The Moral Instruction of Children

by Felix Adler

Shall we then formulate the rule in this wise: Intend to make thy words correspond to the essential facts? But even this will not entirely satisfy. For there are cases, surely, in which we deliberately frame our words in such a way that they shall not correspond to the essential facts—for instance, if we should meet a murderer who should ask us in which direction his intended victim had fled, or in the case of an insane person intent on suicide, or of the sick in extreme danger, whom the communication of bad news would kill. How can we justify such a procedure? We can justify it on the ground that language as a means of communication is intended to further the rational purposes of human life, and not conversely are the rational purposes of life to be sacrificed to any merely formal principle of truth-telling. A person who, like the murderer, is about to use the fact conveyed to him by my words as a weapon with which to kill a fellow-being has no right to be put in possession of the fact. An insane person, who can not use the truthful communications of others except for irrational ends, is also outside the pale of those to whom such tools can properly be intrusted. And so are the sick, when so enfeebled that the shock of grief would destroy them. For the rational use of grief is to provoke in us a moral reaction, to rouse in us the strength to bear our heavy burdens, and, in bearing, to learn invaluable moral lessons. But those who are physically too weak to rally from the first shock of grief are unable to secure this result, and they must therefore be classed, for the time being, as persons not in a condition to make rational use of the facts of life. It is not from pain and suffering that we are permitted to shield them. Pain and suffering we must be willing both to endure and also to inflict upon those whom we love best, if necessary. Reason can and should triumph over pain. But when the reasoning faculty is impaired, or when the body is too weak to respond to the call of reason, the obligation of truth-telling ceases. I am not unaware that this is a dangerous doctrine to teach. I should always take the greatest pains to impress upon my pupils that the irrational condition, which alone justifies the withholding of the truth, must be so obvious that there can be no mistake about it, as in the case of the murderer who, with knife in hand, pursues his victim, or of the insane, or of the sick, in regard to whom the physician positively declares that the shock of bad news would endanger life. But I do think that we are bound to face these exceptional cases, and to discuss them with our pupils. For the latter know as well as we that in certain exceptional situations the best men do not tell the truth, that in such situations no one tells the truth, except he be a moral fanatic. And unless these exceptional cases are clearly marked off and explained and justified, the general authority of truth will be shaken, or at least the obligation of veracity will become very much confused in the pupil's mind. In my opinion, the confusion which does exist on this subject is largely due to a failure to distinguish between inward truthfulness and truthfulness as reflected in speech. The law of inward truthfulness tolerates no exceptions. We should always, and as far as possible, be absolutely truthful, in our thinking, in our estimates, in our judgments. But language is a mere vehicle for the communication of thoughts and facts to others, and in communicating thoughts and facts we are bound to consider in how far others are fit to receive them. Shall we then formulate the rule of veracity thus: Intend to communicate the essential facts to those who are capable of making a rational use of them. I think that some such formula as this might answer. I am not disposed to stickle for this particular phraseology. But the formula as stated illustrates my thought, and also the method by which the formulas, which we shall have to teach in the grammar course are to be reached. It is the inductive method. First a concrete case is presented, and a rule of conduct is hypothetically suggested, which fits this particular case. Then other cases are adduced. It is discovered that the rule as it stands thus far does not fit them. It must therefore be modified, expanded. Then, in succession, other and more complex cases, to which the rule may possibly apply are brought forward, until every case we can think of has been examined; and when the rule is brought into such shape that it fits them all, we have a genuine moral maxim, a safe rule for practical guidance, and the principle involved in the rule is one of those secondary principles in respect to which men of every sect and school can agree. It needs hardly to be pointed out how much a casuistical discussion of this sort tends to stimulate interest in moral problems, and to quicken the moral judgment. I can say, from an experience of over a dozen years, that pupils between twelve and fifteen years of age are immensely interested in such discussions, and are capable of making the subtilest distinctions. Indeed, the directness with which they pronounce their verdict on fine questions of right and wrong often has in it something almost startling to older persons, whose contact with the world has reconciled them to a somewhat less exacting standard.

But here a caution is necessary. Some children seem to be too fond of casuistry. They take an intellectual pleasure in drawing fine distinctions, and questions of conscience are apt to become to them mere matter of mental gymnastics. Such a tendency must be sternly repressed whenever it shows itself. In fact, reasoning about moral principles is always attended with a certain peril. After all, the actual morality of the world depends largely on the moral habits which mankind have formed in the course of many ages, and which are transmitted from generation to generation. Now a habit acts a good deal like an instinct. Its force depends upon what has been called unconscious cerebration. As soon as we stop to reason about our habits, their hold on us is weakened, we hesitate, we become uncertain, the interference of the mind acts like a brake. It is for this reason that throughout the primary course, we have confined ourselves to what the Germans call Anschauung, the close observation of examples with a view of provoking imitation or repugnance, and thus strengthening the force of habit. Why, then, introduce analysis now, it may be asked. Why not be content with still further confirming the force of good habits? My answer is that the force of habit must be conserved and still further strengthened, but that analysis, too, becomes necessary at this stage. And why? Because habits are always specialized. A person governed by habits falls into a certain routine, and moves along easily and safely as long as the conditions repeat themselves to which his habits are adjusted. But when confronted by a totally new set of conditions, he is often quite lost and helpless. Just as a person who is solely guided by common sense in the ordinary affairs of life, is apt to be stranded when compelled to face circumstances for which his previous experience affords no precedent. It is necessary, therefore, to extract from the moral habits the latent rules of conduct which underlie them, and to state these in a general form which the mind can grasp and retain, and which it will be able to apply to new conditions as they arise. To this end analysis and the formulation of rules are indispensable. But in order, at the same time, not to break the force of habit, the teacher should proceed in the following manner: He should always take the moral habit for granted. He should never give his pupils to understand that he and they are about to examine whether, for instance, it is wrong or not wrong to lie. The commandment against lying is assumed, and its obligation acknowledged at the outset. The only object of the analysis is to discern more exactly what is meant by lying, to define the rule of veracity with greater precision and circumspectness, so that we may be enabled to fulfill the commandment more perfectly. It is implied in what I have said that the teacher should not treat of moral problems as if he were dealing with problems in arithmetic. The best thing he can do for his pupils—better than any particular lesson he can teach—will be to communicate to them the spirit of moral earnestness. And this spirit he can not communicate unless he be full of it himself. The teacher should consecrate himself to his task; he should be penetrated by a sense of the lofty character of the subject which he teaches. Even a certain attention to externals is not superfluous. The lessons, in the case of the younger children, may be accompanied by song; the room in which the classes meet may be hung with appropriate pictures, and especially is it desirable that the faces of great and good men and women shall look down upon the pupils from the walls. The instruction should be given by word of mouth; for the right text-books do not yet exist, and even the best books must always act as a bar to check that flow of moral influence which should come from the teacher to quicken the class. To make sure that the pupils understand what they have been taught, they should be required from time to time to reproduce the subject matter of the lessons in their own language, and using their own illustrations, in the form of essays.

And now, after this general introduction, let us take up the lessons on the duties in their proper order. What is the proper order? This question, you will remember, was discussed in the lecture on the classification of duties. It was there stated that the life of man from childhood upward, may be divided into periods, that each period has its special duties, and that there is in each some one central duty around which the others may be grouped. During the school age the paramount duty of the pupil is to study. We shall therefore begin with the duties which are connected with the pursuit of knowledge. We shall then take up the duties which relate to the physical life and the feelings; next, the duties which arise in the family; after that the duties which we owe to all men; and lastly we will consider in an elementary way the civic duties.

The Duty of acquiring Knowledge.—In starting the discussion of any particular set of duties, it is advisable, as has been said, to present some concrete case, and biographical or historical examples are particularly useful. I have sometimes begun the lesson on the duty of acquiring knowledge by telling the story of Cleanthes and that of Hillel. Cleanthes, a poor boy, was anxious to attend the school of Zeno. But he was compelled to work for his bread, and could not spend his days in study as he longed to do. He was, however, so eager to learn that he found a way of doing his work by night. He helped a gardener to water his plants, and also engaged to grind corn on a hand-mill for a certain woman. Now the neighbors, who knew that he was poor, and who never saw him go to work, were puzzled to think how he obtained the means to live. They suspected him of stealing, and he was called before the Judge to explain. The Judge addressed him severely, and commanded him to tell the truth. Cleanthes requested that the gardener and the woman might be sent for, and they testified that he had been in the habit of working for them by night. The Judge was touched by his great zeal for knowledge, acquitted him of the charge, and offered him a gift of money. But Zeno would not permit him to take the gift. Cleanthes became the best pupil of Zeno, and grew up to be a very wise and learned man, indeed one of the most famous philosophers of the Stoic school. The story of Hillel runs as follows: There was once a poor lad named Hillel. His parents were dead, and he had neither relatives nor friends. He was anxious to go to school, but, though he worked hard, he did not earn enough to pay the tuition fee exacted at the door. So he decided to save money by spending only half his earnings for food. He ate little, and that little was of poor quality, but he was perfectly happy, because with what he laid aside he could now pay the door-keeper and find a place inside, where he might listen and learn. This he did for some time, but one day he was so unlucky as to lose his situation. He had now no money left to buy bread, but he hardly thought of that, so much was he grieved at the thought that he should never get back to his beloved school. He begged the door-keeper to let him in, but the surly man refused to do so. In his despair a happy thought occurred to him. He had noticed a skylight on the roof. He climbed up to this, and to his delight found that through a crack he could hear all that was said inside. So he sat there and listened, and did not notice that evening was coming on, and that the snow was beginning to fall. Next morning when the teachers and pupils assembled as usual, every one remarked how dark the room seemed. The sun too was shining again by this time quite brightly outside. Suddenly some one happened to look up and with an exclamation of surprise pointed out the figure of a boy against the skylight. Quickly they all ran outside, climbed to the roof, and there, covered with snow, quite stiff and almost dead, they found poor Hillel. They carried him indoors, warmed his cold limbs, and worked hard to restore him to life. He was at last resuscitated, and from this time on was allowed to attend the school without paying. Later he became a great teacher. He lived in Palestine at about the time of Jesus. He was admired for his learning, but even more for his good deeds and his unfailing kindness to every one. The question is now raised, Why did Cleanthes work at night instead of seeking rest, and why did Hillel remain outside in the bitter cold and snow? The pupils will readily answer, Because they loved knowledge. But why is knowledge so desirable? With this interrogatory we are fairly launched on the discussion of our subject. The points to be developed are these:

First, knowledge is indispensable as a means of making one's way in the world. Show the helplessness of the ignorant. Compare the skilled laborer with the unskilled. Give instances of merchants, statesmen, etc., whose success was due to steady application and superior knowledge. Knowledge is power (namely, in the struggle for existence).

Secondly, knowledge is honor. An ignorant person is despised. Knowledge wins us the esteem of our fellow-men.

Thirdly, knowledge is joy in a twofold sense. As the perception of light to the eye of the body, so is the perception of truth to the eye of the mind. The mind experiences an intrinsic pleasure in seeing things in their true relations. Furthermore, mental growth is accompanied by the joy of successful effort. This can be explained even to a boy or girl of thirteen. Have you ever tried hard to solve a problem in algebra? Perhaps you have spent several hours over it. It has baffled you. At last, after repeated trials, you see your way clear, the solution is within your grasp. What a sense of satisfaction you experience then. It is the feeling of successful mental effort that gives you this satisfaction. You rejoice in having triumphed over difficulties, and the greater the difficulty, the more baffling and complex the problems, the greater is the satisfaction in solving them.

Fourthly, knowledge enables us to do good to others. Speak of the use which physicians make of their scientific training to alleviate suffering and save life. Refer to the manifold applications of science which have changed the face of modern society, and have contributed so largely to the moral progress of the world. Point out that all true philanthropy, every great social reform, implies a superior grasp of the problems to be solved, as well as devotion to the cause of humanity. In accordance with the line of argument just sketched the rule for the pursuit of knowledge may be successively expanded as follows: