MAN THE SUBJECT OF EDUCATION.

In the autumn of 1837, there was an assembly in the state house at Boston, which presented two conditions of society. Among a crowd, consisting of the pale-faced race, were a number of red warriors from the West. They were the chiefs of their tribes, the picked men of their several nations; the brave of the battle-field, the orator and sage of the council. In reply to an address from the chief magistrate of this commonwealth, several of them made speeches. But how narrow was their range of thought; how few their ideas; how slight their knowledge; how feeble their grasp of intellect! They were, indeed, powerful in limb, but they had evidently the imperfect and limited comprehension of children. As animals, they were athletic, sinewy, and active, but as men, they had a coarse and revolting aspect. If you looked into their countenances as an index to the mind, you looked in vain for any trace of those refined emotions which belong to civilized man. It is frightful to gaze into the human face and see only the sinister stare of a wild animal. Yet the eye of these savages, like that of the wolf or the tiger, though bright and glassy, had no depth of expression, and seemed only to manifest a wary attention to visible objects and the passing scene. It bespoke no inward working, as if the mind were busy in weaving its woof of reflection, and unfolded no emotion, as if some seal were broken and a new page of revelation opened on the soul. It seemed

indeed but a watchful sentinel to mark outward things, not a mirror imaging forth a spirit within.

Such were the master-spirits of the savage race. Compare them with the individual who addressed them on the occasion in behalf of the pale-faces, the chief magistrate of this commonwealth, and consider the difference between savage and civilized man. Consider the compass of thought, the vastness of knowledge, the power of combination, the richness of fancy, the depth, variety and refinement of sentiment, which belong to one, and the narrowness of mind, the poverty of soul, which characterize the other. And what is the mighty magic which thus makes men to differ?

The easy answer to this interrogation is offered in a single word EDUCATION. I know indeed that in common use this only means the instruction given at our seminaries. We speak of an English education, a liberal education, a fashionable education. In these cases, the word has a restricted and technical signification, and includes little more than instruction in certain arts and certain branches of knowledge. The learned politician who gave as a toast on some public occasion, “ Education, or the three R's, Reading, Riting and Rithmetic," interpreted the word according to this popular acceptation. It has, however, a more enlarged sense, and legitimately includes all those influences which go to unfold the faculties of man or determine human character. It is in this wide sense that education may be offered as explaining the difference between savage and civilized man. It is in this sense I propose to con

sider it on the present occasion.

And here let us remark, that if man in his natural state is a savage; and if there be a power by which he can be redeemed from such degradation, and elevated to a rank but little lower than the angels-how important is it that we understand thoroughly the nature and operation of that power. It will, therefore, be my design to investigate this topic, and endeavor to illustrate in a plain and simple manner, the great principle on which human improvement rests.

To the careless or casual observer, the fields of science present an assemblage of objects without plan, arrangement, or design. To him, the surface of the earth seems but a disorganized mass of rocks, stones, and soils; to him, the various tribes of animals are but as a confused Babel, and the vegetable kingdom a perplexing and bewildering maze of trees, plants,

and shrubs. But to the patient and philosophical student these assume a very different aspect. To him, the rugged hills and mountains are susceptible of classification, and the very stones scattered over their surface are known to have their minutest particles arranged in precise angles, according to an inflexible law. To him, the animal kingdom unfolds a stupendous system of living beings, rising in regular gradation, from the sponge that links the animal to the vegetable world, up to man, who stands at the head of creation. To him, the boundless variety of the forest and the field, of tree and plant, of leaf and flower, are marshalled forth in all the order of a well-appointed army.

Thus it is that nature unfolds her beautiful mysteries to the student of her works. Thus it is that, while the thoughtless and the indifferent stumble on through life, either blindfolded by ignorance or distracted by doubt, the philosopher is admitted into the temple of truth and instructed in the ways of Providence. And what is the grand result to which one thus initiated at last arrives? It is this - that in all the works of God there is design; that in the animal, mineral, and vegetable kingdom there is organization, system, arrangement; that in the shapeless stone, the blade of grass, the buzzing insect, and the grazing quadruped, in each and all, there are conclusive proofs of contrivance, proceeding from One who acts according to a settled plan, and regulates his various works by universal and immutable principles.

Now it is one of the great objects of all philosophy, as well that of every-day life as that of the more abstruse student, to discover the design of the Creator in his various works, or, in other words, to discover the laws of nature. If the gardener desires success in the cultivation of a plant, he endeavors to find out the climate which is most genial to it, the soil in which it thrives best, and the positions which it seems to choose; that is to say, he seeks to understand its nature, and, having made himself acquainted with this, he adapts his cultivation to

He does not attempt to change its nature, for experience has taught him that this would be ridiculous and vain. Having once ascertained the design of its Maker, he follows out that design, and attempts in no other way to bring the object of his care to perfection.

Thus, in the treatment of animals, our object being to raise them to the highest state of improvement, we consult the design of the Creator in their formation; in other words, we en

deavor to find out the laws which regulate their nature, and follow the indications thus afforded with implicit obedience.

Such is the philosophy of every-day life, and such is all true philosophy. Its end is to discover the designs of the Creator, for we know that these proceed from omniscience, and any human attempt to go beyond them would be presumptuous folly. It is the highest object of human reason to search out and comprehend the laws of nature, or the designs of the Creator, and, having done this, common sense teaches us that we may safely follow the lead which is thus afforded us.

If, then, our inquiry were as to the best means of improving the condition of man, we should first investigate his nature, or seek to discover the design of the Creator in his formation. We should begin with the infant, watch the development of its faculties, and study the process by which these are unfolded. We should go on, through childhood and youth, to maturity, and see if we could perceive any leading principle or design, through which the intellectual, moral, and physical powers are unfolded and perfected. To aid in this inquiry, we should make a comparison between man and the mere animal creation, carefully noting down those points in which he may resemble, or differ from, them. The plain inference that would result from such an inquiry is this that while all other animated beings are incapable of instruction, and reach their perfection without it, man is designed to be the subject of education; that through education his faculties receive their development; that by education alone he can reach the end and design of his being.

Let us for a moment follow out this plan of investigation. We begin with the infant, and compare it with various young animals. Most quadrupeds are able to walk in a few hours after their birth. In this, they need no instruction beyond that instinct which is born with them. But before the infant can perform this apparently simple act, he must go through the long and tedious training of twelve months. He must make ten thousand efforts before he can command the use of his limbs; he must make trial after trial; he must be aided and instructed; in short, every muscle in his body is to be educated to perform its task.

There are many birds, particularly those of the gallinaceous tribe, which in twelve hours after they are hatched run about and pick up seeds, selecting them with careful discrimination

from amidst the earth and gravel among which they are scattered. How different it is with the infant! How many efforts must it make before it can even pick up a pin! It is, in the first place, to acquire a knowledge of distances; it must then learn to measure these with its arm; that arm, too, must be instructed; the thumb and finger must be taught. All this various knowledge must be acquired by patient training, and brought to harmonize in one effort. Thus, an act which animals perform instinctively, and immediately after they come into existence, cannot be performed by a child until it has passed through an elaborate education of several months.

The animal tribes have no articulate language, but such as they have is intuitive. How far it is the instrument of communicating ideas, we cannot precisely determine; but we know that their various cries are understood by them, and serve to some extent, the purposes of our more artificial and arbitrary modes of speech.. These cries are universal in the several species, and are not adopted from imitation, but from instinct. The young duck that is hatched and reared by the hen does not imitate the notes of its foster-mother, but makes precisely the same sound as the parent that gave it existence. If you take the eggs of various birds, and cause them to be hatched in one nest, the young ones will severally break forth with the language of their several parents. In Japan and China, it is common to hatch chickens by steam, and I have seen the same process in London. These chickens, cut off from all intercourse with their kindred of the barnyard, invariably utter the same cries, whether expressive of pain or pleasure. I know that some birds have considerable powers of imitation. The parrot may be taught to utter sentences, and the caged mocking-bird will repeat snatches of music caught from the flute. But these powers are of small compass, and confined to a few species. They not only show a faculty of imitation, but to some extent a capacity for instruction. It must be remarked, however, that these arts, thus acquired, are not material to the existence of their possessors. They do not contribute to their happiness or elevate them in the scale of being. The gay parrot of the Brazilian grove, uttering his wild jargon in freedom, is a superior bird to the imprisoned parrot, who has been taught to speak, and who, as a diploma given in evidence of his liberal education, has his tongue severed in twain. But speech is essential to man. It is evidently the design of the Creator