What Is and What Might Be

E >> Edmond Holmes >> What Is and What Might Be

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The life of many-sided growth is also a life of self-expression. This
means that the self-expression, like the growth which it fosters, is
many-sided; and this again means that the perceptive faculties, which
unfold themselves through the medium of self-expression, are not so
much separate faculties as a general capacity for getting on terms
with one's environment and gaining an insight into its laws and
properties. In a school which lays itself out to teach one or two
subjects thoroughly, to the neglect of others, a sense, or special
perceptive faculty, will gradually be evolved by the study of each
subject, provided, of course, that the path of self-expression is
followed,--a literary sense, a historical sense, a mathematical
sense, and so on. But while these special senses are being developed,
the remaining perceptive faculties are being starved, and no attempt
is being made to cultivate that general capacity of which I have just
spoken. The consequent loss to the child, both in his school-life and
in his after-life, is very great. For not only is his mental growth
one-sided and inharmonious, but even in the subjects in which he
specialises he will lose appreciably, owing to his special perceptive
faculties not having as their background any general capacity for
seeing things as they are.

I will try to explain what I mean. In what is known as "Society"
there is a valuable quality called "tact," in virtue of which the
man or woman who is endowed with it always says and does "the right
thing." This quality is compounded partly of sympathetic insight
into the feelings, actual and possible, of others, and partly of
a keen and subtle sense for all the _nuances_ of social propriety.
Like every other perceptive faculty, it is the outcome of
self-expression,--of years of self-expression on the plane of social
intercourse. That general perceptive faculty, or perceptive capacity,
which is the outcome of years of self-expression on many sides of
one's being, has so much in common with the _tact_ of the man of
society, that the epithet _tactful_ may perhaps be applied to it. The
larger, like the lesser, faculty is compounded, partly of sympathetic
insight into latent possibilities, and partly of a delicate sense for
_nuances_ of all kinds. But even this formula does less than justice
to its complex nature. Generated as it is by a life of many-sided
self-expression, it reflects its origin in its internal constitution.
Many elements of thought and feeling have woven themselves into it;
and it is ready to take a colour from each new environment or even
from each new situation. It can become emotional, for example, when
the matter in hand appeals, in any sort or degree, to the emotions;
and there are occasions when its latent sense of humour becomes an
invaluable antidote to that over-seriousness which so often leads men
astray. Above all, it is in its essence, imaginative, for it is ever
learning to picture things to itself as they are or as they might be;
and the higher the level and the wider the sphere of its activity,
the more boldly imaginative it becomes. A faculty so subtle and so
sympathetic must needs play a vitally important _role_, not only when
its possessor is studying "subjects" or handling concrete problems,
but also, and more especially, when he is dealing with the "affairs
of life"; and we can understand that when it is wholly or largely
lacking, each of the special faculties which specialising is supposed
to foster will suffer from not being tempered and yet vitalised by
its all-penetrating influence.

That we may the better understand this, and the better understand
what the path of self-realisation does for the mental development
of him who walks in it, let us ask ourselves what type of mind the
conventional type of education is likely to produce. And let us study
the conventional type of education on what is supposed to be its
highest level. Let us consider the education given to the sons of
the "upper classes." And let us take this highest level at its own
highest level. Let us take the case of those who go through that
tri-partite course of education which begins in a high-class
"Preparatory School," is continued in one of the "Great Public
Schools," and is completed at Oxford or Cambridge. A boy enters
a Preparatory School at the age of eight or nine, and is there
prepared, in general for entrance into one of the Great Public
Schools, and in particular for one of the competitive examinations on
the results of which the entrance scholarships of the Great Public
Schools are awarded. He enters one of the Great Public Schools at
the age of thirteen or fourteen, and is there prepared, in general
for admission to Oxford or Cambridge, and in particular for the
scholarship examinations of the various Oxford and Cambridge
Colleges. He enters Oxford or Cambridge at the age of eighteen
or nineteen, and is there prepared, directly for his degree
examination--"Pass" or "Honours" as the case may be--and indirectly
for the public examination which admits to the Indian and Colonial,
and the higher grades of the Home, Civil Service. This course of
education lasts about fourteen years, and costs from L1,500 to
L4,500.

What will it do for the boy who goes through it? The education given
in the Preparatory School is completely dominated by the scholarship
and entrance examinations at the Great Public Schools. The lines on
which those examinations are conducted are the lines on which the
Preparatory Schoolmaster must educate his pupils. He has no choice in
the matter. The title "Preparatory" seals his doom. His business is,
not to give his pupils the education that is best suited to their
capacities and their years, but to prepare them for admission to a
more advanced school. The more scholarships he can win at Eton,
Harrow, Winchester, Rugby, and the rest, the higher will be the
repute of his school; and as the competition between school and
school is fierce and unintermittent, he cannot afford to throw away a
single chance. In other words, he cannot afford to make a single
serious experiment. The education given in the Great Public Schools
is similarly dominated by the scholarship and entrance examinations
held by the Oxford and Cambridge Colleges. The lines on which those
examinations are conducted are in the main the lines on which the
boys must be educated. It is possible that the Great Public Schools
are freer to go their own ways than are the Preparatory Schools; but
if they are, they make but little use of their freedom.

So far as the rank and file of the boys are concerned, it may be
doubted if the word "educative" is applicable, in any sense or
degree, to the daily round of their work. Of the six great expansive
instincts which are struggling to evolve themselves in every healthy
child, not one can be said to find a congenial soil or a stimulating
atmosphere in the ordinary classroom either of the Preparatory or of
the Public School. Four of the six--the _dramatic_, the _artistic_,
the _musical_, and the _constructive_--are entirely or almost
entirely neglected. Music and Handwork[27] are "extras" (a fatally
significant word); the teaching of Drawing is, as a rule, quite
perfunctory; and Acting is not a recognised part of the school
curriculum. The truth is that marks are not given for these
"subjects"--for in the eyes of the schoolmaster they are all
"subjects"--in any entrance or scholarship examination, and that
therefore it does not _pay_ to teach them. There remain two
instincts,--the _communicative_ and the _inquisitive_. The study of
the "Humanities"--History and Literature, ancient and modern--ought
to train the former; and the study of Science ought to train the
latter. But in the case of the average boy, the study of the
Humanities resolves itself, in the main, into a prolonged and
unsuccessful tussle with the difficulties of the Greek and Latin
languages, the mastering of which is regarded as an end in itself
instead of as the gateway to the wonder-worlds of ancient life and
thought; and the study of Science is, as a rule, a pure farce.[28]
Not one, then, of the expansive instincts of the average boy receives
any training during the nine or ten years of his school life; and as,
in his struggle for the "Pass" degree of his University, he will
follow the lines on which he has been accustomed to work in both his
schools, he will go out into the world at the age of twenty-two or
twenty-three, the victim of a course of education which has lasted
for fourteen years and cost thousands of pounds, and which has done
nothing whatever to foster his mental or spiritual growth. It is true
that in all the Public Schools a certain amount of informal education
is done through the medium of Musical Societies, Natural History
Societies, Debating Societies, School Magazines, and the like; that
the discipline of a Public School, with its system of School and
House prefects, has considerable educational value; that the playing
fields do something towards the formation of character; that the
boys, by exchanging experiences and discussing things freely among
themselves, help to educate one another; and that during the four
months of each year which the schoolboy spends away from school, he
is, or may be, exposed to educative influences of various kinds.[29]
But the broad fact remains that the _studies_ of the youthful
graduate, whether in school classroom or college lecture-room, have
been wholly unformative and therefore wholly uneducative.

But let us consider the education given in our Public Schools and
Universities, at what is presumably the highest of all its levels.
Let us see what is done for the boys who have sufficient ability to
win Scholarships and read for Honours at Oxford and Cambridge. It is
to the supposed interests of these brighter boys that the vital
interests of their duller schoolfellows are perforce sacrificed. Are
the results worth the sacrifice? The brighter boys fall into two main
groups,--those who have a turn for the "Humanities," and those who
have a turn for Mathematics and Science. Where the "Humanities" are
effectively taught,--where, for example, the scholar is allowed to
pass through the portals of Latin and Greek grammar and composition
into the wonder-world that lies beyond them,--the _communicative_
instinct receives a valuable training. It is, unfortunately, quite
possible for a boy, or even for a man, to be what is called a "good
scholar," and yet to take no interest whatever in the history or
literature of Greece and Rome; and the examination system undoubtedly
tends to foster this bastard type of humanism. But when, as a result
of his school and University training, a scholar has passed the
linguistic portals and found pleasure in the worlds beyond, we may
say of him that his education has fostered the growth of one of his
expansive instincts,--perhaps the most important of all, but still
only one. When Science is effectively taught, the growth of the
_inquisitive_ instinct is similarly fostered; but the inquisitive
instinct, though of great value, when trained in conjunction with
other instincts, has but little value as a "formative" when trained
by itself. From this point of view it compares unfavourably with the
communicative instinct, being as much less formative than the latter,
as the mysteries of the material world are less significant and less
able to inspire and vitalise their interpreter than the mysteries of
human life; and a purely (or mainly) scientific training is therefore
worth far less as an instrument of education than a purely (or
mainly) humanistic training.

But why should the boys at our Great Public Schools and the young
men at our Universities have to choose between a scientific and a
humanistic training? Why should these ancient and famous institutions
be content to train one only of the six expansive instincts instead
of at least _two_? Here, as elsewhere, the scholarship system blocks
the way. Some scholarships are given for Classics, others for
History, others for Mathematics, others for Natural Science. Not
a single scholarship is given, at either University, for general
capacity, as measured by the results of a many-sided examination.
Why should this be? The answer is that under any system of formal
examination many-sidedness in education necessarily means
_smattering_; and that against smattering the Universities have, very
properly, set their faces. But, after all, there is no necessary
connection between many-sidedness and smattering. In Utopia, where
the concentric rings of growth are formed by the gradual evolution of
an inner life, whatever feeds that inner life is a contribution,
however humble, to the growth of the whole tree; and many-sidedness,
far from being a defect, is one of the first conditions of success
in education. But in the Great Public Schools, where veneers of
information are being assiduously laid on the surface of the boy's
mind with a view to his passing some impending examination, the
greater the number and variety of such veneers, the more certain they
all are to split and waste and perish. Indeed the real reason why
specialising has to be resorted to in the case of the brighter boys,
is that in no other way can provision be made for the fatal process
of veneering being dispensed with, and for faculty being evolved by
growth from within.

But a heavy price has to be paid for the growth of these specialised
faculties. If Science is to be seriously studied the student must
give the whole of his time to it. This means that he must give up the
idea of educating himself. It is only by turning his back on history,
on literature, on philosophy, on music, on art, that he can hope to
meet the exacting and ever-growing demands which Science makes on
those who desire to be initiated into its mysteries. To say that when
he has "taken his degree" he is only half-educated, is greatly to
over-estimate the formative influence of his highly specialised
training. A sense has undoubtedly been developed in him, an instinct
has been awakened, one or two of his mental faculties have been
vigorously cultivated; but his training has been the reverse of
humanising; and as his studies and his consequent attitude towards
Nature have been essentially _analytical_, he may, in the absence of
those correctives which his compulsory specialising has withheld from
him, have learned to regard the dead side of things as the real
side,--a conception which, if it mastered him, would materialise his
whole outlook on life.

The case of the "humanist" is different. The subjects which he
studies appeal to many sides of his being; and if he could respond
to their appeal, they might do much for his mental and spiritual
development. That he should be able to respond to their appeal is of
vital importance. When he has become a decent "scholar," a chance
is given to him, which if he neglects he will probably lose for
ever,--the chance of making good, in part at least, the deficiencies
of his early education. Had he lived in Utopia, his life of
many-sided self-expression would have given a general training to his
perceptive faculties, in which the twin faculties of imagination and
sympathy would have had their share. But neither in his Preparatory
School nor in the lower classes of his Public School has any serious
attempt been made during school hours to ripen either of those mighty
faculties, whereas much has been done in both schools to retard their
growth. He is doomed, then, to begin his study of the history and
literature of the Ancient World with a considerable knowledge of
the Latin and Greek languages, but (in too many cases) with an
unimaginative mind and an unsympathetic heart. There is, however,
much in that history and that literature,--not to speak of
the history and the literature of his own and other modern
countries,--which, if it could but have its way, would appeal
strongly to his imagination and his sympathy, dormant and undeveloped
as these faculties are,--appeal to them so strongly as to awaken them
at last from their slumber and quicken them into active life. But
alas! the shadow of an impending examination is always falling on his
humanistic studies, nullifying the appeal that they make to him, and
compelling him to look at them from a sordidly utilitarian point of
view. For to give marks for the response that he might make to their
appeal, or even to set questions which would afford free scope for
the play of his imagination or the flow of his sympathy, is beyond
the power of any examiner. There are two things, and two only, which
"pay" on the examination day,--the possession of information and the
power to make use of it; and the humanist who would win prizes at his
school or gain high honours at his University, must therefore regard
the memorable doings and the imperishable sayings of his fellow-men,
not as things to be imagined and felt, admired and loved, wondered at
and pondered over, but as things to be pigeon-holed in his memory, to
be taken out and arranged under headings, to be dissected and
commented on and criticised.[30]

Of the part that memory plays in the education of our humanist, I
need not speak. An undue burden is probably laid upon it; but that is
a matter of minor importance. What is of supreme importance is that
in cultivating his critical faculty with an almost intensive culture,
while they starve, or at any rate leave untended, his more vital and
more emancipative faculties of imagination and sympathy, our Great
Public Schools and Universities are doing him a serious and lasting
injury. Let us take the case of a young man of energy and ability who
has just left Oxford or Cambridge, having won high honours in one of
the humanistic "schools." Let us assume that, like so many of his
kind, he has a keenly critical mind, but is deficient in imagination
and sympathy; and let us then try to forecast his future. That the
faith of his childhood, undermined by his criticism, has already
fallen to pieces or will shortly do so, is more than probable. That
he will be too unimaginative to attempt to construct a new faith out
of the ruins of the old, is practically certain. His lack of faith,
in the broader sense of the word, will incapacitate him for high
seriousness (which he will regard as "bad form"), and _a fortiori_
for enthusiasm (which he will shun like the plague), and will
therefore predispose him to frivolity. Being fully persuaded, owing
to his lack of imaginative sympathy, that his own outlook on life is
alone compatible with mental sanity, and yet being too clear-sighted
to accept that outlook as satisfactory, he will mingle with his
frivolity a strain of bitterness and discontent,--the bitterness of
self-corroding scepticism, and the discontent which grows apace
through its very effort to ignore its own existence. In a word, his
attitude towards life will be one of _cynicism_,--that blend of
hardness and bitterness with frivolity which exactly inverts the
ideal of the modern poet, when he dreams of an age in the far-off
future,

Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity.[31]

And the bitterness of his cynicism will be made bitterer still by
the fact that, owing to his being (in all probability) unmusical,
inartistic, and unable to amuse himself with any form of handwork, he
will have no taste or hobby to distract him from himself. For a time,
indeed, the "genial sense of youth" will keep his sinister tendencies
in check; and in the middle period of life, his struggle to achieve
"success"--for of course he will be an externalist to the core--will
tend to keep them in the background. But in his later years, when he
will have either failed to achieve "success" or discovered--too
late--that it was not worth achieving, his cynicism will assert
itself without let or hindrance, and, with his growing incapacity for
frivolity, will become harder and bitterer, till at last the dark
shadow of incurable pessimism will fall on him and involve his
declining years in ever deepening gloom. I do not say that many of
our University humanists will conform to this type; but I do say that
the type is easily recognisable and is becoming increasingly
familiar.

Even the intellectual development of our humanist, who is nothing if
not intellectual, will be adversely affected by the one-sidedness of
his education. Well-informed and acutely critical he will probably
be; but he will lack the saving grace of that "tactful" faculty which
years of many-sided self-expression can alone evolve,--a faculty
which (as we have seen) is subtly adaptive when it deals with small
matters, boldly imaginative when it deals with great matters, and
delicately sympathetic along the whole range of its activity.
This sinuous and penetrative sense is to the more logically
critical faculty what equity is to law; and in its absence the
intellectuality of our young "intellectual" will be as incomplete as
would be the legal system of a country which knew nothing of equity
and tried to bring all legal problems under the direct control of
positive law. For it will be his business, as he goes through life,
to deal in and with words and phrases; and as words and phrases are
ever tending to change their force, and even their meaning, under our
hands, and as his use and treatment of them will be logical and
"legal" rather than tactful and "equitable," he will again and again
misinterpret and misuse them, and will so do badly the very thing
which he is expected to do well. The man who, though endowed with an
acute and vigorous intellect, can neither think imaginatively nor
reason tactfully, has grave intellectual defects; and the blinder he
is to the existence of these defects the more pronounced will they
become.

The pity of it is that when these unimaginative "intellectuals" go
out into the world, they will fill posts in which they will have
unrivalled opportunities for establishing and disseminating their
unwholesome influence. A section of them will go into the teaching
profession, the higher grades of which are almost entirely recruited
from Oxford and Cambridge. Another section will go into the legal
profession, and through it will enter Parliament in considerable
numbers, where, being trained advocates, they will exercise an
influence out of all proportion to their numerical strength. And a
third section will man the higher grades of the Home, Colonial, and
Indian Civil Services. Teachers, legislators, administrators,--if
there are any walks in life in which cynicism and a capacity for
merely destructive criticism are out of place, and in which
imagination and sympathy are imperatively demanded, they are these
three; and it is nothing short of a national calamity that these
great and commanding professions should be manned, in part at least,
by men whose mission in life is to paralyse rather than to vitalise,
to fetter rather than to set free.

The further pity of it is that the training of these "intellectuals"
might easily have taken an entirely different course. Much of the
specialising which goes on in our Great Public Schools and
Universities, and which is so destructive of mental and spiritual
vitality, is wholly unnecessary. The course of education which the
sons of the "upper classes" go through has this in common with
elementary education, that in neither case need "utilitarian"
considerations weigh with the teachers. The parents of a large
proportion of our Public School boys can afford to give their sons a
_liberal_ education (in the truest and fullest sense of the word) up
to the age of twenty-two or twenty-three; and in the case of these
boys, at any rate, the excessive specialisation which makes their
education so illiberal is done, not in response to the demands
of professions (such as the medical or the engineering) which
necessitate early specialising, but solely in response to the demands
of an examination system which we adopted before we had begun to ask
ourselves what education meant, and which, partly from the force of
habit and partly because it is in keeping with our general attitude
towards life, we still bow down before with a devotion as ardent and
as irrational as that which inspired the cry of "Great is Diana of
the Ephesians."[32]

At its best, then, the education given by the Great Public Schools
and Universities fosters the growth of one of the expansive
instincts,--the _communicative_, a mighty instinct which opens up to
imagination and sympathy the whole wide world of human life; but
because it leaves all the other expansive instincts untended, it
gives that one instinct an inadequate and unsymmetrical training, a
training which checks the growth of the very faculties--imagination
and sympathy--of which the instinct is largely compounded and for the
sake of which it may almost be said to exist. At its second best,
this costly education fosters the growth of the _inquisitive_
instinct,--a grandly expansive instinct when trained in conjunction
with the others, but one which is constrictive rather than expansive
when trained by itself and for its own sake. At its ordinary level,
it trains no instinct whatever, and is therefore unworthy of the name
of education. Why should this be so? Why should a course of education
which lasts so long and costs so much do so little for its victims,
and do that little so badly or, at any rate, so inadequately? Because
from first to last it has looked outward instead of inward; because
it has laboured unceasingly to produce "results," and has never given
a thought to growth.[33]

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