II. The Pedagogical Narrative
Some famous pedagogical books
The pedagogical narrative can hardly be called "story," not only because of the intent of the writer to instruct, but also because of the specialness of the subject-matter itself. "Leonard and Gertrude," however, has continued to be read as story in an interpreted form for many years. "Interpreted" connotes what the modern versions of "Leonard and Gertrude" really are, redactions. When the cumbersome and somewhat eccentric sentences of the original were made over, the plot was found to be of a good deal of interest, the character-sketching peculiarly fine, and the lessons taught high and noble and practical as well. Pestalozzi himself had gradually learned how to teach children, and he not only told, but showed others. For that is what a pedagogical story is—a working theory of instruction set up in scenes and actions: it is exposition made narrative. Do you want to know how to teach Jimmy and Margaret? This good old Swiss pedagogue will show you how Gertrude taught her children, mother and school mistress, priest and village reformer as she was. If you had lived in Queen Elizabeth's day and wanted to know how and what to teach your boy or girl, you could have asked the gentle Roger, the queen's own schoolmaster. You can ask him now how he taught; for he put his thoughts down in a volume which bears the name of his professional office—quaintly spelled "Scholemaster"—and shows you his methods of work in forming the mind of the perfect gentleman. This sober pedagogical treatise, which is not narrative, not story, was published only after Ascham's death; but many years before, when he was a very young man and much gayer but hardly less wise, he set forth in "Toxophilus," the archer, a picture of how amusement and learning can be combined. The exposition proceeds in the form of a dialogue (the old fashioned literary type called débat) between a lover of books and a lover of exercise. "Toxophilus" is not exactly story either, but it approaches story, and is important to our type because of the intense and far-reaching influence it has had on modern pedagogy in inspiring a looking-out for the development of the body as well as the mind, and in emphasizing the giving of instruction in an interesting form.
From Ascham's "Schoolmaster" John Lyly got the suggestion for his two famous romances of Euphues, the "well-formed" one. A young man should be euphues in all things, said Ascham, and Lyly undertook to show a Briton thus as he moved about in society, at home, abroad, in friendship and love. So popular did Euphues become that all the ladies and gentlemen of Elizabeth's court modelled their speech on his.
Charming old Sir Isaac Walton joined the pedagogues and gave us a set of delightful walks and talks on angling. He teaches one to be a "complete" angler—an artist at his pastime.
A sort of hand-book of etiquette for the golden youths of the Renaissance was Castiglione's "Courtier," "a sketch of a cultivated nobleman in those most cultivated days." The author shows by what precepts and practice a fine gentleman is made. So well did he write that his own name ever since has been a synonym for nobility and manliness. He gives us a picture of the purest and most elevated court in Italy, that of Guidobaldo da Montefeltra, duke of Urbino. A discussion is held in the duchess's drawing-room to settle the question, what constitutes a perfect courtier. The type selected differs in no material way from the ideal gentleman of the present day.
All of these books are the work of persons who set out seriously to teach—except perhaps the gentle Isaac, who probably wrote what he wrote for sheer pleasure and taught by the way. And they all include what the modern pedagogical narrative includes—disguised exposition. For the most part the modern species is short. A publisher now-a-days, I suppose, could hardly be induced to present an educational system thinly disguised in a long romance. Consequently most of such stories come out in our educational periodicals as better or poorer literature, better or poorer teaching.
Rousseau's "The New Héloise" and "Emile" might be mentioned here were they not more nearly harangues than stories. Their effect in renovating France domestically, though, will forever connect them with the word pedagogy. They are surely a pedagogue's "fiction," since their author took no care of his real children.
These treatises were almost immediately influential in England, but now the theories began to be set forth in more truly narrative form. In "The Fool of Quality" (by Henry Brooke), the hero goes about spreading benevolence and cash and displaying his physical strength and an educational theory as well, as to how an English Christian young gentleman should be brought up. The later development of such teaching was naturally books addressed directly to children. Thomas Day's "Sandford and Merton" had in it stories and dialogues for young people to read for themselves, in which they were taught the value of the sciences and the virtues. Maria Edgeworth's "Frank" and "Rosamond" and Jacob Abbott's "Rollo Books" are for still more juvenile audiences, and in Froebel's "Mother Plays" the baby, even, comes into its own.
Froebel
This work necessarily, however, was addressed to the parent. A tiny cyclopedia of story, song, game, and theory, it is great pedagogy, and in the original, at least, acceptable literature. The object of all teaching-narratives should be that which Froebel expresses in his comment on one of his own little games taught in a dialogue between a mother and her son. You recall that his double purpose is to teach the mother what and how to teach the child. He says, "The deep import of The Light-Bird is hinted in the song and motto. Beware, however, of the only one contained in the play. Not only The Light-Bird but all the plays which precede and follow it have many meanings. Neither must it be supposed that the meaning suggested by me is, if not the sole, at least the highest one. My songs, mottoes, and commentaries are offered simply with the hope that they may aid you to recognize and hold fast some part of what you yourself feel while playing these games and to suggest to you how you may awaken corresponding feelings in your child."
If you want to write a pedagogical narrative that will startle the world, adopt the motto of Froebel, the charm of Ascham and Walton, the graciousness of Castiglione, and the hard common sense of Pestalozzi, and then proceed. But hold! You will need to have something to teach. Perhaps you would better not try romance as a vehicle, but would better stick to our briefer types. Suppose you put into narrative form, as others have done since the days of the great kindergartner, a simple game for children, or your favorite and most helpful method of study.
Gertrude's Method of Instruction
It was quite early in the morning when Arner (the people's father), Glulhi (his lieutenant), and the pastor went to the mason's cottage. The room was not in order when they entered, for the family had just finished breakfast, and the dirty plates and spoons still lay upon the table. Gertrude was at first somewhat disconcerted, but the visitors reassured her, saying kindly: "This is as it should be; it is impossible to clear the table before breakfast is eaten!"
The children all helped wash the dishes, and then seated themselves in their customary places before their work. The gentlemen begged Gertrude to let everything go on as usual, and after the first half hour, during which she was a little embarrassed, all proceeded as if no stranger were present. First the children sang their morning hymns, and then Gertrude read a chapter of the Bible aloud, which they repeated after her while they were spinning, rehearsing the most instructive passages until they knew them by heart. In the mean time, the oldest girl had been making the children's beds in the adjoining room, and the visitors noticed through the open door that she silently repeated what the others were reciting. When this task was completed, she went into the garden and returned with vegetables for dinner, which she cleaned while repeating Bible-verses with the rest.
It was something new for the children to see three gentlemen in the room, and they often looked up from their spinning toward the corner where the strangers sat. Gertrude noticed this, and said to them: "Seems to me you look more at these gentlemen than at your yarn." But Harry answered: "No, indeed! We are working hard, and you'll have finer yarn to-day than usual."
Whenever Gertrude saw that anything was amiss with the wheels or cotton, she rose from her work, and put it in order. The smallest children, who were not old enough to spin, picked over the cotton for carding, with a skill which excited the admiration of the visitors.
Although Gertrude thus exerted herself to develop very early the manual dexterity of her children, she was in no haste for them to learn to read and write. But she took pains to teach them early how to speak; for, as she said, "of what use is it for a person to be able to read and write, if he cannot speak?—since reading and writing are only an artificial sort of speech." To this end she used to make the children pronounce syllables after her in regular succession, taking them from an old A-B-C book she had. This exercise in correct and distinct articulation was, however, only a subordinate object in her whole scheme of education, which embraced a true comprehension of life itself. Yet she never adopted the tone of instructor toward her children; she did not say to them: "Child, this is your head, your nose, your hand, your finger;" or: "Where is your eye, your ear?"—but instead, she would say: "Come here, child, I will wash your little hands," "I will comb your hair," or: "I will cut your finger-nails." Her verbal instruction seemed to vanish in the spirit of her real activity, in which it always had its source. The result of her system was that each child was skillful, intelligent and active to the full extent that its age and development allowed.
The instruction she gave them in the rudiments of arithmetic was intimately connected with the realities of life. She taught them to count the number of steps from one end of the room to the other; and two of the rows of five panes each, in one of the windows, gave her an opportunity to unfold the decimal relations of numbers. She also made them count their threads while spinning, and the number of turns on the reel, when they wound the yarn into skeins. Above all, in every occupation of life she taught them an accurate and intelligent observation of common objects and the forces of nature.
All that Gertrude's children knew, they knew so thoroughly that they were able to teach it to the younger ones; and this they often begged permission to do. On this day, while the visitors were present, Jones sat with each arm around the neck of a smaller child, and made the little ones pronounce the syllables of the A-B-C book after him; while Lizzie placed herself with her wheel between two of the others, and while all three spun, taught them the words of a hymn with the utmost patience.
When the guests took their departure, they told Gertrude they would come again on the morrow. "Why?" she returned. "You will only see the same thing over again." But Glulphi said: "That is the best praise you could possibly give yourself." Gertrude blushed at this compliment, and stood confused when the gentlemen kindly pressed her hand in taking leave.
The three could not sufficiently admire what they had seen at the mason's house, and Glulphi was so overcome by the powerful impression made upon him, that he longed to be alone and seek counsel of his own thoughts. He hastened to his room, and as he crossed the threshold, the words broke from his lips: "I must be schoolmaster in Bonnal!" All night visions of Gertrude's schoolroom floated through his mind, and he only fell asleep toward morning. Before his eyes were fairly open, he murmured: "I will be schoolmaster!"—and hastened to Arner to acquaint him with his resolution.
—Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi.
"Leonard and Gertrude" (D. C. Heath & Co.).
Lawin-Lawinan
In the beautiful town of Santa Maria, children were very fond of playing many curious games. Not a single day or moonlight evening could pass without one's seeing some children playing along the wide streets.
One bright evening in the month of July, after the angelus bell rang, Mapacla, in company with some playmates, went to Zandoval Street, where many children were romping. When they reached the place, they agreed to play Lawin-lawinan. Mapacla was chosen by all to be the sisiw (chicken), and a playmate, Malacas by name, to be the lawin (hawk). The chicken and the hawk were the principal characters of the game. The rest of the children formed a circle: each one with outstretched arms held the hand of the one next him till the circle was formed. The space between each two children was called the door, the owners of which were the children by whom it was formed. The chicken stood inside the circle, and the hawk stood outside.
The game was then begun. The hawk went to the first door, asking, "What door is this?"
"To your honorable stomach," answered the owner of the door.
"And this?" asked the hawk, after approaching another door.
"To your long throat," answered the owner.
The hawk repeated the same question, as he went around from door to door, till he reached the last one.
"Have you anything to sell me?" asked the hawk of the door owner.
"A good fat red chicken!" answered the owner.
"Let me see its scales," remarked the hawk, as he grasped the feet of the chicken. "This is a fine quality of wild bird," he added; "will you have him crow?"
"Crow!" said the owner to the chicken.
"Tic—to—la—la—oe," cried the chicken.
"Fine!" said the hawk. "How much will you sell him for?"
"For one peso," answered the owner.
After the bargain had been made and the hawk was about to catch the chicken, the circle began to whirl around, allowing no space for the hawk to enter. By chance, however, the hawk, thrusting himself through a space, reached the interior of the circle. Every owner was then afraid that the chicken might be caught by the hawk. The whirling of the circle was immediately stopped, and every door was left wide open. The chicken with all his might ran swiftly out of the circle. The hawk was so slow in following that he was captured inside. The circle began to whirl again, till, accidentally, the hawk, struggling for his escape, made his way out. Sometimes the chicken, pursued by the hawk, entered the circle, but immediately ran out whenever there was danger of being caught. At last when the chicken became tired, the hawk caught him.
The punishment was then inflicted. The hawk ordered himself to be carried on the shoulders of the chicken. The order was obeyed without delay. After the chicken had walked a few paces with the heavy load on him, he stopped and started another game, choosing another chicken to be chased by the hawk.
—Leopoldo Uichanco.