§ 1. All who are acquainted with the standard treatises on the theory of education, and also with the management of schools, will have observed that moral and religious training occupies a larger and more prominent space in theory than in practice. On consideration, we shall find perhaps that this might naturally be expected. Of course we are all agreed that morality is more important than learning, and masters who are many of them clergymen, will hardly be accused of under-estimating the value of religion. Why then, does not moral and religious training receive a larger share of the master’s attention? The reason I take to be this. Experience shows that it depends directly on the master whether a boy acquires knowledge, but only indirectly, and in a much less degree, whether he grows up a good and religious man. The aim which engrosses most of our time is likely to absorb an equal share of our interest; and thus it happens that masters, especially those who never associate on terms of intimacy with their pupils out of school, throw energy enough into making boys learn, but seldom think at all of the development of their character, or about their thoughts and feelings in matters of religion.[493] This statement may indeed be exaggerated, but no one who has the means of judging will assert that it is altogether without foundation. And yet, although a master can be more certain of sending out his pupils well-taught than well-principled, his influence on their character is much greater than it might appear to a superficial observer. I am not speaking of formal religious instruction. I refer now to the teacher’s indirect influence. The results of his formal teaching vary as its amount, but he can apply no such gauge to his informal teaching. A few words of earnest advice or remonstrance, which a boy hears at the right time from a man whom he respects, may affect that boy’s character for life. Here everything depends, not on the words used, but on the feeling with which they are spoken, and on the way in which the speaker is regarded by the hearer. In such matters the master has a much more delicate and difficult task than in mere instruction. The words, indeed, are soon spoken, but that which gives them their influence is not soon or easily acquired. Here, as in so many other instances, we may in a few minutes throw down what it has cost us days—perhaps years—to build up. An unkind word will destroy the effects of long-continued kindness. Boys always form their opinion of a man from the worst they know of him. Experience has not yet taught them that good people have their failings, and bad people their virtues. If the scholars find the master at times harsh and testy, they cannot believe in his kindness of heart and care for their welfare. They do not see that he may have an ideal before him to which he is partly, though not wholly true. They judge him by his demeanour in his least guarded moments—at times when he is jaded and dissatisfied with the result of his labours. At such times he is no longer[494] “in touch” with his pupils. He is conscious only of his own power and mental superiority. Feeling almost a contempt for the boys’ weakness, he does not care for their opinion of him or think for an instant what impression he is making by his words and conduct. He gives full play to his arbitrium, and says or does something which seems to the boys to reveal him in his true character, and which causes them ever after to distrust his kindness. § 2. When we consider the way in which masters endeavour to gain influence, we shall find that they may be divided roughly into two parties, whom I will call the open and the reserved. A teacher of the open party endeavours to appear to his pupils precisely as he is. He will hear of no restraint except that of decorum. He believes that if he is as much the superior of his pupils as he ought to be, his authority will take care of itself without his casting round it a wall of artificial reserve. “Be natural,” he says; “get rid of affectations and shams of all kinds; and then, if there is any good in you, it will tell on those around you. Whatever is bad, would be felt just as surely in disguise; and the disguise would only be an additional source of mischief.” The reserved, on the other hand, wish their pupils to think of them as they ought to be rather than as they are. Against the other party they urge that our words and actions cannot always be in harmony with our thoughts and feelings, however much we may desire to make them so. We must, therefore, they say, reconcile ourselves to this; and since our words and actions are more under our control than our thoughts and feelings, we must make them as nearly as possible what they should be, instead of debasing them to involuntary thoughts and feelings which are not worthy of us. Then again, a teacher who is an idealist may say,[495] “The young require some one to look up to. In my better moments I am not altogether unworthy of their respect; but if they knew all my weaknesses, they would naturally, and perhaps justly, despise me. For their sakes, therefore, I must keep my weaknesses out of sight, and the effort to do this demands a certain reserve in all our intercourse.”
§ 3. I suppose an excess in either direction might lead to mischievous results. The “open” man might be wanting in self-restraint, and might say and do things which, though not wrong in themselves, might have a bad effect on the young. Then, again, the lower and more worldly side of his character might show itself in too strong relief; and his pupils seeing this mainly, and supposing that they understood him entirely, might disbelieve in his higher motives and religious feeling. On the other hand, those who set up for being better than they really are, are, as it were, walking on stilts. They gain no real influence by their separation from their pupils, and they are always liable to an accident which may expose them to their ridicule.[204]
§ 4. I am, therefore, though with some limitation, in favour of the open school. I am well aware, however, what an immense demand this system makes on the master who desires to exercise a good influence on the moral and religious character of his pupils. If he would have his pupils know him as he is, if he would have them think as he thinks, feel as he feels, and believe as he believes, he must be, at least in heart and aim, worthy of their imitation. He must[496] (with reverence be it spoken) enter, in his humble way, into the spirit of the perfect Teacher, who said, “For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they also may be sanctified in truth.” Are we prepared to look upon our calling in this light? I believe that the school-teachers of this country need not fear comparison with any other body of men, in point of morality, and religious earnestness; but I dare say many have found, as I have, that the occupation is a very narrowing one, that the teacher soon gets to work in a groove, and from having his thoughts so much occupied with routine work, especially with small fault-findings and small corrections, he is apt to settle down insensibly into a kind of moral and intellectual stagnation—Philistinism, as Matthew Arnold has taught us to call it—in which he cares as little for high aims and general principles as his most commonplace pupil. Thus it happens sometimes that a man who set out with the notion of developing all the powers of his pupils’ minds, thinks in the end of nothing but getting them to work out equations and do Latin exercises without false concords; and the clergyman even, who began with a strong sense of his responsibility and a confident hope of influencing the boys’ belief and character, at length is quite content if they conform to discipline and give him no trouble out of school-hours. We may say of a really good teacher what Wordsworth says of the poet; in his work he must neither
lack that first great gift, the vital soul,
Nor general truths, which are themselves a sort
Of elements and agents, under-powers,
Subordinate helpers of the living mind.—Prelude, i. 9.
But the “vital soul” is too often crushed by excessive routine labour, and then when general truths, both moral[497] and intellectual, have ceased to interest us, our own education stops, and we become incapable of fulfilling the highest and most important part of our duty in educating others.
§ 5. It is, then, the duty of the teacher to resist gravitating into this state, no less for his pupils’ sake than for his own. The ways and means of doing this I am by no means competent to point out; so I will merely insist on the importance of teachers not being overworked—a matter which has not, I think, hitherto received due attention.
We cannot expect intellectual activity of men whose minds are compelled “with pack-horse constancy to keep the............