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Table of Contents

Humanism, realism, and naturalism characterized—Devotion of the sixteenth century to the humanistic ideal—Study of Latin eloquence—Style the chief aim—Neglect of the mother-tongue—Views of John Sturm and the Jesuits—Devotion to Cicero—Decadence of the later humanists—Erasmus and Melanchthon on the enrichment of the course of study—Satires of Rabelais directed against the humanists—Protests of Montaigne—Attitude of Ascham and Mulcaster—Transition from humanism to realism.

“Education in Europe,” says Oscar Browning,1 “has passed through three phases, which may conveniently be called humanism, realism, and naturalism. The first is grounded upon the study of language, and especially of the two dead languages, Greek and Latin. The second is based upon the study of things instead of words, the education of the mind through the eye and the hand. Closely connected with this is the study of those things which may be of direct influence upon and direct importance to life. The third is not in the first instance study at all. It is an attempt to build up the whole nature of man—to educate first his body, then his character, and lastly his mind.”

The sixteenth century was wedded to the humanistic ideal of education. Without regard for the diversity of avocations, classical culture was held to be the safest and best training for the manifold duties of life. Aristotle’s Politics was considered the wisest utterance on the direction of affairs of state; Cæsar’s Commentaries the safest guides to military eminence; the practical Stoicism of the Latin authors the most infallible basis for ethics and the regulation of conduct; and as for agriculture, had not Virgil written a treatise on that subject? It was clear in the minds of the sixteenth-century humanists that classical culture furnished the best preparation, alike for theologians and artisans.

To accomplish this purpose, as soon as the child was considered sufficiently matured for linguistic discipline, and this varied from the sixth to the ninth years, he was initiated into the mysteries of Latin eloquence. His preliminary training consisted in a verbal study of the Latin grammar for purposes of precision in speech and successful imitation; but, as the grammar was printed in Latin, with its hundreds of incomprehensible rules and exceptions, all of which had to be “learned by heart,” the way of the young learner was, indeed, a thorny one. True, the classical authors were later read, but chiefly for the purpose of gleaning from them choice phrases to be used in the construction of Latin sentences, or for purposes of disputations in dialectics. Logic and history were given most subordinate places in the course of study, the former merely that it might give greater precision in writing and speaking, and the latter that it might furnish illustrations in rhetorical exercises.

This conception of education was almost universally held in the sixteenth century, by Protestants like Trotzendorf and Sturm, as well as by Catholics like Aquaviva and the members of the Society of Jesus. Nor was it confined to elementary and secondary education; for, as Professor Paulsen2 has shown, the conquest of European universities by the humanists was complete by the second decade of the sixteenth century. The statutes of most of the universities at this time make the speaking of the Latin compulsory. That at Ingolstadt reads: “A master in a bursary shall induce to the continual use of Latin by verbal exhortations and by his own example; and shall also appoint those who shall mark such as speak the vulgar tongue and shall receive from them an irremissible penalty.” Again: “That the students in their academical exercises may learn by the habit of speaking Latin to speak and express themselves better, the faculty ordains that no person placed by the faculty upon a common or other bursary shall dare to speak German. Any one heard by one of the overseers to speak German shall pay one kreutzer.” There grew out of this prohibition a widespread system of spying. The spies reported to the university authorities on such students (vulgarisantes they were called) who persisted in speaking in the mother-tongue. In spite, however, of statutes, spies, fines, and floggings, the boys in the sixteenth century spoke little Latin when they were alone by themselves. Cordier,3 writing in 1530, says, “Our boys always chatter French with their companions; or if they try to talk Latin, cannot keep it up.”

The old ecclesiastical Latin of the Middle Ages had been superseded by the classical Latin of the Roman poets, and all the energies of the educational institutions were thrown into the acquisition and practice of Latin eloquence. The classics were read for the phrases that might be culled for use in the construction of Latin sentences; these, with disputations, declamations, and Latin plays, were the order of the century. Since education consisted in the acquisition of a graceful and elegant style, the young learner, from the first, applied himself to the grammatical study of Latin authors, regarding solely the language of the classics, and taking subject-matter into account only when this was necessary to understand the words.

There was no study of the mother-tongue preliminary to the study of the classics. Children began at once the study of the Latin grammar, and they had to write Latin verses before they had been exercised in compositions, in the vernacular, or, for that matter, before they had been trained to express their thoughts in Latin prose. And still more remarkable, as Oscar Browning points out, “the Latin taught was not the masculine language of Lucretius and Cæsar, but the ornate and artificial diction of Horace and Virgil, and, above all, of Cicero.” “There is no doubt,” he adds, “that narrow and faulty as it was, it gave a good education so long as people believed in it. To know Horace and Virgil by heart became the first duty of the scholar. Speeches in Parliament were considered incomplete if they did not contain at least one Latin quotation. A false quantity was held to be a greater crime than a slip in logical argument. Cicero not only influenced the education of English statesmen, but had no inconsiderable effect on their conduct.”

The humanist educators of the sixteenth century not only neglected the study of the mother-tongue—they proscribed it. The Ratio4 of the Jesuits forbids its use except on holidays, and Sturm at Strasburg abbreviated the recreation periods of his pupils because of risks of speaking in the mother-tongue on the playground. And all this proscription of the vernacular that students might acquire eloquence in a foreign tongue. Well does Raumer5 ask, “Why did they continue, like a second Sisyphus, their fruitless endeavors to metamorphose German into Roman youths, and to impart to them, in defiance of the laws of human nature, another tongue?”

They were themselves deceived in assuming that they could call to life the ancient culture of Rome and Greece. Indeed, they believed that they had discovered ways of training which would develop scholars capable of producing Latin works equal to the masterpieces that they had studied in their schools. John Sturm, one of the most ardent of the humanists, said: “The Romans had two advantages over us; the one consisted in learning Latin without going to school, and the other in frequently seeing Latin comedies and tragedies acted, and in hearing Latin orators speak. Could we recall these advantages in our schools, why could we not, by persevering diligence, gain what they possessed by accident and habit—namely, the power of speaking Latin to perfection? I hope to see the men of the present age, in their writing and speaking, not merely followers of the old masters, but equal to those who flourished in the noblest age of Athens and Rome.” But how misguided and mistaken!

Not only did Latin monopolize the curriculum of the sixteenth-century school, but the study was primarily philological, for grammatical structure, and only secondarily for the content of the literature, for a correct understanding of the author. As a matter of fact, the method of study was such as to make intelligent comprehension of the author’s thought next to impossible, since the humanists simply culled out phrases which might be imitated and used in the exercises of style. Raumer says of this kind of teaching: “The author was not an end, but only a means to an end—the cultivation of deified Roman eloquence in boys. And why? Precisely as the peacock was used by the jackdaw. They borrowed the author’s words and phrases, grouped them together, and learned them by heart, in order subsequently to apply them in speech or writing. Borrow is too feeble an expression; for the jackdaw designed not merely to borrow the peacock’s feathers, but to represent them as his own. The doctrine of imitation, as set forth by Sturm and the others, was, after all, a mere jackdaw theory. The pupil was taught how, by a slight alteration, to disguise phrases from Cicero, and then to use them in writing or speech, exactly as if they were his own productions, so adroitly smuggling them in that the readers or hearers might not suspect from whence they were taken. Says Sturm: ‘When the teacher gives out themes for composition, he should draw attention to those points where imitation is desirable, and show how similarity may be concealed by a superadded variation.’ Again: ‘We must, in the first place, take care that the similarity shall not be manifest. Its concealment may be accomplished in three ways—by adding, by taking away, and by alteration.’ ”

In this mad race for Latin eloquence, the sixteenth-century humanists became more and more circumscribed in the choice of authors. Sturm, for example, placed Cicero at the head of the list, because of the faultless models of his eloquence. The Jesuits likewise held Cicero in high esteem. Said one of their writers, “Style should be drawn almost exclusively from Cicero, although the most approved of the historians need not on that account be overlooked.” Again: “The pattern we should follow in style is comprehended in the words of the rule, ‘imitate Cicero.’ As in the study of theology we follow the divine Thomas Aquinas, and in philosophy Aristotle, so in the humanities Cicero must be regarded as our peculiar and preëminent leader. For he has been crowned by the palm of superior praise by the common consent of the world. But some, misguided by a wilful and self-formed taste, have gone astray, preferring a style totally different from that of Cicero; such an erratic course is quite at variance with the genius of our institutions and hostile to the spirit of prompt obedience.”

This servile devotion to Cicero, it should be recalled, was a marked departure from the more varied and richer curricula of the fifteenth-century humanists,6 when men of the stamp of Vittorino da Feltre, Leonardo Bruni, Vergarius, Sylvius, and Guarino were the standard-bearers of humanism. Many causes had conspired to bring about this decadence; and perhaps the most fundamental cause was the senseless worship of forms of expression. The later humanists worshipped the forms of thought. “Beauty of expression,” says Professor Laurie,7 “was regarded as inseparable from truth and elevation of thought. The movement soon shared the fate of all enthusiasms. The new form was worshipped, and to it the spirit and substance were subordinated. Style became the supreme object of the educated classes, and successful imitation, and thereafter laborious criticism, became marks of the highest culture.”

This use of the classics as instruments in grammatical drill and vehicles of communication had become well-nigh universal by the middle of the sixteenth century. Erasmus, himself one of the most ardent advocates of classical learning, perceived apparently the narrowing tendencies of humanistic training, and urged that students be taught to know many things besides Latin and Greek in order that they might the better comprehend the classics. He recommended the addition of geography, arithmetic, and natural science to the school course.

And Melanchthon, with all his enthusiasm for classical learning, thought the humanities insufficient to satisfy all the needs of culture. He advised the incorporation of physics, mathematics, and astronomy into the curriculum. “Although the nature of things cannot be absolutely known, nor the marvellous works of God traced to their original, until, in the future life, we shall listen to the eternal counsel of the Father,” he writes, “nevertheless, even amid this our present darkness, every gleam and every hint of harmony of this fair creation forms a step toward the knowledge of God and toward virtue, whereby we ourselves shall also learn to love and maintain order and moderation in all our acts. Since it is evident that men are endowed by their Creator with faculties fitted for the contemplation of nature, they must, of necessity, take delight in investigating the elements, the laws, the qualities, and the forces of the various bodies by which they are surrounded.”

As has already been shown, however, the humanists took little interest in the study of subjects not discussed by classical authors. Absorbed in a world of books, as Mr. Quick8 suggests, they overlooked the world of nature. Galileo had in vain tried to persuade them to look through his telescope, but they held that truth could not be discovered by any such contrivances—that it could be arrived at only by the comparison of manuscripts. “No wonder,” remarks Mr. Quick, “that they had so little sympathy with children, and did not know how to teach them.”

Fortunately for the history of education, there were critics in the sixteenth century who did not conform to the dogma of linguistic discipline, and who called attention to the need of educational reform. Whatever the merits of the classical languages, protested these critics, they must derive their value ultimately from the rank they take as literature. The protest of Rabelais early in the century was not only one of the first but one of the most effective charges against contemporary practices. In his famous satire he intrusted the young giant Gargantua to the care and training of the humanist educator Tubal Holofernes, who spent five years and a quarter in teaching him to say his A B C’s backward; thirteen years on Donatus’ Latin grammar and the composition of Latin verses and sentences; thirty-four years more in the study of Latin eloquence, after which the schoolmaster dies, when, as Rabelais concluded, Gargantua had grown more ignorant, heavy, and loutish. “In this confused and ribald allegory,” says Mr. James P. Munroe,9 “Rabelais led the way out of ancient superstition into modern science. More than this, he taught in it that the study of Nature, observation of her laws, imitation of her methods, must be at the root of every true system of education. He showed that the Nature spirit is the true spirit of good teaching. Ever since his day civilized mankind has been trying to learn this lesson of his and to apply it in the schools. For three centuries the leaders in education, under his direct inspiration, have been slowly and painfully transforming the false pedagogy of the cloister into the true pedagogy of out-of-doors. Writers and teachers, schools and universities, have been engaged in a halting and irregular struggle to transfer education from a metaphysical to a physical basis, to lead it away from the habit of deductive speculation into one of inductive research. This transfer Rabelais made boldly and at once. He did not, of course, elaborate the educational ideal of to-day, but he plainly marked out the lines upon which that ideal is framed. He taught truth and simplicity, he ridiculed hypocrisy and formalism, he denounced the worship of words, he demanded the study of things, he showed the beauty of intellectual health, of moral discipline, of real piety. Best of all, he enunciated the supreme principle of Nature, which is ordered freedom.”

Montaigne,10 also, in France, was equally severe in his criticisms on the humanists. He denounced in no uncertain terms the methods of introducing Latin to beginners and the harsh and severe discipline so common in the schools of Europe during the sixteenth century. “Education ought to be carried on with a severe sweetness,” he wrote, “quite contrary to the practice of our pedants, who, instead of tempting and alluring children to a study of language by apt and gentle ways, do, in truth, present nothing before them but rods and ferules, horror and cruelty. Away with this violence! Away with this compulsion! There is nothing which more completely dulls and degenerates the nature of a bright child.” Again: “Our schools are houses of correction for imprisoned youths; and children are made incorrigible by punishment. Visit them when the children are getting their lessons, and you will hear nothing but the outcries of boys under execution and the thundering noises of their teachers, drunk with fury. It is a pernicious way to tempt young and timorous souls to love their books while wearing a ferocious countenance and with a rod in hand.”

Montaigne was equally convinced of the pedagogic error of the humanists in regarding classical knowledge as synonymous with wisdom. “We may become learned from the learning of others,” he said, “but we never become wise except by our own wisdom. … We are truly learned from knowing the present, not from knowing the past any more than the future. … Yet we toil only to stuff the memory and leave the conscience and understanding void. And like birds abroad to forage for grain, bring it home in their beak, without tasting it themselves, to feed their young, so our pedants go picking knowledge here and there out of several authors, and hold it at their tongue’s end, only to spit it out and distribute it among their pupils.”

Roger Ascham,11 in the quaint preface of his Scholemaster, also bears testimony against the harsh discipline of the sixteenth century. During the great plague in London, in 1563, Ascham and some friends were dining at Windsor with Sir William Cecil. While there he learned that many of the students at Eton had run away because of the severe punishments administered at this famous public school. “Whereupon,” says Ascham, “Sir William took occasion to wish that some discretion were in many schoolmasters in using correction than commonly there is, who many times punish rather the weakness of nature than the fault of the scholar, whereby many scholars that might else prove well, be driven to hate learning before they know what learning meaneth; and so are made willing to forsake their book, and to be willing to put to any other kind of living.” This incident led to the composition of the Scholemaster, which was a guide for “the bringing up of youth,” in which gentleness rather than severity is recommended, and “a ready way to the Latin tongue,” in which an honest effort is made to simplify language teaching and adapt it to the tastes and interests of young learners.

Richard Mulcaster,12 another Englishman and humanist of the sixteenth century, questioned seriously the wisdom of his associates and contemporaries in their exclusion of the mother-tongue from the course of study. In his Elementarie he asked: “Is it not a marvellous bondage to become servants to one tongue, for learning’s sake, the most part of our time, with loss of most time, whereas we may have the very same treasure in our own tongue with the gain of most time? our own bearing the joyful title of our liberty and freedom, the Latin tongue remembering us of our thraldom and bondage. I love Rome, but London better; I favor Italy, but England more: I honor the Latin, but I worship the English.” Mr. Quick is right in maintaining that “it would have been a vast gain to all Europe if Mulcaster had been followed instead of Sturm. He was one of the earliest advocates of the use of English instead of Latin, and good reading and writing in English were to be secured before Latin was begun.”

These were some of the voices raised against the bookish classical learning of the sixteenth century; but it remained for Vives, Bacon, and Ratke to convince Europe of the insufficiency of the humanistic ideal, and for Comenius, the evangelist of modern pedagogy, to bring about the necessary reforms. The part played by each in the transition from humanism to realism, from classical learning and philology to modern thought and the natural sciences, will be briefly traced in the succeeding chapters of this work.