each knew its name, and would run from the flock when its\nwhite-haired keeper called, and, sitting upon his hand or shoulder,\nwould show queer signs of affection, not hesitating even to crow. The\nsame generous friend who gave the eggs gave shelter also to the winged\nconsequences. And thus it happened that three times a day, so long as he\nwas able to leave his room, Sophocles went to that house where Radcliffe\nCollege is now sheltered to attend his pets. White grapes were carried\nthere, and the choicest of corn and clamshell; and endless study was\ngiven to devising conveniences for housing, nesting, and the promenade.\nBut he did not demand too much from his chickens. In their case, as in\ndealing with human beings, he felt it wise to bear in mind the limit and\nto respect the foreordained. When Nina was laying badly, one springtime,\nI suggested a special food as a good egg-producer. But Sophocles\ndeclined to use it. \"You may hasten matters,\" he said, \"but you cannot\nchange them. A hen is born with just so many eggs to lay. You cannot\nincrease the number.\" The eggs, as soon as laid, were pencilled with the\ndate and the name of the mother, and were then distributed among his\nfriends, or sparingly eaten at his own meals. To eat a chicken itself\nwas a kind of cannibalism from which his whole nature shrank. \"I do not\neat what I love,\" he said, rejecting the bowl of chicken broth I pressed\nupon him in his last sickness.\n\nFor protecting creatures naturally so helpless, sternness--or at least\nits outward seeming--became occasionally necessary. One day young\nThornton's dog leaped into the hen-yard and caused a commotion there.\nSophocles was prompt in defence. He drew a pistol and fired, while the\ndog, perceiving his mistake, retreated as he had come. The following day\nThornton Senior, walking down the street, was suddenly embarrassed by\nseeing Sophocles on the same sidewalk. Remembering, however, the old\nman's usually averted gaze, he hoped to pass unnoticed. But as the two\ncame abreast, gruff words and a piercing eye signalled stoppage. \"Mr.\nThornton, you have a son.\" \"Yes, Mr. Sophocles, a boy generally\nwell-meaning but sometimes thoughtless.\" \"Your son has a dog.\" \"A\nnervous dog, rather difficult to regulate.\" \"The dog worried my\nchickens.\" \"So I heard, and was sorry enough to hear it.\" \"I fired a\npistol at him.\" \"Very properly. A pity you didn't hit him.\" \"The pistol\nwas not loaded.\" And before Mr. Thornton could recover his wits for a\nsuitable reply Sophocles had drawn from his pocket one of his long\nSinaitic sweetmeats, had cut off a lump with his jack-knife, handed it\nto Mr. Thornton, and with the words, \"This is for the boy who owns the\ndog,\" was gone. The incident well illustrates the sweetness and savagery\nof the man, his plainness, his readiness to right a wrong and protect\nthe weak, his rejection of smooth and unnecessary words, his rugged\nexterior, and the underlying kindness which ever attended it.\n\nIf in ways so uncommon his clinging nature, cut off from domestic\nopportunity, went out to children and unresponsive creatures, it may be\nimagined how good cause of love he furnished to his few intimates\namong mankind. They found in him sweet courtesy, undemanding gentleness,\nan almost feminine tact in adapting what he could give to what they\nmight receive. To their eyes the great scholar, the austere monk,\nthe bizarre professor, the pessimist, were hidden by the large and\nlovable man. Even strangers recognized him as no common person, so\nthoroughly was all he did and said purged of superfluity, so veracious\nwas he, so free from apology. His everyday thoughts were worthy\nthoughts. He knew no shame or fear, and had small wish, I think, for\nany change. Always a devout Christian, he seldom used expressions of\nregret or hope. Probably he concerned himself little with these or\nother feelings. In the last days of his life, it is true, when his\nthoughts were oftener in Arabia than in Cambridge, he once or twice\nreferred to \"the ambition of learning\" as the temptation which had drawn\nhim out from the monastery, and had given him a life less holy than he\nmight have led among the monks. But these were moods of humility\nrather than of regret. Habitually he maintained an elevation above\ncircumstances,--was it Stoicism or Christianity?--which imparted to\nhis behavior, even when most eccentric, an unshakable dignity. When I\nhave found him in his room, curled up in shirt and drawers, reading the\n\"Arabian Nights,\" the Greek service book, or the \"Ladder of the\nVirtues\" by John Klimakos, he has risen to receive me with the bearing\nof an Arab sheikh, and has laid by the Greek folio and motioned me\nto a chair with a stateliness not natural to our land or century. It\nwould be clumsy to liken him to one of Plutarch's men; for though\nthere was much of the heroic and extraordinary in his character and\nmanners, nothing about him suggested a suspicion of being on show. The\nmould in which he was cast was formed earlier. In his bearing and\nspeech, and in a certain large simplicity of mental structure, he was\nthe most Homeric man I ever knew.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nPAPERS BY ALICE FREEMAN PALMER\n\n\nWhile Mrs. Palmer always avoided writing, and thought--generous\nprodigal!--that her work was best accomplished by spoken words, her\ncomplying spirit could not always resist the appeals of magazine\neditors. I could wish now that their requests had been even more urgent.\nAnd I believe that those who read these pages will regret that one\npossessed of such breadth of view, clearness, charm and cogency of style\nshould have left a literary record so meagre. All these papers are\nprinted precisely as she left them, without the change of a word. I have\nnot even ventured on correction in the printed report of one of her\naddresses, that on going to college. Its looser structure well\nillustrates her mode of moving an audience and bringing its mothers to\nthe course of conduct she approved.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nTHREE TYPES OF WOMEN'S COLLEGES[14]\n\n\nAmerican college education in the quarter-century since the Civil War\nhas undergone more numerous and more fundamental changes than befell it\nin a hundred years before. These changes have not occurred unnoticed. A\nmultitude of journals and associations are busy every year discussing\nthe results of the experiments in teaching which go on with increasing\ndaring and fruitfulness in nearly all our colleges and schools. There\nstill exists a wide divergence of opinion among the directors of men's\ncolleges in regard to a variety of important questions: the conditions\nand proper age for entrance; the length of the course of study; the\nelective system, both of government and instruction; the requirements\nfor the bachelor's and master's degrees; the stress to be laid on\ngraduate work--these, and many sequents of these, touching the physical,\nsocial, and religious life of the young men of the land, are undergoing\nsharp discussion.\n\nThe advanced education of young women is exposed to all the\nuncertainties which beset the education of men, but it has perplexities\nof its own in addition. After fifty years of argument and twenty-five of\nvaried and costly experiment, it might be easy to suppose that we are\nstill in chaos, almost as far from knowing the best way to train a woman\nas we were at the beginning. No educational convention meets without a\nsession devoted to the difficulties in \"the higher education of women,\"\nso important has the subject become, and so hard is it to satisfy in any\none system the variety of its needs. Yet chaos may be thought more\nchaotic than it really is. In the din of discussion it would not be\nstrange if the fair degree of concord already reached should sometimes\nbe missed. We are certainly still far from having found the one best\nmethod of college training for girls. Some of us hope we may never find\nit, believing that in diversity, no less than in unity, there is\nstrength. But already three tolerably clear, consistent, and accredited\ntypes of education appear, which it will be the purpose of this paper to\nexplain. The nature of each, with its special strengths and weaknesses,\nwill be set forth in no spirit of partisanship, but in the belief that a\ncool understanding of what is doing at present among fifty thousand\ncollege girls may make us wiser and more patient in our future growth.\nWhat, then, are the three types, and how have they arisen?\n\nWhen to a few daring minds the conviction came that education was a\nright of personality rather than of sex, and when there was added to\nthis growing sentiment the pressing demand for educated women as\nteachers and as leaders in philanthropy, the simplest means of equipping\nwomen with the needful preparation was found in the existing schools and\ncolleges. Scattered all over the country were colleges for men, young\nfor the most part and small, and greatly lacking anything like a proper\nendowment. In nearly every state west of the Alleghanies, \"universities\"\nhad been founded by the voluntary tax of the whole population. Connected\nwith all the more powerful religious denominations were schools and\ncolleges which called upon their adherents for gifts and students. These\ndemocratic institutions had the vigor of youth, and were ambitious and\nstruggling. \"Why,\" asked the practical men of affairs who controlled\nthem, \"should not our daughters go on with our sons from the public\nschools to the university which we are sacrificing to equip and\nmaintain? Why should we duplicate the enormously expensive appliances of\neducation, when our existing colleges would be bettered by more\nstudents? By far the large majority of our boys and girls study together\nas children; they work together as men and women in all the important\nconcerns of life; why should they be separated in the lecture room for\nonly the four years between eighteen and twenty-two, when that\nseparation means the doubling of an equipment already too poor by\nhalf?\"\n\nIt is not strange that with this and much more practical reasoning of a\nsimilar kind, coeducation was established in some colleges at their\nbeginning, in others after debate and by a radical change in policy.\nWhen once the chivalrous desire was aroused to give girls as good an\neducation as their brothers, western men carried out the principle\nunflinchingly. From the kindergarten to the preparation for the\ndoctorate of philosophy, educational opportunities are now practically\nalike for men and women. The total number of colleges of arts and\nsciences empowered by law to give degrees, reporting to Washington in\n1888, was three hundred and eighty-nine. Of these two hundred and\nthirty-seven, or nearly two thirds, were coeducational. Among them are\nall the state universities, and nearly all the colleges under the\npatronage of the Protestant sects.\n\nHitherto I have spoken as if coeducation were a western movement; and in\nthe West it certainly has had greater currency than elsewhere. But it\noriginated, at least so far as concerns superior secondary training, in\nMassachusetts. Bradford Academy, chartered in 1804, is the oldest\nincorporated institution in the country to which boys and girls were\nfrom the first admitted; but it closed its department for boys in 1836,\nthree years after the foundation of coeducational Oberlin, and in the\nvery year when Mount Holyoke was opened by Mary Lyon, in the large hope\nof doing for young women what Harvard had been founded to do for young\nmen just two hundred years before. Ipswich and Abbot Academies in\nMassachusetts had already been chartered to educate girls alone. It has\nbeen the dominant sentiment in the East that boys and girls should be\neducated separately. The older, more generously endowed, more\nconservative seats of learning, inheriting the complications of the\ndormitory system, have remained closed to women. The requirements for\nthe two sexes are thought to be different. Girls are to be trained for\nprivate, boys for public life. Let every opportunity be given, it is\nsaid, for developing accomplished, yes, even learned women; but let the\nprocess of acquiring knowledge take place under careful guardianship,\namong the refinements of home life, with graceful women, their\ninstructors, as companions, and with suitable opportunities for social\nlife. Much stress is laid upon assisting girl students to attain\nbalanced characters, charming manners, and ambitions that are not\nunwomanly. A powerful moral, often a deeply religious earnestness,\nshaped the discussion, and finally laid the foundations of woman's\neducation in the East.\n\nIn the short period of the twenty years after the war the four women's\ncolleges which are the richest in endowments and students of any in the\nworld were founded and set in motion. These colleges--Vassar, opened in\n1865, Wellesley and Smith in 1875, and Bryn Mawr in 1885--have received\nin gifts of every kind about $6,000,000, and are educating nearly two\nthousand students. For the whole country the Commissioner of Education\nreports two hundred and seven institutions for the superior instruction\nof women, with more than twenty-five thousand students. But these\nresources proved inadequate. There came an increasing demand, especially\nfrom teachers, for education of all sorts; more and more, too, for\ntraining in subjects of advanced research. For this, only the best\nequipped men's universities were thought sufficient, and women began to\nresort to the great universities of England and Germany. In an attempt\nto meet a demand of this sort the Harvard Annex began, twelve years ago,\nto provide women with instruction by members of the Harvard Faculty.\n\nWhere, in a great centre of education, for many years books have\naccumulated, and museums and laboratories have multiplied, where the\nprestige and associations of a venerable past have grown up, and\ncultivated surroundings assure a scholarly atmosphere; in short, in the\nshadow of all that goes to make up the gracious influences of an old and\nhonorable university, it was to be expected that earnest women would\ngather to seek a share in the enthusiasm for scholarship, and the\nopportunities for acquiring it, which their brothers had enjoyed for two\nhundred and fifty years.\n\nThese, then--coeducation, the woman's college, and the annex--are the\nthree great types of college in which the long agitation in behalf of\nwomen's education has thus far issued. Of course they are but\ntypes--that is, they do not always exist distinct and entire; they are\nrather the central forms to which many varieties approximate. The\ncharacteristic features of each I must now describe, and, as I promised\nat the beginning, point out their inherent strengths and weaknesses; for\neach, while having much to recommend it, still bears in itself the\ndefects of its qualities. To explain dangers as well as promises is the\nbusiness of the critic, as contrasted with that of the advocate. To this\nbusiness I now turn, and I may naturally have most in mind the\nUniversity of Michigan, my own Alma Mater, Wellesley College, with whose\ngovernment I have been connected for a dozen years, and the Harvard\nAnnex, whose neighbor I now am.\n\nCoeducation involves, as its name implies, the education of a company of\nyoung men and women as a single body. To the two sexes alike are\npresented the same conditions of admission, of opportunities during the\ncourse, of requirements for the degrees, of guardianship, of discipline,\nof organization. The typical features are identical classrooms,\nlibraries, and laboratories, occupied at the same time, under the same\ninstructors; and the same honors for like work. Ordinarily all the\ninstructors are men, although in a few universities professorships are\nheld by women. Usually no dormitories or boarding-houses are provided\nfor either the young men or women, and no more surveillance is kept over\nthe one than over the other. This feature, however, is not essential. At\nCornell, Oberlin, and elsewhere, often out of local necessity, buildings\nhave been provided where the young women may--in some instances,\nmust--live together under the ordinary regulations of home life, with a\nlady in charge. But in most of the higher coeducational institutions the\nprinciple has from the first been assumed that students of both sexes\nbecome sufficiently matured by eighteen years of home, school, and\nsocial life--especially under the ample opportunities for learning the\nuses of freedom which our social habits afford--safely to undertake a\ncollege course, and advantageously to order their daily lives. Of course\nall have a moral support in the advice and example of their teachers,\nand they are held to good intellectual work by the perpetual demand of\nthe classroom, the laboratory, and the thesis.\n\nThe girl who goes to the University of Michigan to-day, just as when I\nentered there in 1872, finds her own boarding-place in one of the quiet\nhomes of the pleasant little city whose interest centres in the two\nthousand five hundred students scattered within its borders. She makes\nthe business arrangements for her winter's fuel and its storage; she\nfinds her washerwoman or her laundry; she arranges her own hours of\nexercise, of study, and of sleep; she chooses her own society, clubs,\nand church. The advice she gets comes from another girl student of\nsophomoric dignity who chances to be in the same house, or possibly from\na still more advanced young woman whom she met on the journey, or sat\nnear in church on her first Sunday. Strong is the comradeship among\nthese ambitious girls, who nurse one another in illness, admonish one\nanother in health, and rival one another in study only less eagerly than\nthey all rival the boys. In my time in college the little group of\ngirls, suddenly introduced into the army of young men, felt that the\nfate of our sex hung upon proving that \"lady Greek\" involved the\naccents, and that women's minds were particularly absorptive of the\ncalculus and metaphysics. And still in those sections where, with\ngrowing experience, the anxieties about coeducation have been allayed, a\nhealthy and hearty relationship and honest rivalry between young men and\nwomen exists. It is a stimulating atmosphere, and develops in good stock\na strength and independent balance which tell in after-life.\n\nIn estimating the worth of such a system as this, we may say at once\nthat it does not meet every need of a woman's nature. No system can--no\nsystem that has yet been devised. A woman is an object of attraction to\nmen, and also in herself so delicately organized as to be fitted\npeculiarly for the graces and domesticities of life. The exercise of her\nspecial function of motherhood demands sheltered circumstances and\nrefined moral perceptions. But then, over and above all this, she is a\nhuman being--a person, that is, who has her own way in the world to\nmake, and who will come to success or failure, in her home or outside\nit, according as her judgment is fortified, her observations and\nexperiences are enlarged, her courage is rendered strong and calm, her\nmoral estimates are trained to be accurate, broad, and swift. In a large\ntract of her character--is it the largest tract?--her own needs and\nthose of the young man are identical. Both are rational persons, and the\ngreater part of the young man's education is addressed to his rational\npersonality rather than to the peculiarities of his sex. Why, the\ndefenders of coeducation ask, may not the same principles apply to\nwomen? Why train a girl specifically to be a wife and mother, when no\ngreat need is felt for training a boy to be a husband and father? In\neducation, as a public matter, the two sexes meet on common ground. The\ndifferences must be attended to privately.\n\nAt any rate, whatever may be thought of the relative importance of the\ntwo sides--the woman side and the human side--it will be generally\nagreed that the training of a young woman is apt to be peculiarly weak\nin agencies for bringing home to her the importance of direct and\nrational action. The artificialities of society, the enfeebling\nindulgence extended to pretty silliness, the gallantry of men glad ever\nto accept the hard things and leave to her the easy--by these influences\nany comfortably placed and pleasing girl is pretty sure to be surrounded\nin her early teens. The coeducationists think it wholesome that in her\nlater teens and early twenties she should be subjected to an impartial\njudgment, ready to estimate her without swerving, and to tell her as\nfreely when she is silly, ignorant, fussy, or indolent as her brother\nhimself is told. Coeducation, as a system, must minimize the different\nneeds of men and women; it appeals to them and provides for them alike,\nand then allows the natural tastes and instincts of each scope for\nindividuality. The strengths of this system, accordingly, are to be\nfound in its tendency to promote independence of judgment, individuality\nof tastes, common-sense and foresight in self-guidance, disinclination\nto claim favor, interest in learning for its own sake; friendly,\nnatural, unromantic, non-sentimental relations with men. The early fear\nthat coeducation would result in classroom romances has proved\nexaggerated. These young women do marry; so do others; so do young men.\nMarriage is not in itself an evil, and many happy homes have been\nfounded in the belief that long and quiet acquaintance in intellectual\nwork, and intimate interests of the same deeper sort, form as solid a\nbasis for a successful marriage as ballroom intercourse or a summer at\nBar Harbor.\n\nThe weaknesses of this system are merely the converse of its strengths.\nIt does not usually provide for what is distinctively feminine. Refining\nhome influences and social oversight are largely lacking; and if they\nare wanting in the home from which the student comes, it must not be\nexpected that she will show, on graduation, the graces of manner, the\nniceties of speech and dress, and the shy delicacy which have been\nencouraged in her more tenderly nurtured sister.\n\nThe woman's college is organized under a different and far more complex\nconception. The chief business of the man's college, whether girls are\nadmitted to it or not, is to give instruction of the best available\nquality in as many subjects as possible; to furnish every needed\nappliance for the acquirement of knowledge and the encouragement of\nspecial investigation. The woman's college aims to do all this, but it\naims also to make for its students a home within its own walls and to\ndevelop other powers in them than the merely intellectual. At the\noutset this may seem a simple matter, but it quickly proves as\ncomplicated as life itself. When girls are gathered together by\nhundreds, isolated from the ordinary conditions of established\ncommunities, the college stands to them preeminently _in loco parentis_.\nIt must provide resident physicians and trained nurses, be ready in case\nof illness and, to prevent illness, must direct exercise, sleep, hygiene\nand sanitation, accepting the responsibility not only of the present\nhealth of its students, but also in large degree of their physical power\nin the future. It generally furnishes them means of social access to the\nbest men and women of their neighborhood; it draws to them leaders in\nmoral and social reforms, to give inspiration in high ideals and\ngenerous self-sacrifice, and it undertakes religious instruction while\nseeking still to respect the varied faiths of its students. In short,\nthe arrangements of the woman's college, as conceived by founders,\ntrustees, and faculty, have usually aimed with conscious directness at\nbuilding up character, inspiring to the service of others, cultivating\nmanners, developing taste, and strengthening health, as well as\nproviding the means of sound learning.\n\nIt may be said that a similar upbuilding of the personal life results\nfrom the training of every college that is worthy of the name; and\nfortunately it is impossible to enlarge knowledge without, to some\nextent, enlarging life. But the question is one of directness or\nindirectness of aim. The woman's college puts this aim in the foreground\nside by side with the acquisition of knowledge. By setting its students\napart in homogeneous companies, it seeks to cultivate common ideals. Of\nits teaching force, a large number are women who live with the students\nin the college buildings, sit with them at table, join in their\nfestivities, and in numberless intimate ways share and guide the common\nlife. Every student, no matter how large the college, has friendly\naccess at any time to several members of the faculty, quite apart from\nher relations with them in the classroom. In appointing these women to\nthe faculty no board of trustees would consider it sufficient that a\ncandidate was an accomplished specialist. She must be this, but she\nshould be also a lady of unobjectionable manners and influential\ncharacter; she should have amiability and a discreet temper, for she is\nto be a guiding force in a complex community, continually in the\npresence of her students, an officer of administration and government no\nless than of instruction. Harvard and Johns Hopkins can ask their pupils\nto attend the lectures of a great scholar, however brusque his bearing\nor unbrushed his hair. They will not question their geniuses too\nsharply, and will trust their students to look out for their own\nproprieties of dress, manners, and speech. But neither Wellesley nor any\nother woman's college could find a place in its faculty for a woman\nSophocles or Sylvester. Learning alone is not enough for women.\n\nNot only in the appointment of its teaching body, but in all its\nappliances the separate college aims at a rounded refinement, at\ncultivating a sense of beauty, at imparting simple tastes and\ngenerous sympathies. To effect this, pictures are hung on the walls,\nstatues and flowers decorate the rooms, concerts bring music to the\nmagnified home, and parties and receptions are paid for out of the\ncollege purse. The influence of hundreds of mentally eager girls\nupon the characters of one another, when they live for four years in\nthe closest daily companionship, is most interesting to see. I have\nwatched the ennobling process go on for many years among Wellesley\nstudents, and I am confident that no more healthy, generous, democratic,\nbeauty-loving, serviceable society of people exists than the girls'\ncollege community affords. That choicest product of modern civilization,\nthe American girl, is here in all her diverse colors. She comes from\nmore than a dozen religious denominations and from every political\nparty; from nearly every state and territory in the Union, and from\nthe foreign lands into which English and American missionaries,\nmerchants, or soldiers have penetrated. The farmer's daughter from\nthe western prairies is beside the child whose father owns half a dozen\nmill towns of New England. The pride of a Southern senator's home\nrooms with an anxious girl who must borrow all the money for her\ncollege course because her father's life was given for the Union. Side\nby side in the boats, on the tennis-grounds, at the table, arm in arm on\nthe long walks, debating in the societies, vigorous together in the\ngymnasium and the library, girls of every grade gather the rich\nexperiences which will tincture their future toil, and make the world\nperpetually seem an interesting and friendly place. They here learn to\n\"see great things large, and little things small.\"\n\nThis detailed explanation of the peculiarities of the girls' college\nrenders unnecessary any long discussion of its strengths and weaknesses.\nAccording to the point of view of the critic these peculiarities\nthemselves will be counted means of invigoration or of enfeeblement.\nLiving so close to one another as girls here do, the sympathetic and\naltruistic virtues acquire great prominence. Petty selfishness retreats\nor becomes extinct. An earnest, high-minded spirit is easily cultivated,\nand the break between college life and the life from which the student\ncomes is reduced to a minimum.\n\nIt is this very fact which is often alleged as the chief objection to\nthe girls' college. It is said that its students never escape from\nthemselves and their domestic standard, that they do not readily acquire\na scientific spirit, and become individual in taste and conduct. Is it\ndesirable that they should? That I shall not undertake to decide. I have\nmerely tried to explain the kinds of human work which the different\ntypes of higher training-schools are best fitted to effect for women.\nWhether the one or the other kind of work needs most to be done is a\nquestion of social ethics which the future must answer. I have set forth\na type, perhaps in the endeavor after clearness exaggerating a little\nits outlines, and contrasting it more sharply with its two neighbor\ntypes than individual cases would justify. There are colleges for women\nwhich closely approximate in aim and method the colleges for men. No\ndoubt those which move furthest in the directions I have indicated are\ncapable of modification. But I believe what I have said gives a\nsubstantially true account of an actually existing type--a type powerful\nin stirring the enthusiasm of those who are submitted to it, subtle in\nits penetrating influences over them, and effective in winning the\nconfidence of a multitude of parents who would never send their\ndaughters to colleges of a different type.\n\nThe third type is the \"annex,\" a recent and interesting experiment in\nthe education of girls, whose future it is yet difficult to predict.\nOnly a few cases exist, and as the Harvard Annex is the most\nconspicuous, by reason of its dozen years of age and nearly two hundred\nstudents, I shall describe it as the typical example. In the Harvard\nAnnex groups of young women undertake courses of study in classes whose\ninstruction is furnished entirely by members of the Harvard Faculty. No\ncollege officer is obliged to give this instruction, and the Annex staff\nof teachers is, therefore, liable to considerable variation from year to\nyear. Though the usual four classes appear in its curriculum, the large\nmajority of its students devote themselves to special subjects. A\nwealthy girl turns from fashionable society to pursue a single course in\nhistory or economics; a hard-worked teacher draws inspiration during a\nfew afternoons each week from a famous Greek or Latin professor; a woman\nwho has been long familiar with French literature explores with a\nlearned specialist some single period in the history of the language.\nBecause the opportunities for advanced and detached study are so\ntempting, many ladies living in the neighborhood of the Annex enter one\nor more of its courses. There are consequently among its students women\nmuch older than the average of those who attend the colleges.\n\nThe business arrangements are taken charge of by a committee of ladies\nand gentlemen, who provide classrooms, suggest boarding-places, secure\nthe instructors, solicit the interest of the public--in short, manage\nall the details of an independent institution; for the noteworthy\nfeature of its relation to its powerful neighbor is this: that the two,\nwhile actively friendly, have no official or organic tie whatever. In\nthe same city young men and young women of collegiate rank are studying\nthe same subjects under the same instructors; but there are two\ncolleges, not one. No detail in the management of Harvard College is\nchanged by the presence in Cambridge of the Harvard Annex. If the\ncorporation of Harvard should assume the financial responsibility,\nsupervise the government, and give the girl graduates degrees, making no\nother changes whatever, the Annex would then become a school of the\nuniversity, about as distinct from Harvard College as the medical, law,\nor divinity schools. The students of the medical school do not attend\nthe same lectures or frequent the same buildings as the college\nundergraduates. The immediate governing boards of college and medical\nschool are separate. But here comparison fails, for the students of the\nprofessional schools may elect courses in the college and make use of\nall its resources. This the young women cannot do. They have only the\nrights of all Cambridge ladies to attend the many public lectures and\nreadings of the university.\n\nThe Harvard Annex is, then, to-day a woman's college, with no degrees,\nno dormitories, no women instructors, and with a staff of teachers made\nup from volunteers of another college. The Fay House, where offices,\nlecture and waiting rooms, library and laboratories are gathered, is in\nthe heart of Old Cambridge, but at a little distance from the college\nbuildings. This is the centre of the social and literary life of the\nstudents. Here they gather their friends at afternoon teas; here the\nvarious clubs which have sprung up, as numbers have increased, hold\ntheir meetings and give their entertainments. The students lodge in all\nparts of Cambridge and the neighboring towns, and are directly\nresponsible for their conduct only to themselves. The ladies of the\nmanagement are lavish in time and care to make the girls' lives happy\nand wholesome; the secretary is always at hand to give advice; but the\npersonal life of the students is as separate and independent as in the\ntypical coeducational college.\n\nIt is impossible to estimate either favorably or adversely the\npermanent worth of an undertaking still in its infancy. Manifestly,\nthe opportunities for the very highest training are here superb, if\nthey happen to exist at all. In this, however, is the incalculable\nfeature of the system. The Annex lives by favor, not by right, and it is\nimpossible to predict what the extent of favor may at any time be. A\ngirl hears that an admirable course of lectures has been given on a\ntopic in which she is greatly interested. She arranges to join the\nAnnex and enter the course, but learns in the summer vacation that\nthrough pressure of other work the professor will be unable to teach in\nthe Annex the following year. The fact that favor rules, and not\nrights, peculiarly hampers scientific and laboratory courses, and\nfor its literary work obliges the Annex largely to depend on its own\nlibrary. Yet when all these weaknesses are confessed--and by none are\nthey confessed more frankly than by the wise and devoted managers of the\nAnnex themselves--it should be said that hitherto they have not\npractically hindered the formation of a spirit of scholarship,\neager, free and sane to an extraordinary degree. The Annex girl\nsucceeds in remaining a private and unobserved gentlewoman, while still,\nin certain directions, pushing her studies to an advanced point seldom\nreached elsewhere.\n\nA plan in some respects superficially analogous to the American annex\nhas been in operation for many years at the English, and more recently\nat some of the Scotch universities, where a hall or college for women\nuses many of the resources of the university. But this plan is so\ncomplicated with the peculiar organization of English university life\nthat it cannot usefully be discussed here. In the few colleges in this\ncountry where, very recently, the annex experiment is being tried, its\nmethods vary markedly.\n\nBarnard College in New York is an annex of Columbia only in a sense, for\nnot all her instruction is given by Columbia's teaching force, though\nColumbia will confer degrees upon her graduates. The new Woman's College\nat Cleveland sustains temporarily the same relations to Adelbert\nCollege, though to a still greater extent she provides independent\ninstruction.\n\nIn both Barnard and Cleveland women are engaged in instruction and in\ngovernment. Indeed, the new annexes which have arisen in the last three\nyears seem to promise independent colleges for women in the immediate\nneighborhood of, and in close relationship with, older and better\nequipped universities for men, whose resources they can to some extent\nuse, whose standards they can apply, whose tests they can meet. When\nthey possess a fixed staff of teachers they are not, of course, liable\nto the instabilities which at present beset the Harvard Annex. So far,\nhowever, as these teachers belong to the annex, and are not drawn from\nthe neighboring university, the annex is assimilated to the type of the\nordinary woman's college, and loses its distinctive merits. If the\nconnection between it and the university should ever become so close\nthat it had the same right to the professors as the university itself,\nit would become a question whether the barriers between the men's and\nthe women's lecture rooms could be economically maintained.\n\nThe preceding survey has shown how in coeducation a woman's study is\ncarried on inside a man's college, in the women's college outside it,\nin the annex beside it. Each of these situations has its advantage. But\nwill the community be content to accept this; permanently to forego the\ncounter advantages, and even after it fully realizes the powers and\nlimitations of the different types, firmly to maintain them in their\ndistinctive vigor? Present indications render this improbable. Already\ncoeducational colleges incline to more careful leadership for their\ngirls. The separate colleges, with growing wealth, are learning to value\nintrepidity, and are carrying their operations close up to the lands of\nthe Ph.D. The annex swings in its middle air, sometimes inclining to the\none side, sometimes to the other. And outside them all, the great body\nof men's colleges continually find it harder to maintain their\nisolation, and extend one privilege after another to the seeking sex.\n\nThe result of all these diversities is the most instructive body of\nexperiment that the world has seen for determining the best ways of\nbringing woman to her powers. While the public mind is so uncertain, so\nliable to panic, and so doubtful whether, after all, it is not better\nfor a girl to be a goose, the many methods of education assist one\nanother mightily in their united warfare against ignorance, selfish\nprivileges, and antiquated ideals. It is well that for a good while to\ncome woman's higher education should be all things to all mothers, if by\nany means it may save girls. Those who are hardy enough may continue to\nmingle their girls with men; while a parent who would be shocked that\nher daughter should do anything so ambiguous as to enter a man's college\nmay be persuaded to send her to a girls'. Those who find it easier to\nhonor an old university than the eager life of a young college, may be\ntempted into an annex. The important thing is that the adherents of\nthese differing types should not fall into jealousy, and belittle the\nvalue of those who are performing a work which they themselves cannot do\nso well. To understand one another kindly is the business of the\nhour--to understand and to wait.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [14] Published in _The Forum_ for September, 1891.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nWOMEN'S EDUCATION IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY[15]\n\n\nOne of the most distinctive and far-reaching movements of the nineteenth\ncentury is that which has brought about the present large opportunities\nfor the higher education of women. Confining itself to no country, this\nvast movement has advanced rapidly in some, slowly and timidly in\nothers. In America three broad periods mark its progress: first, the\nperiod of quiescence, which ends about 1830; second, the period of\nagitation, ending with the civil war; the third, though far as yet from\ncompletion, may be called the period of accomplishment.\n\nFor the first two hundred years in the history of our country little\nimportance was attached to the education of women, though before the\nnineteenth century began, twenty-four colleges had been founded for the\neducation of men. In the early years of this century private schools for\ngirls were expensive and short-lived. The common schools were the only\ngrades of public instruction open to young women. In the cities of\nMassachusetts, where more was done for the education of boys than\nelsewhere, girls were allowed to go to school only a small part of the\nyear, and in some places could even then use the schoolroom only in the\nearly hours of the day, or on those afternoons when the boys had a\nhalf-holiday. Anything like a careful training of girls was not yet\nthought of.\n\nThis comparative neglect of women is less to be wondered at when we\nremember that the colleges which existed at the beginning of this\ncentury had been founded to fit men for the learned professions,\nchiefly for the ministry. Neither here nor elsewhere was it customary to\ngive advanced education to boys destined for business. The country,\ntoo, was impoverished by the long struggle for independence. The\nGovernment was bankrupt, unable to pay its veteran soldiers. Irritation\nand unrest were everywhere prevalent until the ending of the second war\nwith England, in 1815. Immediately succeeding this began that great\nmigration to the West and South-west which carried thousands of the\nmost ambitious young men and women from the East to push our frontiers\nfarther and farther into the wilderness. Even in the older parts of\nthe country the population was widely scattered. The people lived for\nthe most part in villages and isolated farms. City life was uncommon. As\nlate as 1840 only nine per cent of the population was living in\ncities of 8000 or more inhabitants. Under such conditions nothing more\nthan the bare necessities of education could be regarded.\n\nBut this very isolation bred a kind of equality. In district schools it\nbecame natural for boys and girls to study together and to receive the\nsame instruction from teachers who were often young and enthusiastic.\nThese were as a rule college students, granted long winter vacations\nfrom their own studies that they might earn money by teaching village\nschools. Thus most young women shared with their brothers the best\nelementary training the country afforded, while college education was\nreserved for the few young men who were preparing for the ministry or\nfor some other learned profession.\n\nFrom the beginning it had been the general custom of this country to\neducate boys and girls together up to the college age. To-day in less\nthan six per cent of all our cities is there any separate provision of\nschools for boys and girls. This habitual early start together has made\nit natural for our men and women subsequently to read the same books, to\nhave the same tastes and interests, and jointly to approve a large\nsocial freedom. On the whole, women have usually had more leisure than\nmen for the cultivating of scholarly tastes.\n\nThe first endowment of the higher education of women in this country was\nmade by the Moravians in the seminary for girls which they founded at\nBethlehem, Pennsylvania, in 1749. They founded another girls' seminary\nat Lititz in 1794. Though both of these honorable foundations continue\nin effective operation to-day, their influence has been for the most\npart confined to the religious communion of their founders. In 1804 an\nacademy with wider connections was founded at Bradford, Massachusetts,\nat first open to boys and girls, since 1836 limited to girls. From that\ntime academies and seminaries for girls increased rapidly. One of the\nmost notable was Troy Seminary, founded by Emma Hart Willard and\nchartered in 1819. Miss Willard drew up broad and original plans for the\nhigher education of girls, laid them before President Monroe, appealed\nto the New York Legislature for aid, and dreamed of establishing\nsomething like collegiate training. More than three hundred students\nentered her famous seminary, and for seventeen years she carried it on\nwith growing reputation. Her address to the President in 1819 is still a\nstrong statement of the importance to the republic of an enlightened and\ndisciplined womanhood.\n\nEven more influential was the life and work of Mary Lyon, who in 1837\nfounded Mount Holyoke Seminary, and labored for the education of women\nuntil her death, in 1849. Of strong religious nature, great courage and\nresource, she went up and down New England securing funds and pupils.\nHer rare gift of inspiring both men and women induced wide acceptance\nof her ideals of character and intelligence. Seminaries patterned after\nMount Holyoke sprang up all over the land, and still remain as centres\nof powerful influence, particularly in the Middle West and on the\nPacific Coast.\n\nWith this development, through the endowment of many excellent\nseminaries, of the primary education of girls into something like\nsecondary or high-school opportunities, the period of quiescence comes\nto an end. There follows a period of agitation when the full privilege\nof college training side by side with men was demanded for women. This\nagitation was closely connected on the one hand with the antislavery\nmovement and the general passion for moral reform at that time current;\nand, on the other, with the interest in teaching and that study of its\nmethods which Horace Mann fostered. From 1830 to 1865 it was becoming\nevident that women were destined to have a large share in the\ninstruction of children. For this work they sought to fit themselves,\nand the reformers aided them. Oberlin College, which began as a\ncollegiate institute in 1833, was in 1850 chartered as a college. From\nthe beginning it admitted women, and in 1841 three women took its\ndiploma. Antioch College, under Horace Mann's leadership, opened in\n1853, admitting women on equal terms with men. In 1855 Elmira College\nwas founded, the first institution chartered as a separate college for\nwomen.\n\nEven before the Civil War the commercial interests of the country had\nbecome so much extended that trade was rising into a dignity comparable\nto that of the learned professions. Men were more and more deserting\nteaching for the business life, and their places, at first chiefly in\nthe lower grades, were being filled by women. During the five years of\nthe war this supersession of men by women teachers advanced rapidly. It\nhas since acquired such impetus that at present more than two thirds of\nthe training of the young of both sexes below the college grade has\nfallen out of the hands of men. In the mean time, too, though in smaller\nnumbers, women have invaded the other professions and have even entered\ninto trade. These demonstrations of a previously unsuspected capacity\nhave been both the cause and the effect of enlarged opportunities for\nmental equipment. The last thirty or forty years have seen the opening\nof that new era in women's education which I have ventured to call the\nperiod of accomplishment.\n\nFrom the middle of the century the movement to open the state\nuniversities to women, to found colleges for men and women on equal\nterms, and to establish independent colleges for women spread rapidly.\nFrom their first organization the state universities of Utah (1850),\nIowa (1856), Washington (1862), Kansas (1866), Minnesota (1868),\nNebraska (1871) admitted women. Indiana, founded in 1820, opened its\ndoors to women in 1868, and was followed in 1870 by Michigan, at that\ntime the largest and far the most influential of all the state\nuniversities. From that time the movement became general. The example of\nMichigan was followed until at the present time all the colleges and\nuniversities of the West, excepting those under Catholic management, are\nopen to women. The only state university in the East, that of Maine,\nadmitted women in 1872. Virginia, Georgia, and Louisiana alone among all\nthe state universities of the country remain closed to women. This\nsudden opening to women of practically all universities supported by\npublic funds is not more extraordinary than the immense endowments which\nduring the same period have been put into independent colleges for\nwomen, or into colleges which admit men and women on equal terms. Of\nthese privately endowed colleges, Cornell, originally founded for men,\nled the way in 1872 in opening its doors to women. The West and South\nfollowed rapidly, the East more slowly. Of the 480 colleges which at the\nend of the century are reported by the Bureau of Education, 336 admit\nwomen; or, excluding the Catholic colleges, 80 per cent of all are open\nto women. Of the sixty leading colleges in the United States there are\nonly ten in which women are not admitted to some department. These ten\nare all on the Atlantic seaboard and are all old foundations.\n\nThis substantial accomplishment during the last forty years of the right\nof women to a college education has not, however, resulted in fixing a\nsingle type of college in which that education shall be obtained. On the\ncontrary, three clearly contrasted types now exist side by side. These\nare the independent college, the coeducational college, and the\naffiliated college.\n\nTo the independent college for women men are not admitted, though the\ngrade, the organization, and the general aim are supposed to be the same\nas in the colleges exclusively for men. The first college of this type,\nElmira (1855), has been already mentioned. The four largest women's\ncolleges--Vassar, opened in 1861; Smith, in 1875; Wellesley, in 1875,\nand Bryn Mawr, in 1885--take rank among the sixty leading colleges of\nthe country in wealth, equipment, teachers and students, and variety of\nstudies offered. Wells College, chartered as a college in 1870, the\nWoman's College of Baltimore, opened in 1888, and Mt. Holyoke,\nreorganized as a college in 1893, have also large endowments and\nattendance. All the women's colleges are empowered to confer the same\ndegrees as are given in the men's colleges.\n\nThe development of coeducation, the prevailing type of education in the\nUnited States for both men and women, has already been sufficiently\ndescribed. In coeducational colleges men and women have the same\ninstructors, recite in the same classes, and enjoy the same freedom in\nchoice of studies. To the faculties of these colleges women are\noccasionally appointed, and, like their male colleagues, teach mixed\nclasses of men and women. Many coeducational colleges are without halls\nof residence. Where these exist, special buildings are assigned to the\nwomen students.\n\nThe affiliated colleges, while exclusively for women, are closely\nconnected with strong colleges for men, whose equipment and\nopportunities they are expected in some degree to share. At present\nthere are five such: Radcliffe College, the originator of this type,\nconnected with Harvard University, and opened in 1879; Sophie Newcomb\nMemorial College, at Tulane University, opened in 1886; the College for\nWomen of Western Reserve University, 1888; Barnard College, at Columbia\nUniversity, 1889; the Woman's College of Brown University, 1892. In all\nthese colleges the standards for entrance and graduation are the same as\nthose exacted from men in the universities with which they are\naffiliated. To a considerable extent the instructors also are the same.\n\nDuring the last quarter-century many professional schools have been\nopened to women--schools of theology, law, medicine, dentistry,\npharmacy, technology, agriculture. The number of women entering these\nprofessions is rapidly increasing. Since 1890 the increase of women\nstudents in medicine is 64 per cent, in dentistry 205 per cent, in\npharmacy 190 per cent, in technology and agriculture 194 per cent.\n\nWhile this great advance has been accomplished in America, women in\nEngland and on the Continent, especially during the last thirty years,\nhave been demanding better education. Though much more slowly and in\nfewer numbers than in this country, they have everywhere succeeded in\nsecuring decided advantages. No country now refuses them a share in\nliberal study, in the instruction of young children, and in the\nprofession of medicine. As might be expected, English-speaking women,\nfar more than any others, have won and used the opportunities of\nuniversity training. Since 1860 women have been studying at Cambridge,\nEngland, and since 1879 at Oxford. At these ancient seats of learning\nthey have now every privilege except the formal degree. To all other\nEnglish and Scotch universities, and to the universities of the British\ncolonies, women are admitted, and from them they receive degrees.\n\nIn the most northern countries of Europe--in Iceland, Finland, Norway,\nSweden, Denmark--the high schools and universities are freely open to\nwomen. In eastern Europe able women have made efforts to secure advanced\nstudy, and these efforts have been most persistent in Russia and since\nthe Crimean war. When denied in their own land, Russian women have\nflocked to the Swiss and French universities, and have even gone in\nconsiderable numbers to Finland and to Italy. Now Russia is slowly\nresponding to its women's entreaties. During the last ten years the\nuniversities of Rumania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Greece have been open to\nwomen; while in Constantinople the American College for Girls offers the\nwomen of the East the systematic training of the New England type of\ncollege. In western, central, and southern Europe all university doors\nare open. In these countries, degrees and honors may everywhere be had\nby women, except in Germany and Austria. Even here, by special\npermission of the Minister of Education, or the professor in charge,\nwomen may hear lectures. Each year, too, more women are granted degrees\nby special vote and as exceptional cases.\n\nIn brief, it may be said that practically all European universities are\nnow open to women. No American woman of scholarship, properly qualified\nfor the work she undertakes, need fear refusal if she seeks the\ninstruction of the greatest European scholars in her chosen field. Each\nyear American women are taking with distinction the highest university\ndegrees of the Continent. To aid them, many fellowships and graduate\nscholarships, ranging in value from $300 to $1000, are offered for\nforeign study by our colleges for women and by private associations of\nwomen who seek to promote scholarship. Large numbers of ambitious young\nwomen who are preparing themselves for teaching or for the higher fields\nof scientific research annually compete for this aid. Three years ago an\nassociation was formed for maintaining an American woman's table in the\nZoological Station at Naples. By paying $500 a year they are thus able\nto grant to selected students the most favorable conditions for\nbiological investigation. This association has also just offered a prize\nof $1000, to be granted two years hence, for the best piece of original\nscientific work done in the mean time by a woman. The American Schools\nof Classical Studies in Athens and Rome admit women on the same terms as\nmen, and award their fellowships to men and women indifferently. One of\nthese fellowships, amounting to $1000 a year, has just been won by a\nwoman.\n\nThe experience, then, of the last thirty years shows a condition of\nwomen's education undreamed of at the beginning of the century. It shows\nthat though still hampered here and there by timorous restrictions,\nwomen are in substantial possession of much the same opportunities as\nare available for men. It shows that they have both the capacity and the\ndesire for college training, that they can make profitable and approved\nuse of it when obtained, and that they are eager for that broader and\nmore original study after college work is over which is at once the\nmost novel and the most glorious feature of university education to-day.\nIndeed, women have taken more than their due proportion of the prizes,\nhonors, and fellowships which have been accessible to them on the same\nterms as to men. Their resort to institutions of higher learning has\nincreased far more than that of men. In 1872 the total number of college\nstudents in each million of population was 590. Last year it had risen\nto 1270, much more than doubling in twenty-seven years. During this time\nthe number of men had risen from 540 to 947, or had not quite doubled.\nThe women rose from 50 in 1872 to 323 in 1899, having increased their\nformer proportional number more than six times, and this advance has\nalso been maintained in graduate and professional schools.\n\nThe immensity of the change which the last century has wrought in\nwomen's education may best be seen by setting side by side the\nconditions at its beginning and at its close. In 1800 no colleges for\nwomen existed, and only two endowed schools for girls--these belonging\nto a small German sect. They had no high schools, and the best grammar\nschools in cities were open to them only under restrictions. The\ncommoner grammar and district schools, and an occasional private school\ndedicated to \"accomplishments,\" were their only avenues to learning.\nThere was little hostility to their education, since it was generally\nassumed by men and by themselves that intellectual matters did not\nconcern them. No profession was open to them, not even that of teaching,\nand only seven possible trades and occupations.\n\nIn 1900 a third of all the college students in the United States are\nwomen. Sixty per cent of the pupils in the secondary schools, both\npublic and private, are girls--_i.e._ more girls are preparing for\ncollege than boys. Women having in general more leisure than men, there\nis reason to expect that there will soon be more women than men in our\ncolleges and graduate schools. The time, too, has passed when girls went\nto college to prepare themselves solely for teaching or for other\nbread-winning occupations. In considerable numbers they now seek\nintellectual resources and the enrichment of their private lives. Thus\nfar between 50 and 60 per cent of women college graduates have at some\ntime taught. In the country at large more than 70 per cent of the\nteaching is done by women, in the North Atlantic portion over 80 per\ncent. Even in the secondary schools, public and private, more women than\nmen are teaching, though in all other countries the advanced instruction\nof boys is exclusively in the hands of men. Never before has a nation\nintrusted all the school training of the vast majority of its future\npopulation, men as well as women, to women alone.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [15] Published in _The New York Evening Post_, 1900.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\nWOMEN'S EDUCATION AT THE WORLD'S FAIR[16]\n\n\nFew persons have stood in the Court of Honor at Chicago and felt the\nsurpassing splendors gathered there, without a certain dismay over its\nswiftly approaching disappearance. Never in the world before has beauty\nbeen so lavish and so transient. Probably in all departments of the Fair\na hundred million dollars have been spent. Now the nation's holiday is\ndone, the little half-year is over, and the palaces with their widely\ngathered treasures vanish like a dream. Is all indeed gone? Will nothing\nremain? Wise observers perceive some permanent results of the\nmerry-making. What these will be in the busy life of men, others may\ndecide: I point out chiefly a few of the beneficial influences of the\ngreat Fair on the life of women.\n\nThe triumph of women in what may be called their detached existence,\nthat is, in their guidance of themselves and the separated affairs of\ntheir sex, has been unexpectedly great. The Government appointed an\nindependent Board of Lady Managers who, through many difficulties,\ngathered from every quarter of the globe interesting exhibits of\nfeminine industry and skill. These they gracefully disposed in one of\nthe most dignified buildings of the Fair, itself a woman's design. Here\nthey attractively illustrated every aspect of the life of women,\ndomestic, philanthropic, commercial, literary, artistic, and traced\ntheir historic advance. Close at hand, in another building also of their\nown erection, they appropriately appeared as the guardians and teachers\nof little children. Their halls were crowded, their dinners praised,\ntheir reception invitations coveted. Throughout they showed organizing\nability on a huge scale; they developed noteworthy leaders; what is\nmore, they followed them, and they have quarrelled no more, and have\npulled wires less, than men in similar situations; their courage, their\nenergy, their tact in the erection of a monument to woman were\nastonishing; and the efforts of their Central Board were efficiently\nseconded by similar companies in every state. As in the Sanitary and\nChristian Commissions and the hospital service of the war, in the\nmultitude of women's clubs, the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, the\nKing's Daughters, the associations for promoting women's suffrage, so\nonce more here women found an opportunity to prove their ability as a\nbanded sex; and it is clear that they awakened in the nation a deeper\nrespect for their powers.\n\nBut the very triumph does away with its further necessity. Having amply\nproved what they can do when banded together, women may now the more\neasily cease to treat themselves as a peculiar people. Henceforth they\nare human beings. Women's buildings, women's exhibits, may safely become\nthings of the past. At any future fair no special treatment of women\nis likely to be called for. After what has been achieved, the\nself-consciousness of women will be lessened, and their sensitiveness\nabout their own position, capacity, and rights will be naturally\noutgrown. The anthropologist may perhaps still assemble the work of a\nsingle sex, the work of people of a single color, or of those having\nblue eyes. But ordinary people will find less and less interest in\nthese artificial classifications, and will more and more incline to\nmeasure men's and women's products by the same scale. Even at Chicago\nlarge numbers of women preferred to range their exhibits in the common\nhalls rather than under feminine banners, and their demonstration of\nthe needlessness of any special treatment of their sex must be reckoned\nas one of the most considerable of the permanent gains for women from\nthe Fair.\n\nIf, then, women have demonstrated that they are more than isolated\nphenomena, that they should indeed be treated as integral members of the\nhuman family, in order to estimate rightly the lasting advantages they\nhave derived from the Fair we must seek those advantages not in\nisolations but in conjunctions. In the common life of man there is a\nwomanly side and a manly side. Both have profited by one splendid event.\nManufactures and transportation and mining and agriculture will\nhereafter be different because of what has occurred at Chicago; but so\nwill domestic science, the training of the young, the swift intellectual\ninterest, the finer patriotism, the apprehension of beauty, the moral\nbalance. It is by growth in these things that the emancipation of women\nis to come about, and the Fair has fostered them all in an extraordinary\ndegree.\n\nAlthough the Fair was officially known as a World's Fair, and it did\ncontain honorable contributions from many foreign countries, it was, in\na sense that no other exhibition has been before, a nation's fair. It\nwas the climacteric expression of America's existence. It gathered\ntogether our past and our present, and indicated not uncertainly our\nfuture. Here were made visible our beginnings, our achievements, our\nhopes, our dreams. The nation became conscious of itself and was strong,\nbeautiful, proud. All sections of the country not only contributed their\nmost characteristic objects of use and beauty, but their inhabitants\nalso came, and learned to know one another, and their land. During the\nlast two years there has hardly been a village in the country which has\nnot had its club or circle studying the history of the United States. No\nsection has been too poor to subscribe money for maintaining national\nor state pride. In order to see the great result, men have mortgaged\ntheir farms, lonely women have taken heavy life insurance, stringent\neconomy will gladly be practised for years. A friend tells me that she\nsaw an old man, as he left the Court of Honor with tears in his eyes,\nturn to his gray-haired wife and say, \"Well, Susan, it paid even if it\ndid take all the burial money.\"\n\nOnce before, we reached a similar pitch of national consciousness,--in\nwar. Young, unprepared, divided against ourselves, we found ourselves\nable to mass great armies, endure long strains, organize campaigns,\ncommissariats, hospitals, in altogether independent ways, and on a scale\ngreater than Europe had seen. Then men and women alike learned the value\nof mutual confidence, the strength of cooperation and organization. Once\nagain now, but this time in the interest of beauty and of peace, we have\nstudied the art of subordinating fragmentary interests to those of a\nwhole. The training we have received as a nation in producing and\nstudying the Fair, must result in a deeper national dignity, which will\nboth free us from irritating sensitiveness over foreign criticism, and\ngive us readiness to learn from other countries whatever lessons they\ncan teach. Our own provinces too will become less provincial. With\nincreased acquaintance, the East has begun to drop its toleration of the\nWest, and to put friendliness and honor in its place. No more will it\nbe believed along the Atlantic coast that the Mississippi Valley cares\nonly for pork, grain and lumber. As such superstitions decay, a more\ntrustful unity becomes possible. The entire nation knows itself a\nnation, possessed of common ideals. In this heightened national dignity,\nwomen will have a large and ennobling share.\n\nBut further, from the Fair men, and women with them, have acquired a new\nsense of the gains that come from minute obedience to law. Hitherto, \"go\nas you please\" has been pretty largely the principle of American life.\nIn the training school of the last two years of preparation and the six\nmonths of the holding of the Fair, our people, particularly our women,\nhave been solidly taught the hard and needful lesson that whims,\nwaywardness, haste, inaccuracy, pettiness, personal considerations, do\nnot make for strength. Wherever these have entered, they have flawed the\nbeautiful whole, and flecked the honor of us all. Where they have been\nabsent results have appeared which make us all rejoice. Never in so wide\nan undertaking was the unity of a single design so triumphant. As an\nunknown multitude cooperated in the building of a mediaeval cathedral, so\nthroughout our land multitudes have been daily ready to contribute their\nunmarked best for the erection of a common glory. We have thus learned\nto prize second thoughts above first thoughts, to league our lives and\npurposes with those of others, and to subordinate the assertion of\nourselves to that of a universal reason. Hence has sprung a new trust in\none another and a new confidence in our future. The friendliness of our\npeople, already rendered natural by our democratic institutions, has\nreceived a deeper sanction. How distinctly it was marked on the faces of\nthe visitors at the Fair! I was fortunate enough to spend several hours\nthere on Chicago Day, when nearly seven hundred and fifty thousand\npeople were admitted. The appearance of those plain, intelligent, happy,\nhelpful thousands, all strangers and all kind, was the most encouraging\nsight one woman had at the Fair. It has been said that the moral\neducation of a child consists in imparting to him the three qualities,\nobedience, sympathy, dignity. These all have been taught by the Fair,\nand women, more swiftly perceptive than men, have probably learned their\nlesson best.\n\nOne more profound effect of the Fair upon human character must be\nmentioned, on character in those features which are of especial\nimportance to women. Our people have here gained a new sense of beauty,\nand of beauty at its highest and rarest, not the beauty of ornament and\ndecoration, but that of proportion, balance, and ordered suitability of\nparts. Every girl likes pretty things, but the rational basis of beauty\nin the harmonious expression of use, and in furnishing to the eye the\nquiet satisfaction of its normal demands, seldom attracts attention. At\nChicago these things became apparent. Each building outwardly announced\nits inner purpose. Each gained its effect mainly by outline and balance\nof masses rather than by richness of detail. Each was designed in\nreference to its site and to its neighbor buildings. Almost every one\nrested the eye which it still stimulated. Color, form, purpose,\nproportion, sculpture, vegetation, stretches of water, the brown earth,\nall cooperated toward the happy effect. What visitor could see it and\nnot have begotten in him the demand for beauty in his own surroundings?\nIt is said that the Centennial Exhibition affected the domestic\narchitecture and the household decoration of the whole eastern seaboard.\nThe Fair will do the same, but it will bring about a beauty of a higher,\nsimpler sort. In people from every section, artistic taste has been\ndeveloped, or even created; and not only in their houses, but in the\narchitecture of their public buildings and streets shall we see the\nresults of this vision of the White City by the Lake. Huddled houses in\nincongruous surroundings will become less common. At heart we Americans\nare idealists, and at a time when the general wealth is rapidly\nincreasing, it is an indescribable gain to have had such a training of\nthe aesthetic sense as days among the great buildings and nights on the\nlagoons have brought to millions of our people. The teachability of the\ncommon American is almost pathetic. One building was always crowded--the\nFine Arts Building; yet great pictures were the one thing exhibited with\nwhich Americans have hitherto had little or no acquaintance. This\nbeauty, connected essentially with the feminine side of life, will\nhereafter, through the influence of the Fair, become a more usual\npossession of us all.\n\nIf such are the permanent gains for character which women in common with\nmen, yet even more than they, have derived from the Fair, there remain\nto be considered certain helps which have been brought to women in some\nof their most distinctive occupations. Of course they have had here an\nopportunity to compare the different kinds of sewing-machines, pianos,\ntype-writers, telegraphs, clothes-wringers, stoves, and baby-carriages,\nand no doubt they will do their future work with these complicated\nengines more effectively because of such comparative study. But there\nare three departments which ancestral usage has especially consecrated\nto women, and to intelligent methods in each of these the Fair has given\na mighty impulse. These three departments are the care of the home, the\ncare of the young, and the care of the sick, the poor, and the\ndepraved.\n\nAt Philadelphia in 1876 Vienna bread was made known, and the native\narticle, sodden with saleratus, which up to that time had desolated the\ncountry, began to disappear. The results in cookery from the Chicago\nExhibition will be wider. They touch the kitchen with intelligence at\nmore points. Where tradition has reigned unquestioned, science is\nbeginning to penetrate, and we are no longer allowed to eat without\nasking why and what. This new \"domestic science\"--threatening word--was\nset forth admirably in the Rumford Kitchen, where a capital thirty-cent\nluncheon was served every day, compounded of just those ingredients\nwhich the human frame could be demonstrated to require. The health-food\ncompanies, too, arrayed their appetizing wares. Workingmen's homes\nshowed on how small a sum a family could live, and live well.\nArrangements for sterilizing water and milk were there, Atkinson\ncookers, gas and kerosene stoves. The proper sanitation of the home\nwas taught, and boards of health turned out to the plain gaze of the\nworld their inquisitorial processes. Numberless means of increasing\nthe health, ease, and happiness of the household with the least\nexpenditure of time and money were here studied by crowds of despairing\nhousekeepers. Many, no doubt, were bewildered; but many, too, went away\nconvinced that the most ancient employment of women was rising to the\ndignity and attractiveness of a learned profession.\n\nWhen it is remembered that nine tenths of the teachers of elementary\nschools are women, it can be seen how important for them was the\nmagnificent educational exhibit. Here could be studied all that the age\ncounts best in kindergarten, primary, grammar, high and normal schools,\nand in all the varieties of training in cookery, sewing, dressmaking,\nmanual training, drawing, painting, carving. Many of the exhibitors\nshowed great skill in making their methods apprehensible to the\nstranger.\n\nAnd then there were the modes of bodily training, and the lamentable\nimage of the misformed average girl; and in the children's building\nclasses could actually be seen engaged in happy exercise, and close at\nhand appliances for the nursery and the playground. Nor in the enlarged\nappliances for woman's domestic life must those be omitted which tell\nhow cheaply and richly the girl may now obtain a college training like\nher brother, and become as intelligent as he. No woman went away from\nthe educational exhibits of the Fair in the belief that woman's sphere\nwas necessarily narrow.\n\nThere is no need to dilate on the light shed by the Fair upon problems\nof sickness, poverty, and crime. Everybody knows that nothing so\ncomplete had been seen before. The Anthropological Building was a museum\nof these subjects, and scattered in other parts of the Fair was much to\ninterest the puzzled and sympathetic soul. One could find out what an\nideal hospital was like, and how its service and appliances should be\nordered. One studied under competent teachers the care of the dependent\nand delinquent classes. One learned to distinguish surface charity from\nsound. As men grow busier and women more competent, the guidance of\nphilanthropy passes continually more and more into the gentler hands.\nWomen serve largely on boards of hospitals, prisons, charities, and\nreforms, and urgently feel the need of ampler knowledge. The Fair did\nmuch to show them ways of obtaining it.\n\nSuch are the permanent results of the Fair most likely to affect\nwomen. They fall into three classes: the proofs women have given of\ntheir independent power, their ability to organize and to work toward\na distant, difficult, and complex end; the enlargement of their\noutlook, manifesting itself in a new sense of membership in a\nnation, a more willing obedience to law, and a higher appreciation of\nbeauty; and, lastly, the direct assistance given to women in their\nmore characteristic employments of housekeeping, teaching, and\nministering to the afflicted. That these are all, or even the most\nimportant, results which each woman will judge she has obtained, is not\npretended. Everybody saw at the Fair something which brought to\nindividual him or her a gain incomparable.\n\nAnd, after all, the greatest thing was the total, glittering, murmurous,\nrestful, magical, evanescent Fair itself, seated by the blue waters,\nwearing the five crowns, served by novel boatmen, and with the lap so\nfull of treasure that as piece by piece it was held up, it shone, was\nwondered at, and was lost again in the pile. This amazing spectacle will\nflash for years upon the inward eye of our people, and be a joy of their\nsolitude.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [16] Published in _The Forum_ for December, 1891.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nWHY GO TO COLLEGE?\n\n\nTo a largely increasing number of young girls college doors are opening\nevery year. Every year adds to the number of men who feel as a friend of\nmine, a successful lawyer in a great city, felt when in talking of the\nfuture of his four little children he said, \"For the two boys it is not\nso serious, but I lie down at night afraid to die and leave my daughters\nonly a bank account.\" Year by year, too, the experiences of life are\nteaching mothers that happiness does not necessarily come to their\ndaughters when accounts are large and banks are sound, but that on the\ncontrary they take grave risks when they trust everything to accumulated\nwealth and the chance of a happy marriage. Our American girls themselves\nare becoming aware that they need the stimulus, the discipline, the\nknowledge, the interests of the college in addition to the school, if\nthey are to prepare themselves for the most serviceable lives.\n\nBut there are still parents who say, \"There is no need that my daughter\nshould teach; then why should she go to college?\" I will not reply that\ncollege training is a life insurance for a girl, a pledge that she\npossesses the disciplined ability to earn a living for herself and\nothers in case of need; for I prefer to insist on the importance of\ngiving every girl, no matter what her present circumstances, a special\ntraining in some one thing by which she can render society service, not\nof amateur but of expert sort, and service too for which it will be\nwilling to pay a price. The number of families will surely increase who\nwill follow the example of an eminent banker whose daughters have been\ngiven each her specialty. One has chosen music, and has gone far with\nthe best masters in this country and in Europe, so far that she now\nholds a high rank among musicians at home and abroad. Another has taken\nart; and has not been content to paint pretty gifts for her friends, but\nin the studios of New York, Munich, and Paris she has won the right to\nbe called an artist, and in her studio at home to paint portraits which\nhave a market value. A third has proved that she can earn her living, if\nneed be, by her exquisite jellies, preserves, and sweetmeats. Yet the\nhouse in the mountains, the house by the sea, and the friends in the\ncity are not neglected, nor are these young women found less attractive\nbecause of their special accomplishments.\n\nWhile it is not true that all girls should go to college any more than\nthat all boys should go, it is nevertheless true that they should go in\ngreater numbers than at present. They fail to go because they, their\nparents, and their teachers, do not see clearly the personal benefits\ndistinct from the commercial value of a college training. I wish here to\ndiscuss these benefits, these larger gifts of the college life,--what\nthey may be, and for whom they are waiting.\n\nIt is undoubtedly true that many girls are totally unfitted by home and\nschool life for a valuable college course. These joys and successes,\nthese high interests and friendships, are not for the self-conscious and\nnervous invalid, nor for her who in the exuberance of youth recklessly\nignores the laws of a healthy life. The good society of scholars and of\nlibraries and laboratories has no place and no attraction for her who\nfinds no message in Plato, no beauty in mathematical order, and who\nnever longs to know the meaning of the stars over her head or the\nflowers under her feet. Neither will the finer opportunities of college\nlife appeal to one who, until she is eighteen (is there such a girl in\nthis country?), has felt no passion for the service of others, no desire\nto know if through history, or philosophy, or any study of the laws of\nsociety, she can learn why the world is so sad, so hard, so selfish as\nshe finds it, even when she looks upon it from the most sheltered life.\nNo, the college cannot be, should not try to be, a substitute for the\nhospital, reformatory, or kindergarten. To do its best work it should be\norganized for the strong, not for the weak; for the high-minded,\nself-controlled, generous, and courageous spirits, not for the\nindifferent, the dull, the idle, or those who are already forming their\ncharacters on the amusement theory of life. All these perverted young\npeople may, and often do, get large benefit and invigoration, new\nideals, and unselfish purposes from their four years' companionship with\nteachers and comrades of a higher physical, mental, and moral stature\nthan their own. I have seen girls change so much in college that I have\nwondered if their friends at home would know them,--the voice, the\ncarriage, the unconscious manner, all telling a story of new tastes and\nhabits and loves and interests, that had wrought out in very truth a new\ncreature. Yet in spite of this I have sometimes thought that in college\nmore than elsewhere the old law holds, \"To him that hath shall be given\nand he shall have abundance, but from him who hath not shall be taken\naway even that which he seemeth to have.\" For it is the young life which\nis open and prepared to receive which obtains the gracious and uplifting\ninfluences of college days. What, then, for such persons are the rich\nand abiding rewards of study in college or university?\n\nPreeminently the college is a place of education. That is the ground of\nits being. We go to college to know, assured that knowledge is sweet and\npowerful, that a good education emancipates the mind and makes us\ncitizens of the world. No college which does not thoroughly educate can\nbe called good, no matter what else it does. No student who fails to get\na little knowledge on many subjects, and much knowledge on some, can be\nsaid to have succeeded, whatever other advantages she may have found by\nthe way. It is a beautiful and significant fact that in all times the\nyears of learning have been also the years of romance. Those who love\ngirls and boys pray that our colleges may be homes of sound learning,\nfor knowledge is the condition of every college blessing. \"Let no man\nincapable of mathematics enter here,\" Plato is reported to have\ninscribed over his Academy door. \"Let no one to whom hard study is\nrepulsive hope for anything from us,\" American colleges might\nparaphrase. Accordingly in my talk to-day I shall say little of the\ndirect benefits of knowledge which the college affords. These may be\nassumed. It is on their account that one knocks at the college door. But\nseeking this first, a good many other things are added. I want to point\nout some of these collateral advantages of going to college, or rather\nto draw attention to some of the many forms in which the winning of\nknowledge presents itself.\n\nThe first of these is happiness. Everybody wants \"a good time,\"\nespecially every girl in her teens. A good time, it is true, does not\nalways in these years mean what it will mean by and by, any more than\nthe girl of eighteen plays with the doll which entranced the child of\neight. It takes some time to discover that work is the best sort of\nplay, and some people never discover it at all. But when mothers ask\nsuch questions as these: \"How can I make my daughter happy?\" \"How can I\ngive her the best society?\" \"How can she have a good time?\" the answer\nin most cases is simple. Send her to college--to almost any college.\nSend her because there is no other place where between eighteen and\ntwenty-two she is so likely to have a genuinely good time. Merely for\ngood times, for romance, for society, college life offers unequalled\nopportunities. Of course no idle person can possibly be happy, even for\na day, nor she who makes a business of trying to amuse herself. For full\nhappiness, though its springs are within, we want health and friends and\nwork and objects of aspiration. \"We live by admiration, hope, and love,\"\nsays Wordsworth. The college abounds in all three. In the college time\nnew powers are sprouting, and intelligence, merriment, truthfulness, and\ngenerosity are more natural than the opposite qualities often become in\nlater years. An exhilarating atmosphere pervades the place. We who are\nin it all the time feel that we live at the fountain of perpetual youth,\nand those who take but a four years' bath in it become more cheerful,\nstrong, and full of promise than they are ever likely to find\nthemselves again; for a college is a kind of compendium of the things\nthat most men long for. It is usually planted in a beautiful spot, the\ncharm of trees and water being added to stately buildings and\nstimulating works of art. Venerable associations of the past hallow its\nhalls. Leaders in the stirring world of to-day return at each\nCommencement to share the fresh life of the new class. Books, pictures,\nmusic, collections, appliances in every field, learned teachers,\nmirthful friends, athletics for holidays, the best words of the best men\nfor holy days,--all are here. No wonder that men look back upon their\ncollege life as upon halcyon days, the romantic period of youth. No\nwonder that Dr. Holmes's poems to his Harvard classmates find an echo in\ncollege reunions everywhere; and gray-haired men, who outside the\nnarrowing circle of home have not heard their first names for years,\nremain Bill and Joe and John and George to college comrades, even if\nunseen for more than a generation.\n\nYet a girl should go to college not merely to obtain four happy years,\nbut to make a second gain, which is often overlooked, and is little\nunderstood even when perceived; I mean a gain in health. The old notion\nthat low vitality is a matter of course with women; that to be delicate\nis a mark of superior refinement, especially in well-to-do families;\nthat sickness is a dispensation of Providence,--these notions meet with\nno acceptance in college. Years ago I saw in the mirror frame of a\ncollege freshman's room this little formula: \"Sickness is carelessness,\ncarelessness is selfishness, and selfishness is sin.\" And I have often\nnoticed among college girls an air of humiliation and shame when obliged\nto confess a lack of physical vigor, as if they were convicted of\nmanaging life with bad judgment, or of some moral delinquency. With the\nspreading scientific conviction that health is a matter largely under\neach person's control, that even inherited tendencies to disease need\nnot be allowed to run their riotous course unchecked, there comes an\nearnest purpose to be strong and free. Fascinating fields of knowledge\nare waiting to be explored; possibilities of doing, as well as of\nknowing, are on every side; new and dear friendships enlarge and sweeten\ndreams of future study and work, and the young student cannot afford\nquivering nerves or small lungs or an aching head any more than bad\ntaste, rough manners, or a weak will. Handicapped by inheritance or bad\ntraining, she finds the plan of college life itself her supporter and\nfriend. The steady, long-continued routine of mental work, physical\nexercise, recreation, and sleep, the simple and wholesome food, in place\nof irregular and unstudied diet, work out salvation for her. Instead of\nbeing left to go out of doors when she feels like it, the regular\ntraining of the gymnasium, the boats on lake and river, the tennis\ncourt, the golf links, the basket ball, the bicycle, the long walk among\nthe woods in search of botanical or geological specimens,--all these and\nmany more call to the busy student, until she realizes that they have\ntheir rightful place in every well-ordered day of every month. So she\nlearns, little by little, that buoyant health is a precious possession\nto be won and kept.\n\nIt is significant that already statistical investigation in this country\nand in England shows that the standard of health is higher among the\nwomen who hold college degrees than among any other equal number of the\nsame age and class. And it is interesting also to observe to what sort\nof questions our recent girl graduates have been inclined to devote\nattention. They have been largely the neglected problems of little\nchildren and their health, of home sanitation, of food and its choice\nand preparation, of domestic service, of the cleanliness of schools and\npublic buildings. Colleges for girls are pledged by their very\nconstitution to make persistent war on the water cure, the nervine\nretreat, the insane asylum, the hospital,--those bitter fruits of the\nemotional lives of thousands of women. \"I can never afford a sick\nheadache again, life is so interesting and there is so much to do,\" a\ndelicate girl said to me at the end of her first college year. And while\nher mother was in a far-off invalid retreat, she undertook the battle\nagainst fate with the same intelligence and courage which she put into\nher calculus problems and her translations of Sophocles. Her beautiful\nhome and her rosy and happy children prove the measure of her hard-won\nsuccess. Formerly the majority of physicians had but one question for\nthe mother of the nervous and delicate girl, \"Does she go to school?\"\nAnd only one prescription, \"Take her out of school.\" Never a suggestion\nas to suppers of pickles and pound-cake, never a hint about midnight\ndancing and hurried daytime ways. But now the sensible doctor asks,\n\"What are her interests? What are her tastes? What are her habits?\" And\nhe finds new interests for her, and urges the formation of out-of-door\ntastes and steady occupation for the mind, in order to draw the morbid\ngirl from herself into the invigorating world outside. This the college\ndoes largely through its third gift of friendship.\n\nUntil a girl goes away from home to school or college, her friends are\nchiefly chosen for her by circumstances. Her young relatives, her\nneighbors in the same street, those who happen to go to the same school\nor church,--these she makes her girlish intimates. She goes to college\nwith the entire conviction, half unknown to herself, that her father's\npolitical party contains all the honest men, her mother's social circle\nall the true ladies, her church all the real saints of the community.\nAnd the smaller the town, the more absolute is her belief. But in\ncollege she finds that the girl who earned her scholarship in the\nvillage school sits beside the banker's daughter; the New England\nfarmer's child rooms next the heiress of a Hawaiian sugar plantation;\nthe daughters of the opposing candidates in a sharply fought election\nhave grown great friends in college boats and laboratories; and before\nher diploma is won she realizes how much richer a world she lives in\nthan she ever dreamed of at home. The wealth that lies in differences\nhas dawned upon her vision. It is only when the rich and poor sit down\ntogether that either can understand how the Lord is the Maker of them\nall.\n\nTo-day above all things we need the influence of men and women of\nfriendliness, of generous nature, of hospitality to new ideas, in short,\nof social imagination. But instead, we find each political party\nbitterly calling the other dishonest, each class suspicious of the\nintentions of the other, and in social life the pettiest standards of\nconduct. Is it not well for us that the colleges all over the country\nstill offer to their fortunate students a society of the most democratic\nsort,--one in which a father's money, a mother's social position, can\nassure no distinction and make no close friends? Here capacity of every\nkind counts for its full value. Here enthusiasm waits to make heroes of\nthose who can lead. Here charming manners, noble character, amiable\ntemper, scholarly power, find their full opportunity and inspire such\nfriendships as are seldom made afterward. I have forgotten my chemistry,\nand my classical philology cannot bear examination; but all round the\nworld there are men and women at work, my intimates of college days, who\nhave made the wide earth a friendly place to me. Of every creed, of\nevery party, in far-away places and in near, the thought of them makes\nme more courageous in duty and more faithful to opportunity, though for\nmany years we may not have had time to write each other a letter. The\nbasis of all valuable and enduring friendships is not accident or\njuxtaposition, but tastes, interests, habits, work, ambitions. It is for\nthis reason that to college friendship clings a romance entirely its\nown. One of the friends may spend her days in the laboratory, eagerly\nchasing the shy facts that hide beyond the microscope's fine vision, and\nthe other may fill her hours and her heart with the poets and the\nphilosophers; one may steadfastly pursue her way toward the command of a\nhospital, and the other toward the world of letters and of art; these\ndivergences constitute no barrier, but rather an aid to the fulness of\nfriendship. And the fact that one goes in a simple gown which she has\nearned and made herself, and the other lives when at home in a\nmerchant's modern palace--what has that to do with the things the girls\ncare about and the dreams they talk over in the walk by the river or the\nbicycle ride through country roads? If any young man to-day goes through\nHarvard lonely, neglected, unfriended, if any girl lives solitary and\nwretched in her life at Wellesley, it is their own fault. It must be\nbecause they are suspicious, unfriendly, or disagreeable themselves.\nCertainly it is true that in the associations of college life, more than\nin any other that the country can show, what is extraneous, artificial,\nand temporary falls away, and the every-day relations of life and work\ntake on a character that is simple, natural, genuine. And so it comes\nabout that the fourth gift of college life is ideals of personal\ncharacter.\n\nTo some people the shaping ideals of what character should be, often\nheld unconsciously, come from the books they read; but to the majority\nthey are given by the persons whom they most admire before they are\ntwenty years old. The greatest thing any friend or teacher, either in\nschool or college, can do for a student is to furnish him with a\npersonal ideal. The college professors who transformed me through my\nacquaintance with them--ah, they were few, and I am sure I did not have\na dozen conversations with them outside their classrooms--gave me, each\nin his different way, an ideal of character, of conduct, of the scholar,\nthe leader, of which they and I were totally unconscious at the time.\nFor many years I have known that my study with them, no matter whether\nof philosophy or of Greek, of mathematics or history or English,\nenlarged my notions of life, uplifted my standards of culture, and so\ninspired me with new possibilities of usefulness and of happiness. Not\nthe facts and theories that I learned so much as the men who taught me,\ngave this inspiration. The community at large is right in saying that it\nwants the personal influence of professors on students, but it is wholly\nwrong in assuming that this precious influence comes from frequent\nmeetings or talks on miscellaneous subjects. There is quite as likely to\nbe a quickening force in the somewhat remote and mysterious power of the\nteacher who devotes himself to amassing treasures of scholarship, or to\npatiently working out the best methods of teaching; who standing\nsomewhat apart, still remains an ideal of the Christian scholar, the\njust, the courteous man or woman. To come under the influence of one\nsuch teacher is enough to make college life worth while. A young man who\ncame to Harvard with eighty cents in his pocket, and worked his way\nthrough, never a high scholar, and now in a business which looks very\ncommonplace, told me the other day that he would not care to be alive if\nhe had not gone to college. His face flushed as he explained how\ndifferent his days would have been if he had not known two of his\nprofessors. \"Do you use your college studies in your business?\" I\nasked. \"Oh, no!\" he answered. \"But I am another man in doing the\nbusiness; and when the day's work is done I live another life because of\nmy college experiences. The business and I are both the better for it\nevery day.\" How many a young girl has had her whole horizon extended by\nthe changed ideals she gained in college! Yet this is largely because\nthe associations and studies there are likely to give her permanent\ninterests--the fifth and perhaps the greatest gift of college life of\nwhich I shall speak.\n\nThe old fairy story which charmed us in childhood ended with \"And they\nwere married and lived happy ever after.\" It conducted to the altar,\nhaving brought the happy pair through innumerable difficulties, and left\nus with the contented sense that all the mistakes and problems would now\nvanish and life be one long day of unclouded bliss. I have seen devoted\nand intelligent mothers arrange their young daughters' education and\ncompanionships precisely on this basis. They planned as if these pretty\nand charming girls were going to live only twenty or twenty-five years\nat the utmost, and had consequently no need of the wealthy interests\nthat should round out the fullgrown woman's stature, making her younger\nin feeling at forty than at twenty, and more lovely and admired at\neighty than at either.\n\nEmerson in writing of beauty declares that \"the secret of ugliness\nconsists not in irregular outline, but in being uninteresting. We love\nany forms, however ugly, from which great qualities shine. If command,\neloquence, art, or invention exists in the most deformed person, all\nthe accidents that usually displease, please, and raise esteem and\nwonder higher. Beauty without grace is the head without the body.\nBeauty without expression tires.\" Of course such considerations can\nhardly come with full force to the young girl herself, who feels aged\nat eighteen, and imagines that the troubles and problems of life and\nthought are hers already. \"Oh, tell me to-night,\" cried a college\nfreshman once to her president, \"which is the right side and which is\nthe wrong side of this Andover question about eschatology?\" The\nyoung girl is impatient of open questions, and irritated at her\ninability to answer them. Neither can she believe that the first\nheadlong zest with which she throws herself into society, athletics,\ninto everything which comes in her way, can ever fail. But her elders\nknow, looking on, that our American girl, the comrade of her parents\nand of her brothers and their friends, brought up from babyhood in the\neager talk of politics and society, of religious belief, of public\naction, of social responsibility--that this typical girl, with her\nquick sympathies, her clear head, her warm heart, her outreaching\nhands, will not permanently be satisfied or self-respecting, though she\nhave the prettiest dresses and hats in town, or the most charming of\ndinners, dances, and teas. Unless there comes to her, and comes early,\nthe one chief happiness of life,--a marriage of comradeship,--she must\nface for herself the question, \"What shall I do with my life?\"\n\nI recall a superb girl of twenty as I overtook her one winter morning\nhurrying along Commonwealth Avenue. She spoke of a brilliant party at a\nfriend's the previous evening. \"But, oh!\" she cried, throwing up her\nhands in a kind of hopeless impatience, \"tell me what to do. My dancing\ndays are over!\" I laughed at her, \"Have you sprained your ankle?\" But I\nsaw I had made a mistake when she added, \"It is no laughing matter. I\nhave been out three years. I have not done what they expected of me,\"\nwith a flush and a shrug, \"and there is a crowd of nice girls coming on\nthis winter; and anyway, I am so tired of going to teas and ball-games\nand assemblies! I don't care the least in the world for foreign\nmissions, and,\" with a stamp, \"I am not going slumming among the\nItalians. I have too much respect for the Italians. And what shall I do\nwith the rest of my life?\" That was a frank statement of what any girl\nof brains or conscience feels, with more or less bitter distinctness,\nunless she marries early, or has some pressing work for which she is\nwell trained.\n\nYet even if that which is the profession of woman _par excellence_ be\nhers, how can she be perennially so interesting a companion to her\nhusband and children as if she had keen personal tastes, long her own,\nand growing with her growth? Indeed, in that respect the condition of\nmen is almost the same as that of women. It would be quite the same were\nit not for the fact that a man's business or profession is generally in\nitself a means of growth, of education, of dignity. He leans his life\nagainst it. He builds his home in the shadow of it. It binds his days\ntogether in a kind of natural piety, and makes him advance in strength\nand nobility as he \"fulfils the common round, the daily task.\" And that\nis the reason why men in the past, if they have been honorable men, have\ngrown old better than women. Men usually retain their ability longer,\ntheir mental alertness and hospitality. They add fine quality to fine\nquality, passing from strength to strength and preserving in old age\nwhatever has been best in youth. It was a sudden recognition of this\nfact which made a young friend of mine say last winter, \"I am not going\nto parties any more; the men best worth talking with are too old to\ndance.\"\n\nEven with the help of a permanent business or profession, however, the\nmost interesting men I know are those who have an avocation as well as a\nvocation. I mean a taste or work quite apart from the business of life.\nThis revives, inspires, and cultivates them perpetually. It matters\nlittle what it is, if only it is real and personal, is large enough to\nlast, and possesses the power of growth. A young sea-captain from a New\nEngland village on a long and lonely voyage falls upon a copy of\nShelley. Appeal is made to his fine but untrained mind, and the book of\nthe boy poet becomes the seaman's university. The wide world of poetry\nand of the other fine arts is opened, and the Shelleyian specialist\nbecomes a cultivated, original, and charming man. A busy merchant loves\nflowers, and in all his free hours studies them. Each new spring adds\nknowledge to his knowledge, and his friends continually bring him their\nstrange discoveries. With growing wealth he cultivates rare and\nbeautiful plants, and shares them with his fortunate acquaintances.\nHappy the companion invited to a walk or a drive with such observant\neyes, such vivid talk! Because of this cheerful interest in flowers, and\nthis ingenious skill in dealing with them, the man himself is\ninteresting. All his powers are alert, and his judgment is valued in\npublic life and in private business. Or is it more exact to say that\nbecause he is the kind of man who would insist upon having such\ninterests outside his daily work, he is still fresh and young and\ncapable of growth at an age when many other men are dull and old and\ncertain that the time of decay is at hand?\n\nThere are two reasons why women need to cultivate these large and\nabiding interests even more persistently than men. In the first place,\nthey have more leisure. They are indeed the only leisured class in the\ncountry, the only large body of persons who are not called upon to win\ntheir daily bread in direct, wage-earning ways. As yet, fortunately, few\nmen among us have so little self-respect as to idle about our streets\nand drawing-rooms because their fathers are rich enough to support them.\nWe are not without our unemployed poor; but roving tramps and idle\nclubmen are after all not of large consequence. Our serious\nnon-producing classes are chiefly women. It is the regular ambition of\nthe chivalrous American to make all the women who depend on him so\ncomfortable that they need do nothing for themselves. Machinery has\ntaken nearly all the former occupations of women out of the home into\nthe shop and factory. Widespread wealth and comfort, and the inherited\ntheory that it is not well for the woman to earn money so long as father\nor brothers can support her, have brought about a condition of things in\nwhich there is social danger, unless with the larger leisure are given\nhigh and enduring interests. To health especially there is great danger,\nfor nothing breaks down a woman's health like idleness and its resulting\nennui. More people, I am sure, are broken down nervously because they\nare bored, than because they are overworked; and more still go to\npieces through fussiness, unwholesome living, worry over petty details,\nand the daily disappointments which result from small and superficial\ntraining. And then, besides the danger to health, there is the danger to\ncharacter. I need not dwell on the undermining influence which men also\nfeel when occupation is taken away and no absorbing private interest\nfills the vacancy. The vices of luxurious city life are perhaps hardly\nmore destructive to character than is the slow deterioration of barren\ncountry life. Though the conditions in the two cases are exactly\nopposite, the trouble is often the same,--absence of noble interests. In\nthe city restless idleness organizes amusement; in the country deadly\ndulness succeeds daily toil.\n\nBut there is a second reason why a girl should acquire for herself\nstrong and worthy interests. The regular occupations of women in their\nhomes are generally disconnected and of little educational value, at\nleast as those homes are at present conducted. Given the best will in\nthe world, the daily doing of household details becomes a wearisome\nmonotony if the mere performance of them is all. To make drudgery divine\na woman must have a brain to plan and eyes to see how to \"sweep a room\nas to God's laws.\" Imagination and knowledge should be the hourly\ncompanions of her who would make a fine art of each detail in kitchen\nand nursery. Too long has the pin been the appropriate symbol of the\naverage woman's life--the pin, which only temporarily holds together\nthings which may or may not have any organic connection with one\nanother. While undoubtedly most women must spend the larger part of life\nin this modest pin-work, holding together the little things of home and\nschool and society and church, it is also true, that cohesive work\nitself cannot be done well, even in humble circumstances, except by the\nrefined, the trained, the growing woman. The smallest village, the\nplainest home, give ample space for the resources of the trained college\nwoman. And the reason why such homes and such villages are so often\nbarren of grace and variety is just because these fine qualities have\nnot ruled them. The higher graces of civilization halt among us; dainty\nand finished ways of living give place to common ways, while vulgar\ntastes, slatternly habits, clouds and despondency reign in the house.\nLittle children under five years of age die in needless thousands\nbecause of the dull, unimaginative women on whom they depend. Such women\nhave been satisfied with just getting along, instead of packing\neverything they do with brains, instead of studying the best possible\nway of doing everything small or large; for there is always a best way,\nwhether of setting a table, of trimming a hat, or teaching a child to\nread. And this taste for perfection can be cultivated; indeed, it must\nbe cultivated, if our standards of living are to be raised. There is now\nscientific knowledge enough, there is money enough, to prevent the vast\nmajority of the evils which afflict our social organism, if mere\nknowledge or wealth could avail; but the greater difficulty is to make\nintelligence, character, good taste, unselfishness prevail.\n\nWhat, then, are the interests which powerfully appeal to mind and heart,\nand so are fitted to become the strengthening companions of a woman's\nlife? I shall mention only three, all of them such as are elaborately\nfostered by college life. The first is the love of great literature. I\ndo not mean that use of books by which a man may get what is called a\ngood education and so be better qualified for the battle of life, nor do\nI mention books in their character as reservoirs of knowledge, books\nwhich we need for special purposes, and which are no longer of\nconsequence when our purpose with them is served. I have in mind the\ngreat books, especially the great poets, books to be adopted as a\nresource and a solace. The chief reason why so many people do not know\nhow to make comrades of such books is because they have come to them too\nlate. We have in this country enormous numbers of readers,--probably a\nlarger number who read, and who read many hours in the week, than has\never been known elsewhere in the world. But what do these millions read\nbesides the newspapers? Possibly a denominational religious weekly and\nanother journal of fashion or business. Then come the thousands who read\nthe best magazines, and whatever else is for the moment popular in\nnovels and poetry--the last dialect story, the fashionable poem, the\nquestionable but talked-of novel. Let a violent attack be made on the\ndecency of a new story, and instantly, if only it is clever, its author\nbecomes famous.\n\nBut the fashions in reading of a restless race--the women too idle, the\nmen too heavily worked--I will not discuss here. Let light literature be\ndevoured by our populace as his drug is taken by the opium-eater, and\nwith a similar narcotic effect. We can only seek out the children, and\nhope by giving them from babyhood bits of the noblest literature, to\nprepare them for the great opportunities of mature life. I urge,\ntherefore, reading as a mental stimulus, as a solace in trouble, a\nperpetual source of delight; and I would point out that we must not\ndelay to make the great friendships that await us on the library shelves\nuntil sickness shuts the door on the outer world, or death enters the\nhome and silences the voices that once helped to make these friendships\nsweet. If Homer and Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Browning are to have\nmeaning for us when we need them most, it will be because they come to\nus as old familiar friends whose influences have permeated the glad and\nbusy days before. The last time I heard James Russell Lowell talk to\ncollege girls, he said,--for he was too ill to say many words,--\"I have\nonly this one message to leave with you. In all your work in college\nnever lose sight of the reason why you have come here. It is not that\nyou may get something by which to earn your bread, but that every\nmouthful of bread may be the sweeter to your taste.\"\n\nAnd this is the power possessed by the mighty dead,--men of every time\nand nation, whose voices death cannot silence, who are waiting even at\nthe poor man's elbow, whose illuminating words may be had for the price\nof a day's work in the kitchen or the street, for lack of love of whom\nmany a luxurious home is a dull and solitary spot, breeding misery and\nvice. Now the modern college is especially equipped to introduce its\nstudents to such literature. The library is at last understood to be the\nheart of the college. The modern librarian is not the keeper of books as\nwas his predecessor, but the distributer of them, and the guide to their\nresources, proud when he increases the use of his treasures. Every\nlanguage, ancient or modern, which contains a literature is now taught\nin college. Its history is examined, its philology, its masterpieces,\nand more than ever is English literature studied and loved. There is now\nevery opportunity for the college student to become an expert in the\nuse of his own tongue and pen. What other men painfully strive for he\ncan enjoy to the full with comparatively little effort.\n\nBut there is a second invigorating interest to which college training\nintroduces its student. I mean the study of nature, intimacy with the\nstrange and beautiful world in which we live. \"Nature never did betray\nthe heart that loved her,\" sang her poet and high priest. When the world\nhas been too much with us, nothing else is so refreshing to tired eyes\nand mind as woods and water, and an intelligent knowledge of the life\nwithin them. For a generation past there has been a well-nigh universal\nturning of the population toward the cities. In 1840 only nine per cent\nof our people lived in cities of eight thousand inhabitants or more. Now\nmore than a third of us are found in cities. But the electric car, the\ntelephone, the bicycle, still keep avenues to the country open. Certain\nit is that city people feel a growing hunger for the country,\nparticularly when grass begins to grow. This is a healthy taste, and\nmust increase the general knowledge and love of nature. Fortunate are\nthe little children in those schools whose teachers know and love the\nworld in which they live. Their young eyes are early opened to the\nbeauty of birds and trees and plants. Not only should we expect our\ngirls to have a feeling for the fine sunset or the wide-reaching\npanorama of field and water, but to know something also about the less\nobvious aspects of nature, its structure, its methods of work, and the\nendless diversity of its parts. No one can have read Matthew Arnold's\nletters to his wife, his mother, and his sister, without being struck by\nthe immense enjoyment he took throughout his singularly simple and\nhard-working life in flowers and trees and rivers. The English lake\ncountry had given him this happy inheritance, with everywhere its sound\nof running water and its wealth of greenery. There is a close connection\nbetween the marvellous unbroken line of English song and the passionate\nlove of the Englishman for a home in the midst of birds, trees, and\ngreen fields.\n\n  The world is so full of a number of things,\n  That I think we should all be as happy as kings,\n\nis the opinion of everybody who knows nature as did Robert Louis\nStevenson. And so our college student may begin to know it. Let her\nenter the laboratories and investigate for herself. Let her make her\ndelicate experiments with the blowpipe or the balance; let her track\nmysterious life from one hiding-place to another; let her \"name all the\nbirds without a gun,\" and make intimates of flower and fish and\nbutterfly--and she is dull indeed if breezy tastes do not follow her\nthrough life, and forbid any of her days to be empty of intelligent\nenjoyment. \"Keep your years beautiful; make your own atmosphere,\"\nwas the parting advice of my college president, himself a living\nillustration of what he said.\n\nBut it is a short step from the love of the complex and engaging world\nin which we live to the love of our comrades in it. Accordingly the\nthird precious interest to be cultivated by the college student is an\ninterest in people. The scholar to-day is not a being who dwells apart\nin his cloister, the monk's successor; he is a leader of the thoughts\nand conduct of men. So the new subjects which stand beside the classics\nand mathematics of mediaeval culture are history, economics, ethics, and\nsociology. Although these subjects are as yet merely in the making,\nthousands of students are flocking to their investigation, and are going\nout to try their tentative knowledge in College Settlements and City\nMissions and Children's Aid Societies. The best instincts of generous\nyouth are becoming enlisted in these living themes. And why should our\ndaughters remain aloof from the most absorbing work of modern city life,\nwork quite as fascinating to young women as to young men? During many\nyears of listening to college sermons and public lectures in Wellesley,\nI always noticed a quickened attention in the audience whenever the\ndiscussion touched politics or theology. These are, after all, the\npermanent and peremptory interests, and they should be given their full\nplace in a healthy and vigorous life.\n\nBut if that life includes a love of books, of nature, of people, it will\nnaturally turn to enlarged conceptions of religion--my sixth and last\ngift of college life. In his first sermon as Master of Balliol College,\nDr. Jowett spoke of the college, \"First as a place of education,\nsecondly as a place of society, thirdly as a place of religion.\" He\nobserved that \"men of very great ability often fail in life because they\nare unable to play their part with effect. They are shy, awkward,\nself-conscious, deficient in manners, faults which are as ruinous as\nvices.\" The supreme end of college training, he said, \"is usefulness in\nafter life.\" Similarly, when the city of Cambridge celebrated in\nHarvard's Memorial Hall the life and death of the gallant young\nex-Governor of Massachusetts, William E. Russell, men did well to hang\nabove his portrait some wise words he had lately said, \"Never forget the\neverlasting difference between making a living and making a life.\" That\nhe himself never forgot; and it was well to remind citizens and students\nof it, as they stood there facing too the ancient words all Harvard men\nface when they take their college degrees and go out into the world,\n\"They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and\nthey that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.\"\nGood words these to go out from college with. The girls of Wellesley\ngather every morning at chapel to bow their heads together for a moment\nbefore they scatter among the libraries and lecture rooms and begin the\nexperiments of the new day. And always their college motto meets the\neyes that are raised to its penetrating message, \"Not to be ministered\nunto, but to minister.\" How many a young heart has loyally responded,\n\"And to give life a ransom for many.\" That is the \"Wellesley spirit\";\nand the same sweet spirit of devout service has gone forth from all our\ncollege halls. In any of them one may catch the echo of Whittier's noble\npsalm,--\n\n  Our Lord and Master of us all!\n      Whate'er our name or sign,\n  We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,\n      We test our lives by Thine.\n\nThat is the supreme test of life,--its consecrated serviceableness. The\nMaster of Balliol was right; the brave men and women who founded our\nschools and colleges were not wrong. \"For Christ and the Church\"\nuniversities were set up in the wilderness of New England; for the large\nservice of the state they have been founded and maintained at public\ncost in every section of the country where men have settled, from the\nAlleghanies across the prairies and Rocky Mountains down to the Golden\nGate. Founded primarily as seats of learning, their teachers have been\nnot only scientists and linguists, philosophers and historians, but men\nand women of holy purposes, sound patriotism, courageous convictions,\nrefined and noble tastes. Set as these teachers have been upon a hill,\ntheir light has at no period of our country's history been hid. They\nhave formed a large factor in our civilization, and in their own\nbeautiful characters have continually shown us how to combine religion\nand life, the ideal and practical, the human and the divine.\n\nSuch are some of the larger influences to be had from college life. It\nis true all the good gifts I have named may be secured without the aid\nof the college. We all know young men and women who have had no college\ntraining, who are as cultivated, rational, resourceful, and happy as any\npeople we know, who excel in every one of these particulars the college\ngraduates about them. I believe they often bitterly regret the lack of a\ncollege education. And we see young men and women going through college\ndeaf and blind to their great chances there, and afterwards curiously\ncareless and wasteful of the best things in life. While all this is\ntrue, it is true too that to the open-minded and ambitious boy or girl\nof moderate health, ability, self-control, and studiousness, a college\ncourse offers the most attractive, easy, and probable way of securing\nhappiness and health, good friends and high ideals, permanent interests\nof a noble kind, and large capacity for usefulness in the world. It has\nbeen well said that the ability to see great things large and little\nthings small is the final test of education. The foes of life,\nespecially of women's lives, are caprice, wearisome incapacity, and\npetty judgments. From these oppressive foes we long to escape to the\nrule of right reason, where all things are possible, and life becomes a\nglory instead of a grind. No college, with the best teachers and\ncollections in the world, can by its own power impart all this to any\nwoman. But if one has set her face in that direction, where else can she\nfind so many hands reached out to help, so many encouraging voices in\nthe air, so many favoring influences filling the days and nights?\n\n\n  The Riverside Press\n  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS\n  U. S. A\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Teacher: Essays and Addresses on Education","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":91737}