Book: Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. VI, June, 1862

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. VI, June, 1862




We are compelled to take issue, therefore, with Mr. Spencer's
recommendation, indorsed in the Chicago Report, to the effect that
object-lessons should, after a 'different fashion,' 'be extended to a
range of things far wider, and continued to a period far later than
now.' Not so: after any possible fashion. But let us, as early as the
child's capacity and preparation will allow, have the individualized,
consecutive studies, and the very manner of studying which shall be made
to do _for the higher and the lower intellectual faculties together,
what well-conducted object-lessons can and now do perform, mainly for
the lower_. Of all school-method, this we conceive to be the true end
and consummation. This would be the ultimate fruitage of the Baconian
philosophy, and of philosophy larger than the Baconian--by as much as
the whole is greater than any part--in the school-life and work of every
boy and girl admitted to the benefits of our courses of instruction.

Thus we have endeavored, with some particularity of examination and
detail, to find and state not only what _are_, but what _should be_, the
tendencies of educational thought and effort in our country and times.
And we seem to find that those tendencies _are_, in spite of a
stand-still conservatism or perplexed doubt in some quarters, and of a
conflict of views and practices in others, largely in the direction in
which the ends to be sought show that they _should be_. The _Education
to be_, as far as the intellectual being is concerned, when time and
study shall better have determined the conditions, and furnished the
working instrumentalities, is to be, not in name merely, but in fact, an
education by simply natural employment and development of all the
perceiving, reasoning, originative, and productive faculties of the
mind. It is to be such, because it is to insist on proceeding, after
proper age, and then upon every suitable topic, by observation and
investigation, and so, by discovery of the principles and results the
mind is desired to attain; because it will be an education by rigidly
consecutive, comprehended and firm lines of advance, employing processes
analytic and synthetic, inductive and deductive, each in its requisite
place and in accordance with the nature and stage of the topics under
investigation. For the like reasons, it will have become, what we have
long foreseen and desired that education should be, rightly progressive
in form, and in character such as must develop, strengthen, and store
the mind; such as must best fit, so far as the merely scholastic
education can do this, for practical expression and use of what is
learned, showing all our acquired knowledge in the light of its actual
and various relationships, and conferring true serviceableness and the
largest value, whether for enjoyment or execution.

Such an education would be _real_ in its method as well as in its
substance. We have fairly entered upon the era in which education must
be, and, spite of any temporary recoil of timorous despotisms, must
continue to be, popular and universal. But many are too apt to forget
that, upon our planet, this thing of popular and universal education is
comparatively a new and untried experience; that, so far as its mode and
substance are concerned, it is, in truth, still in course of experiment.
There is at present a very general and but too just complaint of the
popular education, as tending to inflate rather than to inform; as
prompting large numbers of young men especially to aim at scaling to
positions above those in which the school found them, a thing that would
be well enough were it not inevitable that, in the general scramble, the
positions aspired to are at the same time too frequently those above
their capabilities, and quite too full without them: as, in few words,
inspiring youth with a disrelish for those less responsible pursuits to
which a large majority should devote their lives, rather than with a
desire to qualify themselves for their proper work. The tendency is
admitted; and it has become, in overcrowded professions and commercial
pursuits, the fruitful source of superficiality, of charlatanry, of
poverty at once of pocket and of honor, of empty speculations, and of
the worst crimes.

But, appreciating the unquestionable fact that universal education is to
be henceforth the rule in the most advanced nations, and that, in spite
of its apparent consequences or our fears, and remembering also that the
experience is, for the world, a new one, is there not some hope left us
in the thought that possibly the alarmists have been attributing to the
_fact_ of popular education itself what in truth is only a temporary
consequence of a false, an abnormally-educating _method and procedure_
on the part of our schools? Nay, more; does not the latter afford the
true solution of the evil? We believe it has been shown that our
teaching methods not only fail in great part, but in a degree positively
mis-educate; that the very 'head and front' of this failure and
non-developing appears in the want of bringing into just prominence the
discriminating and the applicative powers of the mind, the judgment, and
reason; in a word, the thinking as distinguished from the merely
receptive and retentive powers. Now, what are we to expect from a people
too many of whom are put in possession of stores of fact quite beyond
the degree in which their capacities to discriminate clearly, to judge
wisely, and to draw conclusions rationally have been strengthened and
furnished with the requisite guiding principles? What but a shallow
shrewdness that should run into all the evils we have above named? But
discipline all to think and reason more and more justly and assuredly
upon their facts, and to men so educated, the very thought of an
inordinate crowding of the so-called genteeler avocations, to the
neglect of the more substantial, _becomes appreciated in its true light,
as absurd and unfortunate in every way, and, in all its bearings upon
the individual as well as the social welfare_.

So, let us have popular education; and let a due proportion of fit minds
enter the professions, the posts of office, and commercial pursuits; let
a few even live by mere work of thought; but let all enjoy the luxury of
a degree of thought and rationality that shall forbid their richest
blessing turning to their rankest curse. That such must be the result of
a _true_ education, our faith in a wise Providence forbids us to doubt.
Such an education being _real_, and appealing to all the faculties, does
not eventuate in vain aspirings; but fits each for his place and
work--fits for making that great and happy discovery, that the best
talents and the most complete cultivation of them can not only find in
every employment scope for real exercise, but in the commonest and
simplest occupations will be more expert and successful than uncultured
ignorance can possibly be. In this view, the true education tends not to
_level_ but to utilize, to make the most of every man's special
aptitudes for his special field. Such an education monarchy and
aristocracy might dread, and reaective tendencies have already, indeed,
blighted the once pattern school-system of Prussia, while they are
believed to threaten a like step in England. But the idea of such an
education as we have striven to portray, harmonizes with the spirit and
objects of a commonwealth, and if we mistake not, to the perpetuity and
perfection of free institutions it may yet be found the condition
precedent.




_TRAVEL-PICTURES._

A QUIET COURT IN PARIS.

No lodging on a village street could be quieter than my room in Paris,
and yet the court it opened upon was not more than an easy stone's throw
from the gayest part of the Boulevards. Once within the great wooden
gate and up the narrow lane conducting to the court, and you seemed to
have left the great world as completely behind you as if it had been a
dream. It was one of the smallest of Parisian courts, and--to me its
chief recommendation--one of the neatest. With its two or three small
stuccoed houses built around, it reminded one rather of inclosures that
you see in provincial towns in France than of the damp, high-walled
courts, so common in the capital. In one of these small houses, looking
out upon the sunny, cheerful yard, I had my room, and as I often sat at
the window, I began by degrees to take some interest in the movements of
my neighbors, as we can hardly help doing when the same persons pass in
and out before our eyes for many days in succession. The house was
rented or owned by an elderly lady, who, with her niece and an old
servant-woman, seemed to be its only occupants, with the exception of
two American boys, attending school by day at one of the large
_Pensions_ so numerous in Paris. Kinder people can not be found any
where, and fortunate indeed is the sojourner in a strange land who falls
in with such good hearts. Their history was a singular one, and I did
not really learn it till my return to Paris, after a long absence. They
interested me very much, from the first day. The lady and her niece had
seen better days, and were notable partisans of the Orleans family,
whose memory they deeply reverenced. Politics, indeed, could make but
little difference to them, passing, as they did, most of their lives in
their quiet rooms; but such interest as they had in it clung to what
they considered the model royal family of Europe, a family that carried
its affections and virtues equally through the saddest and most splendid
experiences. They could not sympathize with the oppressive and military
character of the present dynasty and the crowd of time-serving
adventurers that swarmed around it. The life of the younger lady was
devoted to her aunt, and all the spare hours that remained to her from
those occupied by the lessons she was compelled to give, to increase
their scanty income, were passed in her society. I have seldom seen a
life of such entire self-denial as that led by this refined and delicate
woman. The third figure of this family group, the old servant, Marie,
was a character peculiar to France. She seemed rather a companion than a
servant, though she performed all the duties of the latter, keeping the
rooms in neatest order, and making better coffee than I found at the
most splendid restaurants. She had a clear blue eye, with one of the
most faithful expressions I ever saw on human face, and seemed to take
as much interest in me and the two American boys as if we had been her
children. She was the housekeeper, buying all their little supplies; but
when her labors were over, passing her leisure hours in the society of
the ladies she had so long served. I soon saw that the connection
between these three beings would be terminated only by death. The chief
difference in the two ladies and their faithful old _bonne_, beyond the
circumstance of better education and greater refinement, was that for
the former the outer world no longer had much interest, while the old
Marie still seemed to retain a keen relish for what was going on around
her, and often amused me by the eagerness with which she would enter
into trifling details of gossip and general news. After sight-seeing all
day, and the experiences of a stranger in Paris, I was often glad to
join the trio in their little parlor, and talk over the Paris of former
days, during its revolutions and _fetes_, or answer their questions
about my every-day ramblings or my American home. I felt, during these
evenings, a relief from the general routine of places of amusement,
enjoyed their home-like quiet, and knew I could always give pleasure by
varying the monotony of these ladies' every-day life. So the three, so
devoted to each other, lived quietly on, winning my respect and
sympathy. I left them, with many regrets on their part and my own, and
on my return, after an absence of nearly a year, one of my first visits
was to these kind-hearted people. To my sorrow, I learned that death had
removed the elder lady some months before. I could hardly imagine a
death that would longer or more painfully affect a family group than
this, for they had so few outward circumstances to distract their
thoughts. They received me cordially; but grief for their irreparable
loss was always visible in every subsequent interview I had with them.
Meeting again one of the school-boys who had lodged there, he told me
the following circumstances of the death of the lady, and of the
relationship existing between them, which was so different from what I
had always imagined. Madame de B---- was the widow of a French officer
of high rank, during whose life she had been in affluent circumstances;
but through various causes, she had lost most of the property left her
at his death, and retained at last only enough to keep them in the
humble style I have described. The manner of her death was very
singular. In her better days, she had lived with her husband in a
handsome house near the Champs Elysees. On the day of her death, she was
walking with a gentleman from Boston, a friend of the two pupils I have
mentioned, and was speaking to him of her more affluent days, when, as
they were near the house where she had once lived, she proposed to walk
on a little further, that she might point it out. He consented, and as
they drew near to it, she exclaimed, '_Ah! nous l'apercevons_,' and,
without another word, fell suddenly in a sort of apoplectic fit, not
living more than half an hour longer. The circumstance of this lady
dying suddenly so near the place where she had once lived, and which she
so seldom visited, was certainly very singular. To my surprise, I
learned that the younger lady was the daughter of old Marie, having been
adopted and educated by the person she had always supposed to be her
aunt; she having no children of her own. What made it more singular was,
that the younger lady had herself been in possession of this family
secret only a few years. It reminded me somewhat of Tennyson's Lady
Clare, though in this case no one had been kept out of an estate by the
fiction. It was merely to give the young lady the advantage of the
supposed relationship. This, then, accounted for the strong affection
existing between them, and lest any reader might think this conduct
strange, I must again bear witness to the kindness and true affection
always displayed toward the real mother. I would not narrate this true
story, did I not feel how little chance there is of my humble pen
writing any thing that would reach the ears of this family, living so
obscurely in the great world of Paris.

Just opposite us, in the court, lived another lady, who has played many
fictitious parts, as well as a somewhat prominent one, on the stage of
real life. This was Madame George, the once celebrated actress; in her
younger days, a famous beauty, and at one time mistress of the great
Napoleon. Though long retired from regular connection with the stage,
she still makes an occasional appearance upon it, almost always drawing
a full audience, collected principally from curiosity to see so noted a
personage, or to remark what portion of her once great dramatic power
time has still left her. One of these appearances was made at the Odeon,
while we were in Paris. Marie informed us of the coming event before it
was announced on the bills, and seemed to take as much interest in it as
if it had been the _debut_ of a near relative. We had sometimes caught a
glimpse of the great actress, tending her geraniums and roses at the
window, or going out to drive. On the evening in question, a very large
audience greeted the tragedienne, and she was received, with much
enthusiasm. She appeared in a tragedy of Racine, in which she had once
been preeminently distinguished. Magnificently dressed, and adorned with
splendid jewels, trophies of her younger days, when her favors were
sought by those who could afford to bestow such gifts, she did not look
over thirty-five, though now more than twice that age. I am no admirer
of French tragedy, but I certainly thought Madame George still showed
the remains of a great actress, and in some passages produced a decided
impression. Her tall, commanding figure, expressive eyes, and features
of perfect regularity, must have given her every natural requisite for
the higher walks of her profession. As I watched her moving with
majestic grace across the stage, irrepressible though trite reflections
upon her early career passed through my mind. What audiences she has
played before, in the days of the first empire! How many soldiers and
statesmen, now numbered with the not-to-be-forgotten dead, have
applauded her delivery of the same lines that we applaud to-night.
Napoleon and his brilliant military court, the ministers of foreign
nations, students such as are here this evening, themselves since
distinguished in various walks of life, have passed across the stage,
and made their final exit, leaving Madame George still upon it. And the
not irreproachable old character herself--what piquant anecdotes she
could favor us with, would she but draw some memory-pictures for us!
Women in Europe, in losing virtue, do not always lose worldly prudence,
as with us, and go down to infamy and a miserable old age. Better,
however, make allowance for the manners of the time--French manners at
that--and contemplate the old lady from an historical point of view,
regarding her with interest, as I could not help doing, as one of the
few remaining links connecting the old Napoleon dynasty with the new.
How strange the closing of a life like hers! Except for the occasional
reaeppearance on the scene of her old triumphs, not oftener than once or
twice a year, how quiet the life she now leads! what a contrast to the
excitement and brilliancy that mark the career of a leading actress in
the zenith of her reputation! _Then_, from the theatre she would drive
in her splendid equipage through streets illuminated perhaps for some
fresh victory gained by the invincible battalions of her imperial lover.
_Now_, in a retired house, she probably sometimes muses over the past,
pronouncing, as few with better reason can, 'all the world's a stage,
and all the men and women merely players,' such changes has she
witnessed in the fortunes of the great actors by whom she was once
surrounded. So here were the histories of two of the occupants of our
court. The others may have had experiences no less strange; and in many
another court in this great city, from the stately inclosures of the Rue
de Lille to the squalid dens of the Faubourg St. Antoine, (if the names
have not escaped me,) lives well worth the telling are passing away.
Such is a great city.




THE COUNTRY OF EUGENE ARAM

There is a little river in England called the Nidd, and on its high
banks stand the ruins of a castle. There is much in this part of it to
remind one of the Rhine; the banks rise up in bold, picturesque form;
the river just here is broad and deep, and the castle enough of a ruin
to lead us to invest it with some legend, such as belongs to every
robber's nest on that famous river. No hawk-eyed baron ready to pounce
on the traveler, is recorded as having lived here; all that seems to be
remembered of it is, that the murderers of Thomas A Becket lay secreted
here for a time after that deed of blood, ere they ventured forth on
their pilgrimage, haunted by the accursed memory of it all their lives.
This is something, to be sure, in the way of historic incident, but the
real interest of this immediate region arises from the fact of its being
the home and haunt of Eugene Aram. A great English novelist has woven
such a spell of enchantment around the history of this celebrated
criminal, that I could not help devoting a day to the environs of the
little town of Knaresboro', in and around which the most eventful
portion of Aram's life was passed. A famous dropping-well, whose waters
possess the power of rapidly petrifying every object exposed to them, is
one of the most noticeable things in the neighborhood. There are also
one or two curious rockcut cells, high up on precipitous slopes, which
were inhabited years ago by pious recluses who had withdrawn from the
vanities of the world. Some were highly esteemed here in their lives,
and here their bones reposed; and the fact of their remaining
undiscovered sometimes for many years, was ingeniously used by Aram in
his defense, to account for the discovery of the bones of his victim in
the neighboring cave of St. Robert. This latter is one of the few places
connected with Aram's history that can be pointed out with certainty. It
lies about two miles below the castle before mentioned. It is even now a
place that a careless pedestrian might easily pass without remarking,
notwithstanding that its entrance is worn by many curious feet. The
entrance is very narrow, and the cavern, like caverns in general,
exceedingly dark. The river flows by more rapidly here than above; the
grass grows long and wild, and there is a gloomy air about it that would
make it an unpleasant place for a night rendezvous even without the
horrid associations connected with it. The exact place where Clark's
hones were discovered is pointed out, and probably correctly, as the
space is too narrow to admit of much choice. Here they lay buried for
years, while according to Bulwer, this most refined of murderers was
building up a high name as a scholar and a stainless reputation as a
man. A field not far off is pointed out as the place where were found
the bones which led to the detection of Aram. Though but few places can
now be indicated with certainty in connection with his tragic story, a
vague outline of the character of the man before the discovery of his
crime, is preserved in the neighborhood. As we read the true story of
Eugene Aram, lately published by an apparently reliable person, our
sense of the poetic is somewhat blunted; we feel that the lofty
character drawn by Bulwer is in many respects a creation of the
novelist, while the whole story of his love is demolished by the stern
fact of his having a wife, of no reputable character, with whom he lived
unhappily; but he was still a man of talent, of great mental, if not
moral refinement, and of indomitable ardor in the pursuit of learning.
The chief fault of his character until his one great crime was
discovered, seems to have been recklessness in pecuniary transactions,
by which he was often involved in petty difficulties. He seems to have
had a tenderness amounting to acute sensibility, for dumb animals, and
to have dreaded killing a fly more than many a man who could not, like
him, be brought to kill a fellow-being His mental acquirements, though
remarkable for an unaided man of obscure origin, would not probably have
attracted wide attention, had it not been for the notoriety caused by
the detection of his crime. How many fair girls have shed tears over
'his ill-starred love' and melancholy fate, who little dreamed that he
was a husband, in a very humble rank of life. Bulwer speaks of his
favorite walks with Madeline, and of a rustic seat still called 'The
Lovers' Scat.' It is not, I think, now pointed out, nor is the account
of his love probably more than an imaginary one, but it may be founded
upon fact, and some high-souled English girl may really, in his early
life, or when separated as he was for a long time from his wife, have
called forth all his better feelings and revealed glimpses of the beauty
of the life of two affectionate and pure beings keeping no secrets of
the heart from each other. How it must have tortured him to think that
such a life never could be his, well fitted for it as in some respects
he was, and ever haunted by the fear that the poor sham by which he was
concealed must some day be torn away, and an ignominious fate be
apportioned him! No situation can be more deplorable than that of a man
of refined and lofty nature, who has made one fatal mistake connecting
him with men far worse than himself, who are masters of his secret and
ever ready to use it for their own base purposes. Are there not many men
so situated--men near us now, who walk through life haunted by the
dreadful spectres of past misdeeds hastily committed, bitterly
repented--a phantom that can blast every joy, and from whose presence
death comes as a friendly deliverer?




THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

We reached the Hospice about an hour after dark, somewhat stiff, and
very wet from the rain and snow that commenced falling as we entered the
region of clouds. We had passed unpleasantly near some very considerable
precipices, and though unable to distinguish the ground below, knew they
were deep enough to occasion us decided 'inconvenience' had we gone over
them. The long, low, substantial-looking building finally loomed through
the mist, and alighting, we were shown into a room with a cheerful fire
blazing on the hearth, and were soon joined by a priest of cordial,
gentlemanly manners and agreeable conversation. So this was the famous
monastery of St. Bernard, which we had read of all our lives, and the
stories of whose sagacious dogs had delighted our childish minds. A
substantial supper was provided for us, to which was added some
excellent wine, made in the valley below. Conversation was pretty
general in French, and somewhat exclusive in Latin; two of our party
understanding the dead language, but ignorant of the living, framed with
great difficulty ponderous but by no means Ciceronian sentences, which
they launched at our host, who replied with great fluency, showing that
for conversational purposes, at least, his command of the language was
much better than theirs. Being anxious to attend the early mass in the
morning, and tired from our ride, we were soon shown to our rooms.
Walking along the passages and viewing the different apartments, we saw
the house would accommodate a great number of persons. The rooms were
long and narrow, many of them containing a number of beds; but in this
bracing mountain air there is no fear of bad ventilation. No crack of my
window was open, but the wind blew furiously outside, and there was a
decidedly 'healthy coolness' about the apartment. The room was
uncarpeted and scantily furnished, but every thing was spotlessly clean,
and in pleasant contrast with the dirty luxury of some of the
Continental inns. A few small pictures of saints and representations of
scriptural subjects graced the white walls and constituted the only
ornaments of the room. Looking from my window I saw that the clouds had
blown away, and the brilliant moon shone on the sharp crags of the hills
and on the patches of snow that lay scattered about on the ground. The
scene was beautiful, but very cold; the wind howled around the house,
and yet this was a balmy night compared with most they have here. I
thought of merciless snow-drifts overtaking the poor blinded traveler,
benumbed, fainting, and uncertain of his path; of the terrors of such a
situation, and then glancing around the plain but comfortable room, I
could not but feel grateful to the pious founders of this venerable
institution. Long may it stand a monument of their benevolence and of
the shelter that poor wayfarers have so often found within its
hospitable walls!

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