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Translations would be literature.

can receive and take pleasure in the conceptions of a great writer, he may speak to us by an interpreter. At the Renascence there were books in the world which might have affected the minds of the young-Plutarch, Herodotus, and above all Homer. But, as I have already said, it was not the conceptions, but the literary form of the ancients, which seemed to the Renascence scholars of such inestimable value, so they refused to give the conceptions in any but the original words. "Studying the ancients in translations," says Melancthon, "is merely looking at the shadow." He could not have made a greater mistake. As far as the young are concerned the truth is exactly the reverse. The translation would give the substance: the original can give nothing but the shadow. Let us take the experience of Mr. Kinglake, the author of "Eothen." This distinguished Eton man, fired by his remembrances of Homer, visited the Troad. He had, as he tells us, "clasped the Iliad line by line to his brain with reverence as well as love." Well done, Eton! we are tempted to exclaim when we read this passage: here at least is proof that some literature was taught in those days of the dominion of the classics. But stop! It seems that

this clasping did not take place at Eton, but in happy days before Eton, when Kinglake knew no Greek and read translations. "Heroic days are these," he writes, "but the Dark Ages of schoolboy life come closing over them. I suppose it's all right in the end: yet, by Jove! at first sight it does seem a sad intellectual fall. The dismal change is ordained and thin meagre Latin (the same for everybody) with small shreds and patches of Greek, is thrown like a pauper's pall over all your early lore; instead of sweet knowledge, vile monkish doggrel, grammars and graduses, dictionaries and lexicons, horrible odds and ends of dead

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The classics not written for children.

languages are given you for your portion, and down you fall from Roman story to a three-inch scrap of 'Scriptores Romani'-from Greek poetry down, down, to the cold rations of Poetæ Græci,' cut up by commentators and served out by schoolmasters!" ("Eothen," the Troad.)

We see from this how the Renascence ideal had the extraordinary effect of banishing literature from the schoolroom. Literature has indeed not ceased to influence the young; it still counts for much more in their lives than in the lives of their seniors; but we all know who are the writers who affected our own minds in childhood and youth, and who affect the minds of our pupils now-not Eutropius or Xenophon, or Cæsar or Cicero, but Defoe and Swift and Marryatt and Walter Scott. The ancient writings which were literature to Melancthon and Erasmus, as they are still to many in our universities and elsewhere, can never be literature to the young. Most of the classical authors read in the schoolroom could not be made literature to young people even by means of translations, for they were men who wrote for men and women only. We see that it would be absurd to make an ordinary boy of twelve or fourteen study Burke or Pope. And if we do not make him read Burke, whose language he understands, why do we make him read Cicero whose language he does not understand?

If he can

not appreciate Pope, why do we teach him Horace? The Renascence gives us the explanation of this singular anomaly. The scholars of that age were so delighted with the "com posite harmony" of the ancient classics that the study of these classics seemed to them the one thing worth living for. The main, if not the only object they kept in view in bringing up the young was to gain for them admission to the treasure house; and though young people could not understand the

Language versus Literature.

ancient writings as literature, they might at least study them as language and thus be ready to enjoy them as literature in after-life. Thus the subject of instruction in the schoolroom came to be, not the classics but, the classical languages. The classics were used as school books, but the only meaning thought of was the meaning of the detached word or at best of the detached sentence. You ask a child learning to read if he understands what he is reading about, and he says, “I can't think of the meaning because I am thinking of the words." The same thing happened in the schoolboy's study of the classics, and so it has come to pass that to this day the great writers of antiquity discharge a humble function which they certainly never contemplated. "Great Cæsar's body dead and turned to clay

May stop a hole to keep the wind away."

And great Cæsar's mind has been turned to uses almost as paltry. He has in fact written for the schoolroom not a commentary on the Wars of Gaul-nothing of the kindbut simply a book of exercises in Latin construing; and an excellent book it would be if he had only graduated the difficulties better.

§ 16. IV. There is yet another weakness about the Renascence ideal-a weakness from which most ideals are free.

Most ideals have this merit at least, that he who makes even a feeble and abortive attempt to reach them is benefited in proportion to his advance, however small that advance may be. If he fails to seize the coat of gold, he carries away, as the proverb tells us, at least one of the sleeves; or, to use George Herbert's metaphor—

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Fourth: Miss as good as a mile.

But the learned ideal has not even this advantage. The first stage, the study of the ancient languages, is so totally different from the study of the ancient literatures to which it is the preliminary, that the student who never goes beyond this first stage either gets no benefit at all, or a benefit which is not of the kind intended. Suppose I am within a walk, though a long one, of the British Museum, and hearing of some valuable books in the library, which I can see nowhere else, I set off to consult them. In this case it makes no difference to me how valuable the books are if I do not

get as far as the Museum.* My friends may comfort me

with the assurance that the walk must have done me good. Perhaps so; but I left home to get a knowledge of certain books, not to exercise my legs. Had exercise been my object I should probably have chosen another direction.

Now schoolmasters, since the Renascence, have been in the habit of leading all their pupils through the back slums of the Seven Dials and Soho in the direction of the British Museum, with the avowed purpose of taking them to the library, although they knew full well that not one pupil in ten, not one in fifty, would ever reach the door. To produce a few scholars able to appreciate the classics of Greece and Rome they have sacrificed everybody else; and according to their own showing they have condemned a large portion of the upper classes, nearly all the middle classes, and quite all the poorer classes to remain "uneducated." And, according to the theory of the schoolroom, one-half of the

* This illustration was suggested by a similar one in Prof. J. R. Seeley's essay "On the Teaching of English" in his Lectures and Essays

Fifth: Neglect of children.

human race-the women-have not been supposed to need education. For them "accomplishments" have been held sufficient.

§ 17. V. In conclusion I must point out one effect of the Renascence ideal which seems to me no less mischievous than those I have already mentioned. This ideal led the schoolmasters to attach little importance to the education of children. Directly their pupils were old enough for Latin Grammar the schoolmasters were quite at home; but till then the children's time seemed to them of small value, and they neither knew nor cared to know how to employ it. If the little ones could learn by heart forms of words which would afterwards "come in useful," the schoolmasters were ready to assist such learning by unsparing application of the rod, but no other learning seemed worthy even of a caning. Absorbed in the world of books they overlooked the world of nature. Galileo complains that he could not induce them to look through his telescope, for they held that truth could be arrived at only by comparison of MSS. No wonder then that they had so little sympathy with children, and did not know how to teach them. It is by slow degrees that we are breaking away from the bad tradition then established, are getting to understand children, and with such leaders as Rousseau, Pestalozzi, and Froebel, are investigating the best education for them. We no longer think of them as immature men and women, but see that each stage has its own completeness, and that there is a perfection in childhood which must precede the perfection of manhood just as truly as the flower goes before the fruit. "Childhood," says Rousseau, "has its own ways of seeing, feeling, thinking;" and it is by studying these that we find out how children should be educated. Our connexion with the world of

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