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Idea of a University

<h2>Lecture IV.</h2> <h2>Elementary Studies.</h2> It has often been observed that, when the eyes of the infant first open upon the world, the reflected rays of light which strike them from the myriad of surrounding objects present to him no image, but a medley of colours and shadows. They do not form into a whole; they do not rise into foregrounds and melt into distances; they do not divide into groups; they do not coalesce into unities; they do not combine into persons; but each particular hue and tint stands by itself, wedged in amid a thousand others upon the vast and flat mosaic, having no intelligence, and conveying no story, any more than the wrong side of some rich tapestry. The little babe stretches out his arms and fingers, as if to grasp or to fathom the many-coloured vision; and thus he gradually learns the connexion of part with part, separates what moves from what is stationary, watches the coming and going of figures, masters the idea of shape and of perspective, calls in the information conveyed through the other senses to assist him in his mental process, and thus gradually converts a calidoscope into a picture. The first view was the more splendid, the second the more real; the former more poetical, the latter more philosophical. Alas! what are we doing all through life, both as a necessity and as a duty, but unlearning the world's poetry, and attaining to its prose! This is our education, as boys and as men, in the action of life, and in the closet or library; in our affections, in our aims, in our hopes, and in our memories. And in like manner it is the education of our intellect; I say, that one main portion of intellectual education, of the labours of both school and university, is to remove the original dimness of the mind's eye; to strengthen and perfect its vision; to enable it to look out into the world right forward, steadily and truly; to give the mind clearness, accuracy, precision; to enable it to use words aright, to understand what it says, to conceive justly what it thinks about, to abstract, compare, analyze, divide, define, and reason, correctly. There is a particular science which takes these matters in hand, and it is called logic; but it is not by logic, certainly not by logic alone, that the faculty I speak of is acquired. The infant does not learn to spell and read the hues upon his retina by any scientific rule; nor does the student learn accuracy of thought by any manual or treatise. The instruction given him, of whatever kind, if it be really instruction, is mainly, or at least pre-eminently, this,—a discipline in accuracy of mind. Boys are always more or less inaccurate, and too many, or rather the majority, remain boys all their lives. When, for instance, I hear speakers at public meetings declaiming about “large and enlightened views,” or about “freedom of conscience,” or about “the Gospel,” or any other popular subject of the day, I am far from denying that some among them know what they are talking about; but it would be satisfactory, in a particular case, to be sure of the fact; for it seems to me that those household words may stand in a man's mind for a something or other, very glorious indeed, but very misty, pretty much like the idea of “civilization” which floats before the mental vision of a Turk,—that is, if, when he interrupts his smoking to utter the word, he condescends to reflect whether it has any meaning at all. Again, a critic in a periodical dashes off, perhaps, his praises of a new work, as “talented, original, replete with intense interest, irresistible in argument, and, in the best sense of the word, a very readable book;”—can we really believe that he cares to attach any definite sense to the words of which he is so lavish? nay, that, if he had a habit of attaching sense to them, he could ever bring himself to so prodigal and wholesale an expenditure of them? To a short-sighted person, colours run together and intermix, outlines disappear, blues and reds and yellows become russets or browns, the lamps or candles of an illumination spread into an unmeaning glare, or dissolve into a milky way. He takes up an eye-glass, and the mist clears up; every image stands out distinct, and the rays of light fall back upon their centres. It is this haziness of intellectual vision which is the malady of all classes of men by nature, of those who read and write and compose, quite as well as of those who cannot,—of all who have not had a really good education. Those who cannot either read or write may, nevertheless, be in the number of those who have remedied and got rid of it; those who can, are too often still under its power. It is an acquisition quite separate from miscellaneous information, or knowledge of books. This is a large subject, which might be pursued at great length, and of which here I shall but attempt one or two illustrations. <h3>§ 1.</h3> <h3>Grammar.</h3> <h4>1.</h4> One of the subjects especially interesting to all persons who, from any point of view, as officials or as students, are regarding a University course, is that of the Entrance Examination. Now a principal subject introduced into this examination will be “the elements of Latin and Greek Grammar.” “Grammar” in the middle ages was often used as almost synonymous with “literature,” and a Grammarian was a “Professor literarum.” This is the sense of the word in which a youth of an inaccurate mind delights. He rejoices to profess all the classics, and to learn none of them. On the other hand, by “Grammar” is now more commonly meant, as Johnson defines it, “the art of using words properly,” and it “comprises four parts—Orthography, Etymology, Syntax, and Prosody.” Grammar, in this sense, is the scientific analysis of language, and to be conversant with it, as regards a particular language, is to be able to understand the meaning and force of that language when thrown into sentences and paragraphs. Thus the word is used when the “elements of Latin and Greek Grammar” are spoken of as subjects of our Entrance Examination; not, that is, the elements of Latin and Greek literature, as if a youth were intended to have a smattering of the classical writers in general, and were to be able to give an opinion about the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero, the value of Livy, or the existence of Homer; or need have read half a dozen Greek and Latin authors, and portions of a dozen others:—though of course it would be much to his credit if he had done so; only, such proficiency is not to be expected, and cannot be required, of him:—but we mean the structure and characteristics of the Latin and Greek languages, or an examination of his scholarship. That is, an examination in order to ascertain whether he knows Etymology and Syntax, the two principal departments of the science of language,—whether he understands how the separate portions of a sentence hang together, how they form a whole, how each has its own place in the government of it, what are the peculiarities of construction or the idiomatic expressions in it proper to the language in which it is written, what is the precise meaning of its terms, and what the history of their formation. All this will be best arrived at by trying how far he can frame a possible, or analyze a given sentence. To translate an English sentence into Latin is to frame a sentence, and is the best test whether or not a student knows the difference of Latin from English construction; to construe and parse is to analyze a sentence, and is an evidence of the easier attainment of knowing what Latin construction is in itself. And this is the sense of the word “Grammar” which our inaccurate student detests, and this is the sense of the word which every sensible tutor will maintain. His maxim is, “a little, but well;” that is, really know what you say you know: know what you know and what you do not know; get one thing well before you go on to a second; try to ascertain what your words mean; when you read a sentence, picture it before your mind as a whole, take in the truth or information contained in it, express it in your own words, and, if it be important, commit it to the faithful memory. Again, compare one idea with another; adjust truths and facts; form them into one whole, or notice the obstacles which occur in doing so. This is the way to make progress; this is the way to arrive at results; not to swallow knowledge, but (according to the figure sometimes used) to masticate and digest it. <h4>2.</h4> To illustrate what I mean, I proceed to take an instance. I will draw the sketch of a candidate for entrance, deficient to a great extent. I shall put him below par, and not such as it is likely that a respectable school would turn out, with a view of clearly bringing before the reader, by the contrast, what a student ought not to be, or what is meant by inaccuracy. And, in order to simplify the case to the utmost, I shall take, as he will perceive as I proceed, one single word as a sort of text, and show how that one word, even by itself, affords matter for a sufficient examination of a youth in grammar, history, and geography. I set off thus:— Tutor. Mr. Brown, I believe? sit down. Candidate. Yes. T. What are the Latin and Greek books you propose to be examined in? C. Homer, Lucian, Demosthenes, Xenophon, Virgil, Horace, Statius, Juvenal, Cicero, Analecta, and Matthiæ. T. No; I mean what are the books I am to examine you in? C. is silent. T. The two books, one Latin and one Greek: don't flurry yourself. C. Oh, … Xenophon and Virgil. T. Xenophon and Virgil. Very well; what part of Xenophon? C. is silent. T. What work of Xenophon? C. Xenophon. T. Xenophon wrote many works. Do you know the names of any of them? C. I … Xenophon … Xenophon. T. Is it the Anabasis you take up? C. (with surprise) O yes; the Anabasis. T. Well, Xenophon's Anabasis; now what is the meaning of the word anabasis? C. is silent. T. You know very well; take your time, and don't be alarmed. Anabasis means … C. An ascent. T. Very right; it means an ascent. Now how comes it to mean an ascent? What is it derived from? C. It comes from … (a pause). Anabasis … it is the nominative. T. Quite right: but what part of speech is it? C. A noun,—a noun substantive. T. Very well; a noun substantive, now what is the verb that anabasis is derived from? C. is silent. T. From the verb ἀναβαίνω, isn't it? from ἀναβαίνω. C. Yes. T. Just so. Now, what does ἀναβαίνω mean? C. To go up, to ascend. T. Very well; and which part of the word means to go, and which part up? C. ἀνά is up, and βαίνω go. T. βαίνω to go, yes; now, βάσις? What does βάσις mean? C. A going. T. That is right; and ἀνά-βασις? C. A going up. T. Now what is a going down? C. is silent. T. What is down? … Κατά … don't you recollect? Κατά. C. Κατά. T. Well, then, what is a going down? Cat .. cat … C. Cat.… T. Cata … C. Cata.… T. Catabasis. C. Oh, of course, catabasis. T. Now tell me what is the future of βαίνω? C. (thinks) βανῶ. T. No, no; think again; you know better than that. C. (objects) Φαίνω, Φανῶ? T. Certainly, Φανῶ is the future of Φαίνω; but βαίνω is, you know, an irregular verb. C. Oh, I recollect, βήσω. T. Well, that is much better; but you are not quite right yet; βήσομαι. C. Oh, of course,. T. βήσομαι. Now do you mean to say that βήσομαι comes from βαίνω? C. is silent. T. For instance: τύψω comes from τύπτω by a change of letters; does βήσομαιin any similar way come from βαίνω? C. It is an irregular verb. T. What do you mean by an irregular verb? does it form tenses anyhow and by caprice? C. It does not go according to the paradigm. T. Yes, but how do you account for this? C. is silent. T. Are its tenses formed from several roots? C. is silent. T. is silent; then he changes the subject. T. Well, now you say Anabasis means an ascent. Who ascended? C. The Greeks, Xenophon. T. Very well: Xenophon and the Greeks; the Greeks ascended. To what did they ascend? C. Against the Persian king: they ascended to fight the Persian king. T. That is right … an ascent; but I thought we called it a descent when a foreign army carried war into a country? C. is silent. T. Don't we talk of a descent of barbarians? C. Yes. T. Why then are the Greeks said to go up? C. They went up to fight the Persian king. T. Yes; but why up … why not down? C. They came down afterwards, when they retreated back to Greece. T. Perfectly right; they did … but could you give no reason why they are said to go up to Persia, not down? C. They went up to Persia. T. Why do you not say they went down? C. pauses, then … They went down to Persia. T. You have misunderstood me. A silence. T. Why do you not say down? C. I do … down. T. You have got confused; you know very well. C. I understood you to ask why I did not say “they went down.” A silence on both sides. T. Have you come up to Dublin or down? C.I came up. T. Why do you call it coming up? C. thinks, then smiles, then … We always call it coming up to Dublin. T. Well, but you always have a reason for what you do … what is your reason here? C. is silent. T. Come, come, Mr. Brown, I won't believe you don't know; I am sure you have a very good reason for saying you go up to Dublin, not down. C. thinks, then … It is the capital. T. Very well; now was Persia the capital? C. Yes. T. Well … no … not exactly … explain yourself; was Persia a city? C. A country. T. That is right; well, but did you ever hear of Susa? Now, why did they speak of going up to Persia? C. is silent. T. Because it was the seat of government; that was one reason. Persia was the seat of government; they went up because it was the seat of government. C. Because it was the seat of government. T. Now where did they go up from? C. From Greece. T. But where did this army assemble? whence did it set out? C. is silent. T. It is mentioned in the first book; where did the troops rendezvous? C. is silent. T. Open your book; now turn to Book I., chapter ii.; now tell me. C. Oh, at Sardis. T. Very right: at Sardis; now where was Sardis? C. In Asia Minor?… no … it's an island … a pause, then … Sardinia. T. In Asia Minor; the army set out from Asia Minor, and went on towards Persia; and therefore it is said to go up—because … C. is silent. T. Because … Persia … C. Because Persia … T. Of course; because Persia held a sovereignty over Asia Minor. C. Yes. T. Now do you know how and when Persia came to conquer and gain possession of Asia Minor? C. is silent. T. Was Persia in possession of many countries? C. is silent. T. Was Persia at the head of an empire? C. is silent. T. Who was Xerxes? C. Oh, Xerxes … yes … Xerxes; he invaded Greece; he flogged the sea. T. Right; he flogged the sea: what sea? C. is silent. T. Have you read any history of Persia?… what history? C. Grote, and Mitford. T. Well, now, Mr. Brown, you can name some other reason why the Greeks spoke of going up to Persia? Do we talk of going up or down from the sea-coast? C. Up. T. That is right; well, going from Asia Minor, would you go from the sea, or towards it? C. From. T. What countries would you pass, going from the coast of Asia Minor to Persia? … mention any of them. C. is silent. T. What do you mean by Asia Minor?… why called Minor?… how does it lie? C. is silent. Etc., etc. <h4>3.</h4> I have drawn out this specimen at the risk of wearying the reader; but I have wished to bring out clearly what it really is which an Entrance Examination should aim at and require in its students. This young man had read the Anabasis, and had some general idea what the word meant; but he had no accurate knowledge how the word came to have its meaning, or of the history and geography implied in it. This being the case, it was useless, or rather hurtful, for a boy like him to amuse himself with running through Grote's many volumes, or to cast his eye over Matthiæ's minute criticisms. Indeed, this seems to have been Mr. Brown's stumbling-block; he began by saying that he had read Demosthenes, Virgil, Juvenal, and I do not know how many other authors. Nothing is more common in an age like this, when books abound, than to fancy that the gratification of a love of reading is real study. Of course there are youths who shrink even from story books, and cannot be coaxed into getting through a tale of romance. Such Mr. Brown was not; but there are others, and I suppose he was in their number, who certainly have a taste for reading, but in whom it is little more than the result of mental restlessness and curiosity. Such minds cannot fix their gaze on one object for two seconds together; the very impulse which leads them to read at all, leads them to read on, and never to stay or hang over any one idea. The pleasurable excitement of reading what is new is their motive principle; and the imagination that they are doing something, and the boyish vanity which accompanies it, are their reward. Such youths often profess to like poetry, or to like history or biography; they are fond of lectures on certain of the physical sciences; or they may possibly have a real and true taste for natural history or other cognate subjects;—and so far they may be regarded with satisfaction; but on the other hand they profess that they do not like logic, they do not like algebra, they have no taste for mathematics; which only means that they do not like application, they do not like attention, they shrink from the effort and labour of thinking, and the process of true intellectual gymnastics. The consequence will be that, when they grow up, they may, if it so happen, be agreeable in conversation, they may be well informed in this or that department of knowledge, they may be what is called literary; but they will have no consistency, steadiness, or perseverance; they will not be able to make a telling speech, or to write a good letter, or to fling in debate a smart antagonist, unless so far as, now and then, mother-wit supplies a sudden capacity, which cannot be ordinarily counted on. They cannot state an argument or a question, or take a clear survey of a whole transaction, or give sensible and appropriate advice under difficulties, or do any of those things which inspire confidence and gain influence, which raise a man in life, and make him useful to his religion or his country. * * * * * And now, having instanced what I mean by the want of accuracy, and stated the results in which I think it issues, I proceed to sketch, by way of contrast, an examination which displays a student, who, whatever may be his proficiency, at least knows what he is about, and has tried to master what he has read. I am far from saying that every candidate for admission must come up to its standard:— T. I think you have named Cicero's Letters ad Familiares, Mr. Black? Open, if you please, at Book xi., Epistle 29, and begin reading. C. reads. Cicero Appio salutem. Dubitanti mihi (quod scit Atticus noster), de hoc toto consilio profectionis, quod in utramque partem in mentem multa veniebant, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam dubitationem, judicium et consilium tuum. Nam et scripsisti aperte, quid tibi videretur; et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit. Semper judicavi, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dando fidem; maximeque sum expertus, cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissem quid mihi faciendum esse censeres; eundumne ad Pompeium an manendum in Italiâ. T. Very well, stop there; Now construe. C. Cicero Appio salutem.… Cicero greets Appius. T. “Greets Appius.” True; but it sounds stiff in English, doesn't it? What is the real English of it? C. “My dear Appius?”… T. That will do; go on. C. Dubitanti mihi, quod scit Atticus noster, While I was hesitating, as our friend Atticus knows.… T. That is right. C. De hoc toto consilio profectionis, about the whole plan … entire project … de hoc toto consilio profectionis … on the subject of my proposed journey … on my proposed journey altogether. T. Never mind; go on; any of them will do. C. Quod in utramque partem in mentem multa veniebant, inasmuch as many considerations both for and against it came into my mind, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam dubitationem, it came with great force to remove my hesitation. T. What do you mean by “accessit”? C. It means it contributed to turn the scale; accessit, it was an addition to one side. T. Well, it may mean so, but the words run, ad tollendam dubitationem. C. It was a great … it was a powerful help towards removing my hesitation … no … this was a powerful help, viz., your judgment and advice. T. Well, what is the construction of “pondus” and “judicium”? C. Your advice came as a great weight. T. Very well, go on. C. Nam et scripsisti aperte quid tibi videretur; for you distinctly wrote your opinion. T. Now, what is the force of “nam”? C. pauses; then, It refers to “accessit” … it is an explanation of the fact, that Appius's opinion was a help. T. “Et”; you omitted “et” … “et scripsisti.” C. It is one of two “ets”; et scripsisti, et Atticus. T. Well, but why don't you construe it? C. Et scripsisti, you both distinctly.… T. No; tell me, why did you leave it out? had you a reason? C. I thought it was only the Latin style, to dress the sentence, to make it antithetical; and was not English. T. Very good, still, you can express it; try. C. Also, with the second clause? T. That is right, go on. C. Nam et, for you distinctly stated in writing your opinion, et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit, and Aticus too sent me word of what you said,… of what you said to him in conversation. T. “Pertulit.” C. It means that Atticus conveyed on to Cicero the conversation he had with Appius. T. Who was Atticus? C. is silent. T. Who was Atticus? C. I didn't think it came into the examination.… T. Well, I didn't say it did: but still you can tell me who Atticus was. C. A great friend of Cicero's. T. Did he take much part in politics? C. No. T. What were his opinions? C. He was an Epicurean. T. What was an Epicurean? C. is silent, then, Epicureans lived for themselves. T. You are answering very well, sir; proceed. C. Semper judicavi, I have ever considered, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dando fidem; that your wisdom was of the highest order … that you had the greatest wisdom … that nothing could exceed the wisdom of your resolves, or the honesty of your advice. T. “Fidem.” C. It means faithfulness to the person asking … maximeque sum expertus, and I had a great proof of it.… T. Great; why don't you say greatest? “maxime” is superlative. C. The Latins use the superlative, when they only mean the positive. T. You mean, when English uses the positive; can you give me an instance of what you mean? C. Cicero always speaks of others as amplissimi, optimi, doctissimi, clarissimi. T. Do they ever use the comparative for the positive? C. thinks, then, Certior factus sum. T. Well, perhaps; however, here, “maxime” may mean special, may it not? C. And I had a special proof of it, cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissem, when, on the commencement of the civil war, I had written to ask your advice, quid mihi faciendum esse censeres, what you thought I ought to do, eundumne ad Pompeium, an manendum in Italiâ, to go to Pompey, or to remain in Italy. T. Very well, now stop. Dubitanti mini, quod scit Atticus noster. You construed quod, as. C. I meant the relative as. T. Is as a relative? C. As is used in English for the relative, as when we say such as for those who. T. Well, but why do you use it here? What is the antecedent to “quod”? C. The sentence Dubitanti mihi, etc. T. Still, construe “quod” literally. C. A thing which. T. Where is a thing? C. It is understood. T. Well, but put it in. C. Illud quod. T. Is that right? what is the common phrase? C. is silent. T. Did you ever see “illud quod” in that position? is it the phrase? C. is silent. T. It is commonly “id quod,” isn't it? id quod. C. Oh, I recollect, id quod. T. Well, which is more common, “quod,” or “id quod,” when the sentence is the antecedent? C. I think “id quod.” T. At least it is far more distinct; yes, I think it is more common. What could you put instead of it? C. Quod quidem. T. Now, dubitanti mihi; what is “mihi” governed by? C. Accessit. T. No; hardly. C. is silent. T. Does “accessit” govern the dative? C. I thought it did. T. Well, it may; but would Cicero use the dative after it? what is the more common practice with words of motion? Do you say, Venit mihi, he came to me? C. No, Venit ad me;—I recollect. T. That is right; venit ad me. Now, for instance, “incumbo:” what case does “incumbo” govern? C. Incumbite remis? T. Where is that? in Cicero? C. No, in Virgil. Cicero uses “in”; I recollect, incumbere in opus … ad opus. T. Well, then, is this “mihi” governed by “accessit”? what comes after accessit? C. I see; it is, accessit ad tollendam dubitationem. T. That is right; but then, what after all do you do with “mihi”? how is it governed? C. is silent. T. How is “mihi” governed, if it does not come after “accessit”? C. pauses, then, “Mihi” … “mihi” is often used so; and “tibi” and “sibi”: I mean “suo sibi gladio hunc jugulo”; … “venit mihi in mentem”; that is, it came into my mind; and so, “accessit mihi ad tollendam,” etc. T. That is very right. C. I recollect somewhere in Horace, vellunt tibi barbam. Etc., etc. <h4>4.</h4> And now, my patient reader, I suspect you have had enough of me on this subject; and the best I can expect from you is, that you will say: “His first pages had some amusement in them, but he is dullish towards the end.” Perhaps so; but then you must kindly bear in mind that the latter part is about a steady careful youth, and the earlier part is not; and that goodness, exactness, and diligence, and the correct and the unexceptionable, though vastly more desirable than their contraries in fact, are not near so entertaining in fiction. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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