CHAPTER XXI.

The Theory of the Plan-Analysis of the Mental OperationsThree Elementary Points; Number, Form, Language.

We have now arrived at that part of the work before us, in which Pestalozzi attempts to lay down what he calls the "theory of his method," or his system of metaphysics at the time when these letters were written. But even if the object of the present volume were of a less practical tendency, even if we had proposed to ourselves the elucidation of dogmas and theories, still we should be exceedingly reluctant to scare away our readers by disquisitions and propositions, which while they evidently bespeak a painful, because unnatural exertion on the part of the author, convey to the reader no other idea than that of an unintelligible jumble of scholastic terms, all of which are, and remain, undefined in the book, probably because they were so in the writer's own mind. In Germany, where it is impossible to advance any thing with success, unless it be properly established upon a “metaphysical basis," Pestalozzi may have thought it indispensable to strain the point, and, though he were ever so conscious of his inability, to exclaim, "Anch' io son pittore :" we, however, may feel ourselves relieved from the dire necessity, by which he was swayed; for assuredly the public, for whom we write, cannot be taxed with an extravagant predilection for the transcendental. Even if Pestalozzi's "theory of his plan” were a pattern of metaphysical clearness and precision, still we presume that we might safely take shelter under the perpetual act of indemnity, unanimously passed each publishing season in favor of those who have saved their readers the trouble of thinking; much more, then, are we disposed to

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avail ourselves of the liberality of the public in a case like the present, in which we could not hold out the prospect of an adequate return for their outlay of time and thought. To cut off, however, even the slightest pretext of complaint on the score of omission, to such as might be hypercritically inclined, we shall guard ourselves against the charge of presumption in what we have said of our author's talent for the abstruse, by quoting his own words at the beginning of the sixth letter, in which he returns to more practical topics:

"My dear friend, if you find that I do not succeed in explaining the theory of my plans, I hope you will take the will for the deed, seeing what pains I am taking. Ever since the age of twenty I have been completely unfitted for systematic metaphysics; and fortunately for me, the practical success of my plan does not depend upon this sort of philosophy, which seems to me so toilsome."

We shall now follow Pestalozzi, for a moment, in that train of thought by which he was led to arrange under three heads the different elementary branches of his method, as a knowledge of the view on which his classification rests, is indispensable for a correct understanding of the subsequent chapters.

"When I had begun to teach reading, I found out, after a while, that my pupils wanted first to be taught speaking; and when I set about trying how I could accomplish this, I came at last to the principle, of following the progress of nature in the composition of single sounds into words, and words into speech.

"Again, in endeavouring to teach writing, I found that I must begin by teaching my children drawing; and, when I took this in hand, I saw that without the art of measuring there is no drawing.

"When I attempted to teach spelling, I felt the want of an appropriate book for the earliest childhood; and I conceived the plan of one, by the aid of which, I have no doubt that children of three or four years of age might be brought to a degree of real information, far superior to that which is commonly acquired at school about the age of seven or eight years.

"In this manner I was led to the invention of positive practical aids to instruction; but the very circuitous way in which I made each single discovery, left no doubt in my mind as to the defectiveness, and even superficiality, of the view which I was still taking of my subject. I was long searching for an universal basis on which all my means of instruction might rest, being well convinced, that on this ground alone I could hope to

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establish, for the development of human nature, a method conformable to the laws of that nature. It was very evident to me, that there must be a form of instruction corresponding with the organization of our mind; and I saw, likewise, that the process of the latter is essentially, to reduce those compound impressions, which our senses receive from nature, to simple unities; that is to say, to abstract ideas which, at first vague, are gradually developed to a higher degree of clearness.

"Every line, every measure, every word, said I to myself, is a production of the intellect, formed by abstraction from matured intuitions, and subservient to the progressive unfolding of our ideas into clearness. The same course is, or ought to be, pursued in all instruction, and the principles of education must therefore be derived from the invariable and primitive form of our mental' development.

"A comprehensive and yet minute knowledge of that form seemed, therefore, to me essential, and I returned again and again to those elements of thought in which it is manifested.

"The world, said I to myself, in my reveries on that subject, lies before us like an ocean in which confused perceptions follow each other, as, on the vast surface of the deep, waves roll upon waves. The art of instruction, then, consists in removing the confusion of this indefinite succession of perceptions, by distinguishing the different objects from each other, and reuniting those that are analogous or related to each other, in one idea, which is to comprehend them all, and present them to our mind in that clearness and distinctness which is obtained by separating their essential and common properties, from the accidental peculiarities of each single object. First, we must detach each perception from those with which it is, in nature, interwoven; then we must observe each single perception through all the variations and changes to which it is liable; and, lastly, we must determine its proper place in the circle of knowledge which we have already acquired; so that, progressively, we come from confusion to distinction, from distinction to clearness, from clearness to insight.

That is to say, if we apprehend the meaning of our author correctly, "We first possess ourselves of our object, by separating it from the influence which the simultaneous perception of other objects has, in confusing our senses and our mind; we then examine the object in itself, in order to ascertain what is its basis, or its invariable nature, and what are the states and changes to which it is liable, the impressions that can be made upon it, the expressions or manifestations of which it is capable; and, lastly, we replace it in the universe of creation, from which we have torn it, for the purpose

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of examination, and ascertain both the station which the object, according to its invariable nature, holds in the scale of existences, and the bearing which its states and changes have upon the life of the universe; the mode in which the object contributes to the universal march of things by its own manifestations, and the manner in which it is affected in itself by that march of things." It is important, however, that we should not only be aware of this matter of fact, but that we should likewise see how these things are. "The universe lies before us as an ocean of confusion." True! but let us examine where the confusion lies. Would there be that confusion in it, if we could see it with a luminous eye? Obviously not. Our mind, darkened and reduced to a finite condition, cannot follow this infinite display of life and light. Wherefore it is obliged to cling to one point of that life, to sever it from the whole, to reduce it, as it were, to its own dead and finite state, in order to understand it. It was a glowing pulse in the sphere of creation; it becomes a dead stain of blood in our investigating hand. In its connexion with the infinite, with the universal life, we could not see, could not feel, could not understand it; we have rendered it accessible to us, by separating it from the infinite, and rendering it finite, by cutting it off from life, and making it dead. There is, in this respect, the strictest analogy between our scientific systems, and our herbaries, our geological, ornithological, and other "logical" museums. In them is to be found whatever the creation contains, except its life. far, then, but no farther, does human nature (in the English sense of the term) lead us, and so far does instruction follow nature. But there is one step farther to which the divine nature alone can lead, and in which instruction ought to follow it, though it does not. There is a tendency in our soul which obdurate resistance only can repress, a tendency, not to rest satisfied with having reduced creation to the level of our own littleness, to the measure of our own selfish contraction; but on the contrary, to make creation a stepping-stone for our return to the Godhead. It is the power which produces in

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us this tendency, that prompts us to restore that which we have reduced to our own dead and finite condition, to the place which it held in the life of the whole; it is that power which being in itself life and light, shows us the thing so restored to its pristine condition, in its universal bearing; and invites us, by the repeated comparison of death and life, to give up even ourselves to be restored to our original station in the universal life. Is not this invitation the very purpose for which creation is displayed before our eyes? Or, if it is not this, what else is it?

This, then, is the distinctive feature of that instruction. which we would advocate; of that instruction which Pestalozzi advocated, though, perhaps, not clearly conscious of its real foundation; instruction in subserviency to that power of life and light, by which the universe, to the darkened creature an ocean of confusion, is converted into an ocean of intelligence. But we repeat it, this instruction is not the work of human nature, nor of human art; it is the work of the divine nature, and of those men whom the divine nature has chosen and fitted to be its instruments for that purpose. In the sense here pointed out we fully concur in the sentiment of our author, that in the process which he has described, "instruction does no more than what nature herself does for us without the assistance of art; and the only advantage we derive from the latter is, that it accelerates the progress of the former, so as to enable the individual to keep pace with the general progress of human civilization.

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Nature, in her progress towards this development, is invariably following the important law, that the degree of clearness of our knowledge depends on the greater or less distance of the objects, which we perceive through our senses. Every thing in the surrounding world appears, cæteris paribus, confused to our senses, in proportion as it is distant from them; whatever, on the contrary, is near to our five senses, appears to us in the same measure distinct; and, though habit alone can enable us to take a clear view of any, even the nearest object, at the first glance, yet the difficulty or facility which we have in forming a clear idea of things, depends essentially on the degree of their distance or nearness.

"As far as I am an inhabitant of the visible world, my five senses are myself; and, therefore, the clearness or obscurity of my ideas must necessarily depend on the distance from which each impression reaches these five