Posts Tagged ‘Education’

Montaigne: On Education

July 23, 2018

On the Education of Children
Michel de Montaigne
Translated from the French by Charles Cotton
(Doubleday, 1947) [c.1580]
40 p.

In an essay on sixteenth-century literature C.S. Lewis, describing the Essays of Francis Bacon, makes the observation that

if Bacon took his title from Montaigne, he took nothing else. His earliest essays resemble essays by Montaigne about as much as a metallic-looking cactus raised on the edge of the desert resembles a whole countryside of forest, filled with light and shade, well stocked with game, and hard to get out of.

which, of course, disinclines one to read Bacon ( — as does another of Lewis’ memorable witticisms at Bacon’s expense: “Everyone has read him, but no-one is ever found reading him”). At the same time, his comment suggests, by the art of subtle implication, that the essays of Montaigne might be quite delightful, rather like a whole countryside of forest, filled with light, etc.

On the strength of this recommendation, I, some years ago, purchased a volume of Montaigne’s essays and now, some years later, have read one of them. This particular essay is in the form of a letter to Madame Diane de Foix, Comtesse de Gurson, counselling her on the education of her son.

*

Montaigne’s own education, it comes out, was an odd one. His parents assigned him a Latin-speaking tutor, and kept him (Montaigne) isolated from other children, with the consequence that he grew up speaking Latin as his mother tongue. Little good it did him, in the long run, for, as he tells us, when once he left the tutulage of his master and began to speak French, he rather quickly lost his Latin and retained little into adulthood, an experience that will be familiar to many children of immigrant families.

Among the most contested questions in the history of thought about education is whether we should tell the little darlings what they should find interesting and important, or whether the little darlings should tell us what they find interesting and important. There are arguments on both sides, and Montaigne comes down decisively in the mushy middle. On the one hand, he tells us that we ought not to pay too much attention to the learning objectives of the young:

…I am clearly of opinion, that they ought to be elemented in the best and most advantageous studies, without taking too much notice of, or being too superstitious in those light prognostics they give of themselves in their tender years…

On the other hand, the education a child receives should be responsive to that child’s abilities and inclinations:

…children are to be placed out and disposed of, not according to the wealth, qualities, or condition of the father, but according to the faculties and the capacity of their own souls.

It seems that as to the matter of education Montaigne holds that children should be guided and instructed, but as to the manner, they should be seduced — that is, made to think that they themselves have chosen that which we have chosen for them:

Education ought to be carried on with a severe sweetness … tempting and alluring children to letters by apt and gentle ways.

There is nothing like alluring the appetite and affections; otherwise you make nothing but so many asses laden with books; by dint of the lash, you give them their pocketful of learning to keep; whereas, to do well you should not only lodge it with them, but make them espouse it.

And so students should be lead on, not wholly receptive, but engaged in a dialogue with the material, and the teacher

permitting his pupil himself to taste things, and of himself to discern and choose them, sometimes opening the way to him, and sometimes leaving him to open it for himself; that is, I would not have him alone to invent and speak, but that he should also hear his pupil speak in turn.

In this way, the student will appropriate the material he learns, making it his own, so that he can make use of it naturally and readily, as the body makes use of food:

‘Tis a sign of crudity and indigestion to disgorge what we eat in the same condition it was swallowed; the stomach has not performed its office unless it have altered the form and condition of what was committed to it to concoct.

Montaigne himself sets a good example of this art of appropriation, for he liberally salts his essay with passages from ancient authors — Horace, Virgil, Lucan, Seneca — but in each case the authority has been turned to purpose, saying aptly what Montaigne needs him to say.

In all of this, the teacher is obviously of the greatest importance for the student, acting now as Solon and now as Socrates. Montaigne counsels that parents seek a teacher “who has rather a well-made than a well-filled head”, and, interestingly, he counsels against mothers instructing their own children:

A child should not be brought up in his mother’s lap. Mothers are too tender, and their natural affection is apt to make the most discreet of them all so overfond, that they can neither find in their hearts to give them due correction for the faults they may commit, nor suffer them to be inured to hardships and hazards, as they ought to be.

Such hazards may be greater for boys than girls, and would be more concerning for only children than the abundantly-siblinged. And Montaigne perhaps did not foresee our schools, in which elementary school classrooms, at least, are almost uniformly peopled with female teachers not widely noted for the hardships and hazards they impose upon their charges. But, even so, it is noteworthy that Montaigne thinks sternness more salutary than gentleness.

If the Comtesse de Gurson was hoping to be provided with a well-organized curriculum for her son, she would have been disappointed with Montaigne’s letter, for he has relatively little so say about what the child should study. He recommends poetry for its pedagogical value:

…as Cleanthes said, as the voice, forced through the narrow passage of a trumpet, comes out more forcible and shrill: so, methinks, a sentence pressed within the harmony of verse darts out more briskly upon the understanding, and strikes my ear and apprehension with a smarter and more pleasing effect.

and he testifies to the good done by reading old books:

[The student] shall, by reading those books, converse with the great and heroic souls of the best ages.”

[…]

I never seriously settled myself to the reading any book of solid learning but Plutarch and Seneca; and there, like the Danaides, I eternally fill…

More important than the specific content of the child’s learning is the moral formation of the child, which he argues ought to be first both in priority and in sequence:

After having taught him what will make him more wise and good, you may then entertain him with the elements of logic, physics, geometry, rhetoric …

(This last remark informs us that the education he has in mind, as to content, is a traditional classical education, such as is hard to get these days.)

This method of moral instruction first was that followed by Aristotle when he served as tutor to Alexander:

Aristotle did not so much trouble his great disciple with the knack of forming syllogisms, or with the elements of geometry; as with infusing into him good precepts concerning valour, prowess, magnanimity, temperance, and the contempt of fear.

Among the virtues to be taught is, first, a love and respect for truth:

Above all, let him be lessoned to acquiesce and submit to truth so soon as ever he shall discover it, whether in his opponent’s argument, or upon better consideration of his own.

To the intellectual part of learning Montaigne would have us conjoin a regimen of physical exercise and social decorum, out of respect for human nature:

I would have his outward fashion and mien, and the disposition of his limbs, formed at the same time with his mind. ‘Tis not a soul, ‘tis not a body that we are training up, but a man, and we ought not to divide him.

*

Education is, as he admits, “the greatest and most important difficulty of human science”, and it is correspondingly difficult to speak sensibly on the subject. I find nothing wholly new in Montaigne’s advice to the Comtesse, nor nothing absurd. His advice, in miniature, is stout and solid: teach the tradition by means of charms; let the child appropriate what he learns; promote moral formation; discipline the body; honour truth above all.

Or, by implication, education ought not to be rote, not faddish, not value free, and not skeptical.

We can be gratified, at least, that our schools do not teach by rote.

*

I fear that in making the above summary of this essay, I have been unable to resist liberally quoting from it, disgorging what I ate in the same condition it was swallowed, and this is indeed a fault. Montaigne knows this vice, and has some choice words about me which, not without a certain perversity, I cannot resist quoting in full:

The indiscreet scribblers of our times, who, amongst their laborious nothings, insert whole sections and pages out of ancient authors, with a design, by that means, to illustrate their own writings, do quite contrary; for this infinite dissimilitude of ornaments renders the complexion of their own compositions so sallow and deformed, that they lose much more than they get.

This is just and true; my writing is a sallow and deformed thing when set beside the writing of many of the authors from whom I learn, Montaigne included. Though I read in translation, I found his style robust and pithy, with strong bones and little ornament. Were I to venture a metaphor, I should say that it resembles a whole countryside of forest, filled with light and shade, well stocked with game, and hard to get out of.

*

Montaigne is a writer who makes frequent asides and forges neat aphorisms with apparent ease. Here, indulging my vice for regurgitation to a truly revolting degree, I proffer some of these choice morsels:

[Sport and spectacles]
Well-governed corporations take care to assemble their citizens, not only to the solemn duties of devotion, but also to sports and spectacles. They find society and friendship augmented by it.

[Rote learning]
To know by rote, is no knowledge, and signifies no more but only to retain what one has intrusted to our memory. That which a man rightly knows and understands, he is the free disposer of at his own full liberty, without any regard to the author from whence he had it, or fumbling over the leaves of his book. A mere bookish learning is a poor, paltry learning; it may serve for ornament, but there is yet no foundation for any superstructure to be built upon it.

[Truth as common ground]
Truth and reason are common to every one, and are no more his who spake them first, than his who speaks them after.

[Wisdom and serenity]
The most manifest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness; her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene.

[Lady Philosophy]
It is she that calms and appeases the storms and tempests of the soul, and who teaches famine and fevers to laugh and sing; and that, not by certain imaginary epicycles, but by natural and manifest reasons. She has virtue for her end, which is not, as the schoolmen say, situate upon the summit of a perpendicular, rugged, inaccessible precipice: such as have approached her find her, quite on the contrary, to be seated in a fair, fruitful, and flourishing plain, whence she easily discovers all things below; to which place any one may, however, arrive, if he know but the way, through shady, green, and sweetly-flourishing avenues, by a pleasant, easy, and smooth descent, like that of the celestial vault.

[Virtue and reward]
The height and value of true virtue consists in the facility, utility, and pleasure of its exercise.

[Actions and beliefs]
The conduct of our lives is the true mirror of our doctrine.

[Speech and truth]
“Let the language that is dedicated to truth be plain and unaffected.” — Seneca, Ep. 40.

[Exhortation]
“Dare to be wise; begin! he who defers the hour of living well is like the clown, waiting till the river shall have flowed out: but the river still flows, and will run on, with constant course, to ages without end.” — Horace, Ep., i. 2.

Macaulay: For the Children’s Sake

February 6, 2018

For the Children’s Sake
Foundations of Education for Home and School
Susan Schaeffer Macaulay
(Crossway, 1984)
x + 165 p.

I’ve had a middling, half-dormant interest in educational theory since I was myself a student, but becoming a parent, which includes becoming responsible for the education of new persons, not to mention becoming a de facto teacher in many respects, raises the issues afresh. Actually, it’s that the practical decisions about what school one’s children should attend become pressing, and so one begins to evaluate educational practices, and resorts to theory only in an effort to think things through clearly and consistently. It is true that people have been arguing about how best to educate the young for 3000 years, and nobody has settled the main questions yet (such as “What is the point of education?” and “Why are Teachers’ Colleges not carpet-bombed?”), but, still, perhaps the effort is not entirely worthless.

This little book introduces us, at one remove, to the thought and practices of Charlotte Mason (1842-1923), an English educator who lies outside the mainstream tradition, but whose ideas have, in the past few decades, become fairly influential in the homeschool movement in North America, largely because of this book, or so I surmise.

Mason’s starting point is disarmingly simple: children are people, and should be treated as such. Teaching is a personal encounter; so is learning. As such, each child should be allowed and encouraged to develop at his or her own rate and in his or her own way, not made to comply with an set of impersonal objectives and milestones. Writes Mason,

“We must know something about the material we are to work upon if the education we offer is not to be scrappy and superficial. We must have some measure of a child’s requirements, not based on his uses to society, nor upon the standard of the world he lives in, but upon his own capacity and needs.” (from Toward a Philosophy of Education)

This basic commitment explains why she is a marginal figure in the world of public education, for it is difficult to give a mass education model this personal touch (though, to be fair, Mason was herself a schoolteacher and developed her ideas in that context). It is equally clear, and for the same reasons, why homeschoolers have picked her up, for this approach is eminently suitable to their situation.

Mason also believed that since formal education is a preparation for life after formal education, education should be like life. It should be a matter of enjoyment and interest. Children should be encouraged to be motivated by factors intrinsic to education, like curiosity and a love of learning, not factors extrinsic, like grades. We should aim to foster a loving, joyful environment for learning, in which the pleasure of learning is taught by example.

Since students are people, part of their education consists in developing those stable habits of thought and action that will enable them to be successful students and people: the virtues. In this Charlotte Mason is consistent with the classical tradition, for which moral formation is at least as important as intellectual formation. She sought especially to encourage the scholarly virtues in her students: attention, concentration, self-control, and truthfulness.

Since children are persons and their education is our responsibility, we owe them, Mason reasons, the best we have. They should therefore be invited to experience and enjoy our best books, our finest art, our most beautiful music, and so forth. She had a word for educational material that condescends to the child’s intelligence, moral judgment, or aesthetic sensibility: “twaddle”. It’s helpful to have a word, because schools are full of the stuff. We can safely assume, with little risk of error, that all politically-motivated educational materials are twaddle. We want to avoid it:

“The person rises to understand, master, and enjoy whatever he is surrounded with in language, ideas, literature, and in appreciation of beauty. If you share with children the very best, carefully chosen to meet their needs, they will amaze everyone.”

This is actually true. In our home I’ve seen it especially with the music that the kids like. It is my practice not to play pop music at home or in the car, so they do not have much exposure to it; we listen to classical music. At the same time, they are members of a children’s choir in which they sing good sacred music: Mozart, Schubert, Handel, and Gregorian chant. There is no condescension to “children’s tastes”, and they rise to the occasion. My six-year-old son sings Latin motets to himself while building Lego. Our three-year-old’s favourite music is Vivaldi’s Gloria; he sings it in his bed at night. Children will feast on what we feed them, but they are, at first, poor judges of quality. Much of teaching consists in supplying a steady diet of good quality nourishment for their minds and hearts.

And not only should children be given the best we have to give them, but they should be invited to experience and enjoy it on their terms, not ours, taking from it what they find, not what we think they should find. In real life, when we read a novel, we all do so to engage with the story we are reading, but how many of us would persist if, upon finishing each chapter, we had to answer a series of questions about it? Is it wise, then, to ask students to do this? Mason thought not, and therefore counselled against reading comprehension tests. Instead, she had her students do “narrations”, in which they would re-tell, in their own words and after their own manner, a story they had read. When you stop to think about it, this is a brilliant and beautiful idea, for everyone loves to talk about something they enjoyed reading, and, more to the point, narrating a story requires a much more thorough and nuanced and personal engagement with a book than does answering a set of specific questions. Try it.

In fact, narration is pretty much exactly what I’ve been doing on this blog all these years; I can speak from experience: it’s rewarding. Since reading this book (some months ago now), I’ve also been having my daughter give narrations of some of the things she’s been reading, and she, too, responds wonderfully to the challenge. I’m a believer.

Since we want children to engage personally with what they read and learn, another of Mason’s recommendations is that they be given real books to read, whole and complete, rather than compilations of short excerpts from longer books, because doing so puts them into sustained contact with another person — the author — with whom they then begin to develop a relationship.

Indeed, the development of relationships — with God, with the natural world, and with other people — is a key organizing principle for a Charlotte Mason-style education. A relationship with God is best developed through experiencing a faith lived joyfully, with prayer and devotion, in the home and school. A child’s understanding of the natural world she thought best fostered by direct contact with nature, through nature walks, in which close observation and full sensory immersion are encouraged. (In many Charlotte Mason homeschools, it seems that such nature walks take the place of a science textbook, at least for younger students.) Relationships with others are cultivated, as we have already said, through books, historical studies (taking care to try to understand the complexity and foreignness of the past, not interpreting everything within contemporary frameworks or judging by contemporary standards), and interactions with the teacher and with other students. And children must also get to know themselves, which was one reason why Mason believed that children’s lives should have plenty of time and space for unstructured imaginative play; I agree with her heartily on that.

*

Susan Schaeffer Macaulay’s purpose in this book was to rescue Charlotte Mason’s ideas from the obscurity into which they had fallen, and to present them as providing a compelling educational philosophy for today. She writes well, both about the principles and ideas of Charlotte Mason, and about her own education, which was consonant with Mason’s approach on many points. She has a gentle, thoughtful authorial voice, and, unlike many authors of popular books on education, is not garrulous. (Incidentally, I was surprised to discover, mid-way through the book, that she is the daughter of Francis Schaeffer, the guru of intellectual-leaning Evangelical Christians of a certain vintage.) Although the book is about Charlotte Mason’s approach to education, direct quotes from her are rare, and so it is a little unclear to me how much of the book’s content derives from her, and how much is Macaulay’s interpretation and elaboration.

In a book on education Roger Scruton argued that the purpose of education is not principally to benefit the student who receives it, but to ensure that the culture to which that student belongs is received and perpetuated. I found the impersonal slant of this view jarring, even as I could see the point he was making. The much more personal approach to education proposed in this book is not really inconsistent with Scruton’s concerns though; Macaulay does not propose that there be no core curriculum, or that students, though encouraged to encounter books with their own native intelligence and feeling, somehow create value in things simply by liking them. Rather, she proposes a curated education, in which children encounter what, in the judgment of their teacher, is the richest and most worthy material, whether it be literature, art, music, or what have you. In fact it seems a perfect vehicle for passing on and truly appropriating a cultural tradition, which was what Scruton was advocating.

Caldecott: Beauty in the Word

June 26, 2017

Beauty in the Word
Stratford Caldecott
(Angelico, 2012)
168 p.

In an earlier book, Beauty for Truth’s Sake, Stratford Caldecott, in the guise of a treatment of the classical quadrivium, outlined his thoughts on how education might begin to reintegrate the dissociated sensibility of the West, in which truth, understood as objective and impersonal and more-or-less narrowed to the domain of the sciences, stands on one side, and goodness and beauty, understood as subjective and private, stand on the other, and never the thrain shall meet.

Beauty in the Word is a companion volume, where this time the subject is the classical trivium, but the objectives are comparably deep and far-reaching.

He begins with an overview of competing visions and theories of education, with a particular question in mind: “What kind of education would enable a child to progress in the rational understanding of the world without losing his poetic and artistic appreciation of it?” He argues that education is not principally about conveying information or developing skills, but about formation of character in mind and heart; it is about who we will be, not what we will do. He cites with approval Simone Weil’s famous proposal that the most important thing about education is not what we study, but how we study, and in particular that we promote “the development of attention”, a habit essential to the intellectual and spiritual health of the person. For Caldecott, education is always about the person. “Education is more like gardening than manufacturing.”

In his survey of educational theories, a basic dialectic between didactic and elucidative methods emerges. One side says that education is about instruction, for the child is ignorant and can only learn if told; the other side says that the child has interests and abilities and should be encouraged and accompanied as he or she grows and matures. The one pours in, the other draws out. My own instincts are didactic, but Caldecott (drawing on the ideas of Maria Montessori) mounts a defence of the latter view for a Catholic understanding of education, and in the end he arrives at a middle position:

“The basis for a good education is, on the one hand, the self-motivation of the child to pursue what engages and interests him, and on the other, the creativity, responsiveness, and love of the teacher, who sets the terms for learning and encourages the child to flourish.”

The role of the teacher is to help the child to grow in understanding and range, and to avoid the trap of a “relevant” education, in which a pupil is flattered or merely allowed to stagnate within their limited horizon. On the contrary, a Catholic education is one which is directed toward helping the student to mature, and also to help them appropriate the tradition of which they are an heir, in order that they can inhabit it and then, in due time, bequeath it to the next generation. “Ideally, Catholicism fulfils and brings to perfection the natural educational process, which is the transformation in creative freedom of a cultural tradition to our children.”

Turning then to the classical trivium of grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric, Caldecott cites the definitions of Hugh of St Victor: “Grammar is the knowledge of how to speak without error; dialectic is clear-sighted argument which separates the true from the false; rhetoric is the discipline of persuading to every suitable thing.” And this is so, as far as it goes, but he proceeds to deepen each of the three in a trilogy of chapters, and he does so by setting up a catalogue of triplets to be understood as analogies or implications or parallels of the basic educational trivium. His set of “Eight Threes” looks like this:

Mythos Logos Ethos
Grammar Dialectic Rhetoric
Remembering Thinking Speaking
Music/Dance Visual arts Drama
One True Good
True Good Beautiful
Given Received Shared
Father Son Spirit

One could study this table and gradually draw out much of what the book has to say. But, since I am here to do good service, I’ll do some of the drawing out myself.

Grammar he connects to “remembering”. The object of understanding is not simply linguistic grammar, but the grammar of being, the logic of things. “To fill a word with meaning is an act of remembering the being of the thing itself“. Grammar grounds us in what is real, as the foundation of our thought. We give names to things, and though the names themselves are conventions, the things named are not. “Naming is related to the power of seeing; of seeing into the realities, the essences of things.” Nominalists cannot be grammarians.

Language is also our medium for passing on what we know, and thus for the formation of a tradition. To be inducted into a tradition through education is an act of remembering, and a tradition is to be received in a receptive spirit of love, as a gift of something precious. “The ‘spirit of tradition’ is an essential element of education.” We, of course, live in a time when traditions are faltering and dissolving, when amnesia is the objective, and therefore we must be deliberate about guarding and teaching the good things we have inherited. This handing-on, this giving of a tradition to a new generation, is also a personal act, directed to the good of both teacher and pupil. In an anti-tradition, Caldecott argues, the world is simply a pattern of information to be transferred to a new mind. It has no personal element, and is not addressed to the soul, and this is deficient. We should therefore be wary of technologies that make teaching impersonal, or that intrude into the personal connections that constitute a tradition.

Central to the grammar of remembrance is the cultivation of memory and attention, both as indispensable requirements for retention of what is learned, but also as a means of integrating the personality and preparing in the pupil the road to contemplation. This was why Simone Weil was so devoted to attention as the aim of education: because attention is essential to contemplative prayer, and to the intuition of being which is at the heart of a grounded knowledge of the grammar of things. Students will make progress through learning by heart, and also through participation in the arts: in crafts, drama, song, story, and, especially, liturgy, which (in theory) brings these individual arts to an apex:

“If the spirit of tradition is to be preserved and revived, liturgy is going to be the key, for this is the school of memory, the place where we recollect ourselves, where we learn how to relate to each other in God. This is where we learn to accept the past and existence itself as a gift calling for a response of gratitude. Prayer and worship are therefore not extraneous but should be a central element in the life of the school or family. As we pray, so shall we be.”

The second part of the trivium, Dialectic, which is usually interpreted as ‘thinking’ or ‘reasoning’, Caldecott frames as the art of analysis and of discerning the truth. It rightly builds on the earlier stage, being informed by memory and the contemplation of what is real. (This in contrast to, say, Descartes, who began with dialectic, or, rather, began with forgetting, and tried to establish dialectic on a correspondingly thin foundation.) For Caldecott, dialectic is not cold reason, but proceeds in concert with both imagination and feeling, and is always grounded in a sober engagement with real things. Thinking is ‘thinking about’, and its characteristic mode is pondering, not flitting from one thing to the next.

The third stage of the trivium is Rhetoric, traditionally understood as the art of speaking, and especially of persuasion. In this stage one marshals one’s knowledge of things (“Grammar”) and one’s arguments and understanding (“Dialectic”) and conveys them to others with the intention of helping them to see and understand the same truths. Or, put in a more personal vein, by an education in the previous two stages we mature into a certain type of person, and in this third stage who we are, persons formed by a tradition, is communicated to others. Rhetoric makes use of all the resources of language — its music, its imagery, and its web of connotation — to convey truth. Because of its public, performative aspect it is closely related to song and music, and, even more deeply, to liturgy. Caldecott sees this appearance of liturgy as the telos of, or at least as the mature expression of, the educational process as highly significant, for liturgy, at its best, manifests a tradition of truths through a web of symbolic meanings of great rhetorical power. Naturally (and properly) this rhetorical power retains influence over us only so long as we understand or trust it to be grounded in truth. For these reasons, Caldecott sees the Mass as “intrinsic to the educational process itself”.

**

Following this overview of the basic structure and meaning of the trivium at a theoretical level, Caldecott transitions in the later chapters to practical questions of how these ideas might be instantiated in the day-to-day education of real children. The trivium forms the core of a classical liberal arts education, which was traditionally an elite project contrasted with a “servile” (or practical) education. But Caldecott points out that the Christian tradition, especially perhaps through the example of the Benedictines, who dedicated themselves to prayer, study, and manual labour, has relativized this hierarchy of “liberal” and “servile”, and that therefore today the liberal arts should be brought, insofar as is possible, to all.

The trivium describes ways of engaging with a subject, but does not specify what the subject should be. (The quadrivium is more prescriptive.) Caldecott proposes three subjects, broadly conceived: nature, culture, and Scripture, and he sketches a curriculum consisting of storytelling, music, exploration (“The study of nature through direct contact with gardens, animals, and wilderness is indispensable”), drawing, dance, drama, and sport. He cautions, wisely, that much reading absent personal experience to which to relate that reading can be fruitless, which is why he recommends balancing book learning with social activities, outdoor activities, and unstructured time for imaginative play. Yet reading is important, and he gives central place to both it and music — reading to children and playing music to them when they are young, and then transitioning them to self-guided engagement with books and music as they grow. They should read good books. (Quoting Charlotte Mason, he writes, “Children have a right to the best we possess; therefore their lesson books should be, as far as possible, our best books.”) He caused my heart to rejoice, casting a kind of in media res benediction over the many hours I have spent and will spend reading aloud to my kids, with this summation:

It makes sense to regard reading stories aloud to one’s children the archetypal act of the Trivium. One is simultaneously remembering a tradition, revealing the Logos, and (by voice, inflection, and gesture) dramatizing a story to communicate that meaning ‘heart to heart’.

Amen to that. In fact, the book seemed to be building toward a peroration of warm, happy contentment when suddenly, in the closing pages, he surprised me by recommending “unschooling” as a reasonable, and even, in some ways, particularly Catholic approach to education! Unschooling is a minority practice among homeschoolers in which children follow no prescribed curriculum but rather follow their own interests, managing their own time as they think best, and learning whatever they happen to learn. This comes back to the discussion at the beginning about the relative merits of prescriptive and elucidative models of education, and to my own instincts for the prescriptive side, I suppose, but I’ve always regarded unschooling as being somewhere between imprudent and idiotic. Caldecott, in an interesting rhetorical move, compares unschooling to NFP, something “regarded by many as an impractical ideal or an ideology, but when practiced in the right spirit it reveals itself as something else entirely”. Well, maybe. But maybe not.

**

There is much to admire about this book. I have not before encountered a book so thoughtful about the structure and significance of the classical trivium. The fact that it is not just a book of theory, but also an attempt to realize its ideas in practical form is also admirable, although I do think that its efforts in that direction are more suggestive than fully satisfactory, consisting of rather “normal” fruit plucked from the unusually rich philosophical reflections that produced it. But then, what did I expect?

**

“Christian education should be wider, not narrower, than that of a secular school.”

[A mother’s smile]
The infant is brought to consciousness of himself only by love, by the smile of his mother. In that encounter, the horizon of all unlimited being opens itself to him, revealing four things to him: (1) that he is one in love with the mother, even in being other than his mother, therefore all being is one; (2) that that love is good, therefore all Being is good; (3) that that love is true, therefore all Being is true; and (4) that that love evokes joy, therefore all Being is beautiful. (Von Balthasar, from My Work in Retrospect; quoted p.134-5)

Scruton: Culture Counts

May 23, 2017

Culture Counts
Faith and Feeling in a World Besieged
Roger Scruton
(Encounter, 2007)
118 p.

This book is a reflection on education, aesthetic and moral judgment, the value of a shared culture, and contemporary threats to each of them.

Scruton begins his discussion of education with a statement that brought me up short:

It is one of the most deeply rooted superstitions of our age that the purpose of education is to benefit those who receive it.

On the contrary, he argues, the purpose of education is to perpetuate a culture. We educate so the next generation can inherit the knowledge and judgments by which our culture has been formed and in which it consists. No doubt this education will benefit the students, but this is not its purpose, or at least not its primary purpose. “Knowledge gained is a gain for all of us; knowledge lost, a loss that all must bear… This is what education does for us: it keeps knowledge alive…” On this view, core curricula and academic competition make good sense, for not only is there an essential body of knowledge to be learned, but those best able to receive and understand it should be preferred.

And knowledge means more than just facts of history, science, or civics. It includes knowledge, for instance, of “what to feel”: the education of the emotions and the aesthetic sensibility (cf. The Abolition of Man). We must learn what things are good and beautiful, and how we ought to respond to them.

Naturally, this kind of knowledge involves making judgments, both moral and aesthetic, and rather than avoid this point Scruton underlines it: having a culture means making judgments. Indeed, he argues that culture largely consists in a set of shared judgments. They are subjective in the sense of being held personally and based on personal experiences and tastes, but not subjective in the sense of being arbitrary or indefensible. They are rooted in real experience and shared reflection.

As a practical matter, Scruton advises that this understanding of education is well-served by the notion of a “classic” or “touchstone”: an artistic, literary, or religious artifact “whose significance endures across generations and provides a point of comparison for other and lesser creations”. Not only do such works provide an education in excellence, but they also emphasize the shared judgments by which cultures cohere. From the idea of a classic, the formation of a “canon” emerges naturally.

Of course, everything Scruton advocates is vigorously contested in our culture today. Aesthetic judgments (and, I would add, moral judgments, though with less consistency) are habitually relativized, so much so that the whole sphere of distinctively aesthetic experience has nearly disappeared from view; “desire alone remains”. Moreover, even the basic project of passing on culture from one generation to the next is attacked. Scruton writes, here and elsewhere, about the West’s “culture of repudiation”, which no longer aims at appreciation and appropriation of its own heritage but instead attacks the means by which and vessels in which culture is transmitted. Whether this is truly the objective, or whether it is merely the prelude to the reconstruction of culture on other grounds, embodying different values and judgments, is hard to tell, but that it has weakened both our educative institutions and our shared culture is evident.

In principle, the picture of education and culture Scruton paints appeals to me. The culture of which I am a part, which has been formed to a large extent by my religion, and which has in turn formed me, is one which I admire and labour to appropriate. I have a conservative temperament, am inclined to honour the great achievements of the past, and am a believer in the value of cultural continuity. However, the generally happy view of culture as a network of shared judgments darkens considerably at the prospect of that culture reconstructed along other, contrary lines. If education isn’t for students, but for society, then who should decide the curriculum? If not students, then parents? Surely not, for education is not for families, but for society. Who could be entrusted with this responsibility? One fears that in practice the power would fall into the hands of bureaucrats, and one needn’t consider that real-world prospect long to arrive at a dispiriting thought: we no longer have a culture left to preserve. I begin to see the appeal of the individualized, even fractured model of education and culture (or, “culture”), for in troubled times it would, ironically, at least permit one to promote and pursue the traditional aims of education.

Lecture night: Educating the heart

May 17, 2016

My favourite pastime on YouTube is to watch news anchors making mistakes, but my second favourite is to listen to lectures. There are many excellent lectures posted from all manner of venues. I could listen to something interesting nearly every night, if I had the leisure. It occurs to me that I might post some of the more interesting of these lectures here.

For today, here is a lecture by Fr Andrew Cuneo, an Orthodox priest, broadly on the topic of education, and broadly based on C.S. Lewis’ The Abolition of Man. Fr Cuneo is the first Oxford graduate to have done his doctoral degree on C.S. Lewis, so he knows his subject, but he wears his learning lightly. It’s a very thoughtful lecture.

Incidentally, I rarely sit and actually watch these lectures; I listen to them while I commute to and from work. (I usually use a simple tool to reduce the videos to audio only.)

Esolen on Fox: Homo ludens meets TV

November 27, 2012

Anthony Esolen appeared earlier this week on a Fox News program called “Fox & Friends” to talk about his wonderful book Ten Ways to Destroy the Imagination of Your Child. He took a risk, adopting for the interview the Screwtape-inspired perspective from which the book is written: up is down, black is white, left is right, the Left is right, etc. Evidently this proved too much for the hosts:

The befuddled looks and hasty retreat make his point for him. It’s a missed opportunity to promote an excellent book, and I am sure he was not pleased with the outcome — and, in fairness, he did stumble a little out of the gate — but I hope he laughed on his way home anyway.

**

Obviously this curtailed interview didn’t allow time for Esolen to say much of anything. Happily his pen has been busy:

  • At Crisis Magazine, he has launched a projected series on Catholic social teaching:

    I’m sick of it.  I’m sick of hearing that Catholic teaching regarding sex and marriage is one thing, in that old-fashioned trinket box over there, while Catholic teaching regarding stewardship and our duties to the poor is another thing, on that marble pedestal over here.  I’m sick of hearing that Catholic teaching regarding the Church and her authority is one thing, the embarrassing Latinate red-edged tome tucked away in that closet, while Catholic teaching regarding the laity is another, and pass that bread this way!  No, it is all of a piece.

  • Also at Crisis, a piece on cultivating a culture of courtship and romance within the Church:

    It is irresponsible in us, then, to let our youth muddle and meander; to suppose that marriage will eventually “happen.”  For my whole life, the ecclesially minded have asked, “What can we do to keep our youth in the Church?”  And their attempts haven’t worked, because they have viewed young people as consumers of a churchly product, rather than as boys and girls, young men and young women, with obvious natures and needs.So then—I call upon every parish in the United States to do the sweet and simple and ordinary things.

  • And at Front Porch Republic he has been writing a provocative series on education called “Life under Compulsion”:

    Why do people invariably enjoy visiting old one-room schoolhouses?  They are human places, on a human scale, for the education of little human beings.  It isn’t just that one knows, without having to think about it consciously, that the planks and joists where pegged together by the hands of the same people whose children would go to school there.  It’s that the whole idea of the school is founded upon their natural desires and intentions.

But I doubt Fox will have him back to talk about those things.

Esolen on education and life

August 26, 2011

Anthony Esolen has another fine essay in the current issue of Touchstone magazine. He begins by describing an experience he had listening to a speaker at a recent convocation ceremony:

I am still trying to understand it. He congratulated the students for being part of the “most selective freshman class in the last ten years.” He congratulated them for their being what he called “engaged learners,” unlike freshmen at our school thirty years ago—many of whom, it should be noted, were present in the audience and pay his salary—who were “passive learners,” taught merely to memorize information from lectures. That last was an ill-bred and ill-informed slap at our Western Civilization course.

He concluded his short acceptance speech by declaring that he had no doubt that the honorees in attendance would make us proud. This they would do by “earning high scores on standardized tests,” or “obtaining internships and fellowships,” or “distinguishing themselves in musical or theatrical competitions,” or “winning admission to prestigious graduate schools.”

As Milton’s Belial says in Hell, “And that must end us, that must be our cure.”

The essay goes on to reflect on the relationships of teachers and students, on what teaching is for, what education is for, and what difference it makes to life. It is lovely, and surprisingly moving. Read the whole thing.

Benedict U.

January 31, 2011

The proprietress of the always informative The Do-Tique recently sent me an article published in The Chronicle of Higher Education, and it was so enjoyable that I’d like to share it here. The article proposes that a renewal of higher education in our culture might result from going back — way, way back — to an educational model based on one of the most enduring institutions in our history: the monastery.

One could imagine that in the Middle Ages, choosing a monastery might have been like selecting among liberal-arts colleges, each with a different variation of mission and expression. But the major purpose, in every case, was to turn away from the vices and distractions of the world toward a higher life—often a deeply intellectual one—nurtured by the work of one’s hands.

It’s a quixotic argument, of course, but winsomely written and a pleasure to read. It is just the sort of thing to put stars in my eyes.

(Parenthetically, it occurs to me that one could write a comic novel — a warmly satiric one — based around just this idea. Naturally, the satire would be directed at our established universities, not the other way around.)

For all that a proposal like this runs slam up against every tendency of our Zeitgeist, it is worth pointing out (as a few comments on the original article do) that there are several academic institutions in North America that adopt certain of the features the article advocates. Comment #29 praises Thomas Aquinas College, for instance, in California, about which I have heard good things before.