A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Age of Enlightenment 9781350074491, 9781350074521, 9781350074514

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A HISTORY OF WESTERN PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION VOLUME 3

A History of Western Philosophy of Education General Editors: Megan Jane Laverty and David T. Hansen Volume 1 A History of Western Philosophy of Education in Antiquity Edited by Avi I. Mintz Volume 2 A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Middle Ages and Renaissance Edited by Kevin Gary Volume 3 A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Age of Enlightenment Edited by Tal Gilead Volume 4 A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Modern Era Edited by Andrea R. English Volume 5 A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Contemporary Landscape Edited by Anna Pagès

A HISTORY OF WESTERN PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION

IN THE AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT VOLUME 3 Edited by Tal Gilead

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2021 Copyright © Bloomsbury, 2021 The Contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on pp. xxiv & xxv constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Charlotte James Cover image: End of school or Fopponino, 1869 by Angelo Trezzini (1827–1904) © DEA PICTURE LIBRARY / Getty Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-7449-1 ePDF: 978-1-3500-7451-4 eBook: 978-1-3500-7450-7 Series: 978-1-3500-7466-8 Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS

L ist of F igures  S eries I ntroduction Megan Jane Laverty and David T. Hansen

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G eneral E ditors ’ A cknowledgments 

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V olume E ditors ’ A cknowledgments 

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T imeline  Introduction: Enlightenment and Education Tal Gilead

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1 Locke on Education Lisa McNulty

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2 Rousseau’s Philosophy of Education Amos Hofman

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3 Educational Legacies of the French Enlightenment Grace G. Roosevelt

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4 German Educational Thought: Religion, Rationalism, Philanthropinism, and Bildung Rebekka Horlacher

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5 Philosophies of Education “in Action”: Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, Johann Friedrich Herbart, and Friedrich Fröbel Jürgen Oelkers

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6 Mary Wollstonecraft and Harriet Taylor Mill on Women, Education, and Gender Socialization Katy Dineen

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7 Teachings of Uncommon Schooling: American Transcendentalism and Education in Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller Naoko Saito

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N otes

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I ndex 

on

C ontributors 

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FIGURES

0.1 Frontispiece of Cosmic System by Galileo

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0.2 A philosopher giving a lecture on the Orrery, after Joseph Wright of Derby, 1768

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0.3 Child Labour circa 1820: Child labour in a mill during the industrial revolution

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0.4 Boys School 1839

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0.5 “The surprised sleeper”, engraving according to a watercolour of A.H. Burr. 1866

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0.6 Summer joy (Children playing in a field), painting by Ernestine Friedrichsen (1824–1892)

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1.1 Engraving of English philosopher John Locke (1632–1704)

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2.1 Rousseau, circa 1760

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2.2 Jean Jacques Rousseau

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2.3 Emile, from Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Emile

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3.1 Death of Nicolas de Condorcet

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3.2 Portrait of Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714–1780)

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3.3 Claude Adrien Helvétius (1715–1771)

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3.4 French National Assembly

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5.1 Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi

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5.2 Johann Friedrich Herbart (1776–1841)

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5.3 Free Kindergarten School Scene, 1879, New York

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6.1 Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–1797)

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7.1 Emerson Lecturing in Concord

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7.2 A portrait of author Margaret Fuller, 1843

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SERIES INTRODUCTION MEGAN JANE LAVERTY AND DAVID T. HANSEN

A History of Western Philosophy of Education is a five-volume series that traces the development of philosophy of education through Western culture and history. It seeks to illuminate the philosophical origins of contemporary educational debates, policies, and practices. Focusing on philosophers who have theorized education and its implementation, the series constitutes a fresh, dynamic, and developing view of educational philosophy. It expands our educational possibilities by reinvigorating philosophy’s vibrant critical tradition, connecting old and new perspectives, and identifying the continuity of critique and reconstruction.

AN UNBROKEN CONVERSATION Education and philosophy of education are not historical constants, either as concepts or as practices. Their meaning and enactments transform across space and time. What education meant to a medieval monk differs from how a twentieth-century child-centered educator conceived it, and both differ from the understanding of an ancient Roman. However, the questions that reside at the heart of philosophy of education have a long-standing lineage. These questions can be traced at least as far back as Plato. In Plato’s dialogues, ranging from the Laches and Protagoras to the Meno and Republic, Socrates asks: “Can you teach a person to be virtuous (i.e. good)?,” “Which of us is truly a teacher of the souls of youth?,” and “What is the relation between education and a just society?” In these questions, we see the meeting of philosophy and education: a fusion of the spirit of inquiry into fundamental issues of life characteristic of philosophy, with the necessity of education for human continuity, growth, and renewal. Plato thereby helps inaugurate an open-ended conversation that continues through the present day. It is a conversation, to cite Michael Oakeshott’s (1989) poetic

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terms, “in which human beings forever seek to understand themselves” (p. 41). The terms and the idiom of this conversation may change over time, but the questions persist, and in a pressing way. The value of participating in this historical conversation is that it allows today’s students and professors to “disentangle [themselves], for a time, from the urgencies of the here and now” (Oakeshott 1989, p. 41). This practice positions everyone to engage with thinkers from the past as if they were sitting around the table with us today. We revisit their writings in order to learn from them and, in an important sense, with them, for each is an inquirer rather than a peddler of a dogma. To learn from, and with, the past is to have one’s definition of and criteria for education challenged and potentially transformed, and in a highly distinctive and invaluable manner. While we do learn much from our contemporaries, we are typically too close to them in space and time to shake loose from their (and our) assumptions of what counts as “learning.” Every generation of scholars, teachers, and students faces this “almost insurmountable difficulty,” to borrow terms from John Dewey (1985, p. 154), of seeing beyond the end of its own nose. This predicament, too, is part of the long-standing conversation in philosophy of education: it calls for a dedicated effort to participate. The redeeming fact is that the conversation is always already at hand to assist us in facing the problems of a “presentist” myopia. The past can teach precisely because it stands outside current passions and fashions, even while helping us grasp how the latter came into being and why they grip current sensibilities. None of the above implies the past has a “superior” voice, any more than does the present, a point to which we will return. The long-standing conversation at the juncture of philosophy and education has been a constant process of criticism of the past, but always in the very moment that the past challenges the present to become self-aware and self-critical of that which it most takes for granted. To learn from the past is to overcome its limitations, even while striving to overcome one’s own. Philosophy of education features what can be seen across all domains of philosophy: an erotic aspiration, as Andy German (2017) puts it, to look beyond its own tradition and find a way back to the beginning: to that existential moment, metaphorically speaking, when “the first question” about education was enunciated, so that we might pose it in our own terms in light of our own realities. The perennial yearning in philosophy to overcome its own tradition— even while depending upon it as an indispensable inheritance (like one’s native language acquired as a child)—mirrors a deep, typically unspoken desire to grasp the unity behind the “bewildering variety of positions and doctrines” in the field (German 2017, p. 7). “Unity” does not mean unanimity in thought. It is a unity in eros. It represents a longing to find that existential place, named above, that is prior to the emergence, proliferation, and intensification of competing

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perspectives. “[T]he surest mark of philosophically inclined spirit,” contends German, is to be “seized” by this eros (p. 7). The educator aspires to truly think, and to think truly, rather than to mimic others’ thought. This desire means they must “find” their thought even as they “found,” or ground, their distinctive voice in the conversation (see Cavell 1989). The return “to the beginning” in philosophy, which we will witness across the volumes in this series, constitutes what Iris Murdoch conceives of as “an abiding and not regrettable characteristic of the discipline” (1997, p. 299). Contributors to this series do not examine ancient and modern philosophies of education in order to “improve” upon or “correct” them. Rather, they approach thinkers across the ages as our nonliving contemporaries, having recognized that they have something meaningful to say to us. Entering this conversation enables “another’s thoughts to re-enact themselves in [our] own mind,” thereby positioning us to understand ourselves afresh (Oakeshott 1989, p. 68). The educational questions first posed by Socrates and others burst upon each new generation of educators, inviting them to take hold of their educational inheritance and contribute to it in their own singular, irreproducible ways. Although each generation must answer the questions anew, they do not do so de novo, for the history of thought is a reservoir of responses waiting to be drawn upon and engaged. This series invites readers into the history of the most important philosophical questions for education. This history comprises an unbroken, lively, and vivid conversation across time. In looking back over the history of Western philosophy of education, we bear witness to the continuity of the questions, and to the profound commitment our forebears brought to addressing them. We hope the series will help readers sustain this crucial commitment.

A FRESH CANON Education is at the heart of the human experience. Philosophy of education is important because our values—that is, views on how we should live—do not emerge from nowhere. They must be cultivated or supported in individuals by means of education. As the process by which a society renews and improves itself, education is far more than social reproduction, and far less than total revolution. It is an elusive middle path constituted by love for the extraordinary endeavor of conceiving, and bringing to life, human possibilities. From the beginning, canonical philosophers such as Plato, Aristotle, JeanJacques Rousseau, and John Dewey have addressed education. They have thought philosophically about education’s aims and methods, the nature of learning and thinking, the character of knowledge, and the contributions of curriculum, pedagogy, and schooling to maturation. Philosophers’ answers to these questions have defined key periods in the history of philosophy of

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education from antiquity, to the Renaissance and Enlightenment, and into the present. Although studying the history of Western philosophy writ large can advance the understanding of philosophical problems in education, this series attends directly to philosophy’s contribution to conceptions of education. It offers a fresh canon of educational philosophy, rather than an overview of the philosophical canon per se (Mintz 2017). For this reason, readers will find that such prominent Western philosophers as Thomas Hobbes and Benedictus Spinoza, who wrote very little on education or whose work lacks explicit educational ramifications, will not be covered in detail. Instead, the contributors focus on those philosophers and educators who have theorized education and its practices, thereby identifying a dynamic and ever-changing canon of thinkers for philosophy of education. Individual thinkers or clusters of thinkers representing schools of thought—feminism, pragmatism, or phenomenology, for example—will be situated within the context of ongoing influences and intellectual relationships. A “canon” in philosophy can be understood as a body of continuously consulted, respected texts that have stood the test of time. People turn to them across the generations not as a result of dogmatic adherence or for purposes of propaganda (though every text, once it leaves an author’s hands, is subject to countless uses and abuses—consider, among other examples, Friedrich Nietzsche’s oeuvre). Nor do people take them in hand because they necessarily subscribe to the thinkers’ views. Agreement or disagreement, as such, is not the key issue, though it remains important depending on context. People read canonical works because they continue to provoke fresh thinking across space and time. As already touched on, they spark new lines of questioning and insight. Contemporary scholarship in any field, including in philosophy of education, is radically uncertain about which recent texts will endure. Current popularity does not necessarily predict longevity. At the same time, the canon in philosophy of education is ever-changing precisely because of new contemporary contributions, some of which spotlight hitherto neglected or forgotten writings, including by marginalized and excluded people in societies past and present. While many of these works will not themselves endure, in terms of a continued readership, they generate an ethos that makes it possible for others that will. This process is how a scholarly ethos functions, a dynamic which is equally true of the ethos in the arts. Shakespeare’s plays are found on stages everywhere in the world today not because they are pure miracles of genius or because some authority has made it so. They emerged out of traditions of theatre that created an ethos for them to take hold of people’s imaginations. Without that ethos, we today would likely have never heard of them. We illustrate this point in the next section with regards to what is often referred to as “progressive education.”

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THE HISTORICAL ORIGINS OF CONTEMPORARY PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION Roughly speaking, progressive education represents a commitment to fuse values sometimes seen as in tension: genuine student autonomy, alongside a strong, democratic social spirit. The approach pivots around learning by doing. Rather than sitting passively in rows of seats in the classroom while educators “pour” knowledge into them, students should be engaged actively with inquiring, discussing, experimenting, exploring, and more. While the progressive education movement began in the United States with the reception of John Dewey’s (1859–1952) philosophy of education, Aristotle (384–322 bce) was one of its earliest precursors. He argued that individuals develop practical wisdom by engaging practically in wise activities rather than by studying theories of wisdom alone. The early modern thinker Michel de Montaigne (1533–92) deployed this Aristotelian insight to argue that education should aim not at filling students with information but rather at cultivating persons holistically from an intellectual, aesthetic, and ethical point of view. From his perspective, young people develop practical wisdom—qualities of tenacity, flexibility, and sound judgment in the face of difficulty—by interacting with a diverse range of social, cultural, and physical environments. Seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury developments were also important. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), an avid reader of Montaigne, Plato, and other forebears, highlighted the qualities of integrity, decisiveness, and consistency that would, in his view, liberate the student to act autonomously. Rousseau would have the student learn firsthand, through concrete experience as well as in developmentally appropriate ways, about the unpredictability of countless life events, the necessity of work, the values in friendship, family, and mutually dependent, supportive male–female relations such as marriage, and the responsibilities of citizenship. Rousseau cautions traditional educators that their intense preoccupation with mature adulthood leads them to neglect the intervening and formative years. He argues that the core dispositions of humane adulthood, compassion and conscience, only develop if the individual fully experiences infancy, childhood, and adolescence. In his educational treatise, Emile, or on Education (1763), Rousseau-the-tutor attends closely to what Emile perceives, comprehends, needs, and desires, from birth through adolescence. Like Montaigne, Rousseau anticipates Dewey’s thesis that the first step in educating children is to observe them in their most natural state. An important philosopher of education influenced by Rousseau’s Emile was Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746–1827). Pestalozzi founded several pioneering schools designed to educate the whole child. He promoted caring relationality rather than one-sided, top-down adult authority, as a model for the artful or well-lived life, including in his educational novel Leonard and Gertrude (1781). After visiting Pestalozzi’s schools, Friedrich

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Fröbel (1782–1852) developed his own progressive educational philosophy and practice. He established the first kindergarten (German for “children’s garden” or “garden of children”) in the world, which stressed the importance of play in the education of the young (and which is now a prominent feature of progressive classrooms). In summary, while Dewey is the most renowned philosopher of progressive education, A History of Western Philosophy of Education clarifies the significance of his thought for contemporary educational theory by providing a rich account of its antecedents and shaping influences. The series identifies the key intellectual and pedagogical movements that inform progressive educational thought from antiquity, to the Renaissance and Enlightenment, and to the ethos created by Dewey and his contemporaries, among them Jane Addams (1860–1935), Elsie Ripley Clapp (1879–1965), William James (1842–1910), George Herbert Mead (1863–1931), Francis Parker (1837–1902), and Ella Flagg Young (1845–1918). As with so many figures in the history of Western educational philosophy, Dewey’s voice resonates with those of other thinkers. For example, there are unspoken resemblances between Dewey’s and Paulo Freire’s (1921–97) influential philosophy of education. Both argue that teachers, to quote Peter Roberts on Freire, Ira Shor, and bell hooks, “need to have an understanding of what they stand for: what they value and why. At the same time, both thinkers caution that teachers must avoid imposing their truths and their ideals on students. Teaching should, they suggest, foster a love of learning, respect for others, and a sense of community” (Roberts, volume five, p. 123). And as with Dewey, Freire’s thought “is shaped by multiple intellectual traditions, including liberalism, Marxism, critical theory, existentialism, phenomenology, radical Catholicism, and postmodernism” (Roberts, volume five, p. 111). As with progressive education, Freire’s critical pedagogy did not spring de novo on the scene, as our contributors to this series make plain. The continuity found in the history of educational philosophy is also present in educational practice, albeit with constant reconstruction and reframing. For example, as long as humans have inhabited the earth, young people have gathered to listen and to learn from their elders. The ancient Athenians formalized this indispensable intergenerational encounter into what they called paideia. The term denotes a systematic pedagogical course of study and activity, involving the education of both mind and body, intended to prepare good citizens. This conception, as Oakeshott (1989) argues, was “passed on (with appropriate changes) from the schools of the Roman Empire to the cathedral, the collegiate, guild and grammar schools of medieval Christendom … [It] informed the schools of renaissance Europe and … survived in our own grammar and public schools and their equivalents in continental Europe” (p. 71). Throughout this history, children and adolescents, concerned parents, professional teachers, and in some cases school administrators and representatives of the church or state, have all had a vital presence. Their debates about a developmentally

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appropriate curriculum, what is in the best interests of children, the requisite training and expertise of teachers, and the role of national interests served to motivate, direct, energize, and in some cases thwart educational reform. As emphasized, philosophers of education today do not scrutinize the history of educational thought for merely antiquarian purposes. On the contrary, they debate continuously their respective interpretations of past thought precisely because of its critical pertinence for forming sound theory and associated practices in our time. In the same breath, they engage one another in spirited dialogue about education’s foundational concepts such as teaching, learning, and curriculum. Understanding and sustaining such debates is critical to the ongoing vitality of the field. As the philosopher W.B. Gallie (1968) argued, reasoned disagreements regarding essentially contested concepts underscore the unity of a field—a unity not of thought but based on a shared spirit of inquiry— and further its optimum development. Philosophers of education know that how they understand educational practice and the constituent concepts of education will be contested by others who perceive them differently, though not so differently that they cannot appreciate the criteria implicit in each other’s understandings. In short, the more philosophers of education appreciate the merits of rival interpretations, the more they contribute to the quality and inclusivity of scholarly debate within the field.

A DYNAMIC AND CRITICAL TRADITION What are “ideas”? Where do they come from? And what are “thinking,” “inquiry,” “study,” and “criticism”? How do they arise? One way to respond to such questions is to ask: To what extent is philosophy, and by extension philosophy of education, a reflection of the particular culture in which it takes place? Is it largely an expression of the taken-for-granted assumptions and presuppositions of the surrounding culture, as might be said of the latter’s other practices pertaining to family life, health, and politics? Or does philosophy generate a different relation with culture, not one of simply swimming in it but of stepping outside the stream in a spirit of criticism and open-ended inquiry? We see truth on all sides of the equation. A heartening development in the long conversation touched on here has been how, in recent decades, it has been steadily recognizing how philosophy itself, like its surrounding milieu, has been at times exclusionary and discriminatory, if not in intent then in consequence. Philosophers and schools of thought have not always acknowledged, much less responded to, realities of sexism, racism, adultism, speciesism, and other “isms” emergent in culture over the millennia. We are moved by being participants in the intellectual-political-academic sea changes of our time, which have opened scholarship up to an expanding range of hitherto marginalized or uninvited voices, an array of whom will be heard

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across the volumes in this series. We picture this turn continuing, and suggest it promises an ever-widening, ever-deepening cosmopolitan ethos in the academy, in general, and in philosophy of education, in particular. At the same time, with regards to the question about the origins of ideas, of thinking, of inquiry, and the like, it is well to remind ourselves that our thoughts can have reasons behind them, not causes, whether the latter be cast as cultural or genetic (Oakeshott 1989, p. 20). This truth is both epistemic and ethical. As Richard Eldridge (1997) poetically writes: “[M]y remembrance of my humanity and its expression or repudiation, is not something that happens in me; it is not the effect of mental or physical or social substance acting according to their fixed and given natures. It is something that I, animated through my life with others, do” (p. 290). The philosophers and intellectual movements featured in this series, and which have given the long conversation its texture and openended trajectory, are not reducible to expressions of the cultural assumptions prevalent in their respective eras. Quite on the contrary. In many cases, ranging from Plato, to Montaigne, to Karl Marx, to Dewey, and to Hannah Arendt, they have been among the most critical thinkers the world in its totality has ever seen: critical of society, critical of prejudice and moral blindness, critical of themselves. To spotlight one specific example among others, in Immanuel Kant’s essay Perpetual Peace—a document that deeply informs the intellectual background to many peacemaking projects, including the creation of the United Nations—the author eclipsed his own prejudices in arguing against European imperialism and colonial exploitation. It bears adding that many thinkers in the long conversation have not even been “Western,” at least in a narrow intellectual sense of the term. In many cases, ranging again from the likes of Plato through Ralph Waldo Emerson, they have been mindful of ideas from the world over, and have embraced this influence. The central point in these remarks is that the history of Western philosophy, and specifically of philosophy of education, is not marked by a preset, linear progression, any more than it is marked by a single cultural, social, or political voice. People rediscover and reconstruct philosophy of education in each new encounter with the tradition, with each new retelling of how previous thought and present concerns intermingle. This five-volume series comes at a time when the horizons of Western philosophy of education are expanding to incorporate the insights of post-anthropocentric, postcolonial, and indigenous and Eastern philosophies. A vital starting point of these new and inspiring theoretical developments is to acknowledge misunderstandings  and blind spots, across space and time, and then attempt to correct them. And yet, if we fail to examine closely the intellectual movements that have shaped these misunderstandings and fueled their transcendence, we risk narrowing our thinking, constraining our possibilities, and reducing our potential for improvement (Carr 2004; Mintz 2017; Ruitenberg 2010). Leading scholars

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of educational philosophy have demonstrated the significance of the history of philosophical debate for critically reviewing extant research fields and developing emergent ones. Ultimately, this five-volume endeavor seeks to be a prize resource for students and scholars in education who perceive that the critical spirit of Western philosophy, including philosophy of education, remains a truly inspirational tradition. Our interest is in keeping the philosophical tradition vibrant so that it can continue to support the infusion of new voices, critiques, and reconstructions. This posture differs wholeheartedly from traditionalism. As a living tradition, Western philosophy of education has the “capacity to develop while still maintaining its identity and continuity” (Pelikan 1984, p.  58). It constitutes a dynamic, ever-changing constellation of pressing questions about teaching, learning, assessment, and more—including questions about how it has identified and posed questions in the past (Hansen 2001a, b). In contrast, intellectual traditionalism constitutes a reactionary, heels-dug-in attempt to resist any challenge to “the way things are.”

PHILOSOPHY’S TWO TRADITIONS We have spoken of “tradition,” but philosophy can be viewed as a dynamic intertwining of two long-standing traditions that reach back to such pioneering figures as Socrates and Confucius. The first tradition is theoretical and conceptual. It distinguishes education from socialization, parenting from schooling, and civics from indoctrination. The second tradition is philosophy conceived as an art of living. It not only embodies the desire to be wise but strives to incorporate philosophy within such a life. In this light, the art of living has four interrelated components: a moral component (living ethically); a social and political component (commitments to inquiry and communication); a psychological or spiritual component (enjoying peace of mind and curbing egoistic passions); and an intellectual component (thinking carefully and critically about one’s value-oriented vision of the world and one’s place within it). The pedagogical methods or “spiritual exercises” intended to help people achieve such a life include intellectual training, contemplative practices, and somaesthetic activities (Gregory and Laverty 2010; Hansen 2011). Living ethically involves engaging conceptions of human values as we seek to cultivate an awareness of how our own experiences are variously marked by compassion, selfishness, honesty, cruelty, and fairness. Ethical inquiry strengthens our capacities to think and feel carefully, to consider sound alternatives, and to self-correct problematic habits of belief and behavior. Moreover, arriving at the most reasonable judgment of an issue requires the free and open exchange of ideas. It calls upon the moral imagination as well as the virtues of intellectual humility and courage. The social and political component

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of the art of living requires individuals to be alive to the myriad ways that power operates in experience (racism, sexism, class oppression, etc.) and to forge and sustain practices of just interaction. The psychological or spiritual component involves working on the self to curb reactivity and recognizing the self’s relation to sources of deeper meaning that inspire awe and reverence, such as nature, cultural or religious traditions, and works of art. The intellectual component of the art of living has been a central focus because it drives the criticism of its very constituents, and such criticism is itself part of the tradition. Philosophy of education brings these two long-standing philosophical traditions—philosophy as the theorization of education and philosophy as a formative practice—into dialogue. Historical and contemporary philosophers who have theorized education in quite different ways nonetheless respect the Socratic imperative for wisdom-oriented education. In this spirit, contributors to the series examine the extent to which society and schools enhance or undermine personal and social transformation. They seek to revivify the two traditions today by refining them and demonstrating their relevance to practices of teaching, teacher education, curriculum development, and policymaking.

THEMES ACROSS THE VOLUMES AND CHAPTERS Philosophers of education across space and time do not share a consensus as to the aims, nature, and means of education. Nonetheless, we judge it valuable to identify characteristics that, taken together, distinguish philosophy of education from other fields of philosophical endeavor. In view of the divergence of thought among philosophers and intellectual movements, the characteristics should be understood as “family resemblances”—to recall a well-known term coined by the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951)—rather than as airtight ideational compartments. These characteristics comprise the themes and key questions that are addressed across all five volumes. Philosophical anthropology: What does it mean to be human? How are we to understand the relationship between the mind and body? Who should be educated? Is human maturation developmental or cyclical? What happens to our younger (past) selves? Is the child animal-like? Is childhood a form of life in its own right? Is philosophy native to children? What is the significance of our natality and mortality for education? Ethics: What does it mean for humans to live well or, as the issue is often expressed, to flourish? How does education contribute to living well or to flourishing? What forms of teaching and curriculum might ensure for all an artful, meaningful life? What are the virtues of teaching and learning? How should teachers be expected to conduct themselves in and beyond the school? What ethical dilemmas are unique to schools and school leadership?

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Social and political philosophy: What is justice and how should we teach it? How do we educate for a more equitable and just society when the educators and educational institutions themselves belong to the very society that they seek to reform? Is the aim of citizenship education knowledge of government, nationalistic patriotism, or a commitment to the common good? How can we ensure an equitable distribution of educational opportunity? Should education be monitored by national standards and tests? What authority should the state have over education? What authority should teachers have over education? What are the rights of children and parents? Epistemology: What constitutes an educational “experience”? What is knowledge? Where does knowledge come from? Is knowledge innate or does it come from sense impressions of the external word? Is it found, discovered, or made? If it is constructed, is that construction individual or social? Should teaching strategies focus on drawing out what the learner already knows or pouring in what the learner does not know? How does the structure of knowledge relate to the structure and sequence of learning? How does knowledge impact individual and social formation? How might education teach us to distinguish between knowledge and wisdom? What is the nature of reason? Is reason procedural/ instrumental (i.e., distinct from the passions), or does it combine thinking with intuitive valuing capacities that are oriented to the real and the good? Aesthetics: What are the felt qualities of experience and how can we learn to be mindful of the qualitative dimension of our lives? What is the role of beauty in human experience and education? How might education influence our fundamental sensibilities toward the world? How could education enhance our ability to be sensitive, responsive, aware, and concerned? How might individuals tell their life stories? What are the aesthetic qualities that make the good stories? Pedagogy, schooling, and education: What is the ultimate aim of education? Is the aim of education to promote social order and assimilation or individual freedom? What is the role of institutions like school for generating such experiences? Should schooling focus on developing students’ marketable skills or on their cultural and political awareness? What instructional methods are most appropriate, and how do we warrant them from an epistemic and ethical point of view? How shall we conceive teacher education? Should we think of teachers as state functionaries and/or as “elders” with a profound responsibility for educating children and youth? Philosophy of Psychology and the Social Sciences: How should education be assessed? What does it mean to “measure” a human being’s education? What are the strengths and limitations of social scientific research into education? What is the distinctive contribution of the arts and humanities? What are the degrees of freedom individuals, communities, and societies have to form and reform themselves?

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CONCLUSION: AN OVERVIEW OF THE SERIES A History of Western Philosophy of Education consists of five volumes, each devoted to an examination of canonical philosophers of education and schools of thought in a distinct period. 1. Antiquity (Ancient Greece to Early Christian) (500 bce–500 ce) 2. The Medieval and Renaissance Period (500–1600) 3. The Age of Enlightenment (1600–1850) 4. The Modern Era (1850–1914) 5. The Contemporary Landscape (1914–present)

Each volume covers a recognizable period in the Western tradition because we want to contextualize emergent and abiding philosophical and educational ideas within a relevant historical and cultural context. To this end, we conclude Volume 1 and commence Volume 2 at 500 ce, which demarcates the fall of the Roman Empire and the beginning of the Middle Ages. In these two volumes, we see the emergence of the Sophists, Cynics, and Stoics, and their later eclipse by the rise of the Judeo-Christian tradition that would prove so definitive of later thought. We end Volume 2 and begin Volume 3 with the start of the seventeenth century given its inextricable association with the Enlightenment and its emergent embrace of science, human rights, and liberal democracy. We conclude Volume 4 and commence Volume 5 with 1914, the year that saw the beginning of the First World War. This conflagration, unprecedented in its destruction and magnitude, would generate the conditions for the Second World War and the Holocaust, as well as spur the creation of the United Nations and innumerable other movements to foster peace, social justice, improved health and nutrition, and expanded educational provision the world over. While the dates that begin and end each volume serve to pivot us from one historical period to another—with each of these characterized by defining social, cultural, political, and economic events, unique and influential thinkers, and diverse schools of thought—they do not represent fixed, impermeable boundaries. The philosophical survey and analysis of education presented by this series transcends easy capture by historical dates. The discussion is wideranging and ever-dynamic, moving back and forth into the past and the future. The dates should be seen as porous membranes that allow for the easy flow of ideas across the different historical periods. Readers will see that the authors make connections between thinkers and lines of thought and practice from different eras, all of which shows the play of tradition across geographical and historical markers. While the volume dates are valuable to note, our focus in the series is on the thematic conversations that are woven throughout the history of Western philosophy of education.

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Chapters in the series are intended to be useful both in a retrospective sense, helping readers grasp the importance of previous thinkers and movements, and in a prospective sense, pointing out areas of inquiry for scholars and students to pursue. Part of what makes this retrospective and prospective approach possible is that many of the contributing authors work to correct stereotypical readings of seminal thinkers in the tradition. They work hard to explain why it behooves us to resist and move beyond canned views about the past. Readers will not find everything there is to know about Western philosophy of education in this series. While comprehensive in scope, the series does not attempt to be encyclopedic or exhaustive. Each volume comprises up to ten chapters and a wide-ranging introduction penned by the volume editor. With few exceptions, chapters were researched and written by professional philosophers of education. These philosophers of education were invited to draw upon, but not to repeat or rely on, their preexisting scholarly oeuvre. They were asked to reengage with a philosopher of education or school of educational philosophy that they knew well, in the spirit of contextualizing that thinker or school of thought in the broader sweep of educational history. Many took it as an occasion to ask new questions and read more broadly than they would have otherwise done. Some authors familiar with a given philosopher’s educational corpus chose to read other texts, including memoirs, plays, novels, and letters. Others familiar with the oeuvre of a particular philosopher of education chose to read texts by the individual’s contemporaries and critics. Still others familiar with one intellectual tradition choose to articulate it with another. Along the way, the contributors engaged in their own liberal learning as authors of the chapters—an experience not that dissimilar from our own, as general editors and readers of the chapters. We hope that future readers of the series will have a comparable experience. To study philosophy of education is to participate directly in one’s own ongoing education.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY Bailey, Richard, Robin Barrow, David Carr, and Christine McCarthy (eds.) (2010), The Sage Handbook of Philosophy of Education, Los Angeles: Sage. Biesta, Gert (2014), “Is Philosophy of Education a Historical Mistake? Connecting Philosophy and Education Differently,” Theory and Research in Education, 12 (1): 65–76. Carr, Wilfred (2004), “Philosophy and Education,” Journal of Philosophy of Education, 38 (1): 55–73. Cavell, Stanley (1989), “Finding As Founding,” in Stanley Cavell, This New Yet Unapproachable America: Lectures after Emerson after Wittgenstein, 77–118, Albuquerque, NM: Living Batch Press. Chambliss, Joseph James (1968), The Origins of American Philosophy of Education: Its Development As a Distinct Discipline, The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.

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Coetzee, J.M. and Arabella Kurtz (2015), The Good Story: Exchanges on Truth, Fiction and Psychotherapy, London: Penguin. Curren, Randall R. (ed.) (2005), A Companion to the Philosophy of Education, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Curren, Randall R. (2018), “Education, History of Philosophy of,” Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Taylor and Francis. https://doi.org/10.4324/ 9780415249126-N014-2. Dewey, J. (1985), “Democracy and Education,” in John Dewey, The Middle Works, 1899–1924, Vol. 9: Democracy and Education 1916, ed. J.A. Boydston, Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Eby, F. and C.F. Arrowood (1940), The History and Philosophy of Education: Ancient and Medieval, Saddle River, NJ: Prentice. Eldridge, Richard (1997), Leading a Human Life: Wittgenstein, Intentionality, and Romanticism, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gallie, W.B. (1968), Philosophy and the Historical Understanding, New York: Schocken Books. German, Andy (2017), “Philosophy and Its History: Six Pedagogical Reflections,” APA Newsletter on Teaching Philosophy, 17 (1): 1–8. Gregory, Maughn Rollins and Megan Jane Laverty (2010), “Philosophy, Education, and the Care of the Self,” in “Philosophy, Education and the Care of the Self,” special issue of Thinking: The Journal of Philosophy for Children, 19 (4): 2–9. Hansen, David T. (2001a), “Teaching and the Sense of Tradition,” in David T. Hansen, Exploring the Moral Heart of Teaching: Toward a Teacher’s Creed, 114–36, New York: Teachers College Press. Hansen, David T. (2001b), “Cultivating a Sense of Tradition in Teaching,” in David T. Hansen, Exploring the Moral Heart of Teaching: Toward a Teacher’s Creed, 137–56, New York: Teachers College Press. Hansen, David T. (2011), The Teacher and the World: A Study of Cosmopolitanism As Education, London: Routledge. Hayden, Matthew (2012), “What Do Philosophers of Education Do? An Empirical Study of Philosophy of Education Journals,” Studies in Philosophy and Education, 31 (1): 1–27. Higgins, Chris (2011), The Good Life of Teaching: An Ethics of Professional Practice, London: Wiley-Blackwell. Horlacher, Rebekka (2004), “‘Bildung’: A Construction of History of Philosophy of Education,” Studies in Philosophy and Education, 23 (5–6): 409–26. Kaminsky, James S. (1988), “The First 600 Months of Philosophy of Education—1935–1985: A Deconstructionist History,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 18 (2): 42–9. Meyer, A.D. (1965), An Educational History of the Western World, New York: McGraw-Hill. Mintz, Avi (2017), “The Use and Abuse of the History of Educational Philosophy,” in Natasha Levinson (ed.), Philosophy of Education Society Yearbook 2016, 406–13, Urbana, IL: Philosophy of Education Society. Muir, James R. (1998), “The History of Educational Ideas and the Credibility of Philosophy of Education,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 30 (1): 7–26. Murdoch, Iris (1997), “The Idea of Perfection,” in Peter Conradi (ed.), Existentialists and Mystics: Writings on Philosophy and Literature, 299–336, London: Penguin.

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Neiman, Susan (2014), Why Grow Up? Subversive Thoughts for an Infantile Age, New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Oakeshott, Michael (1989), The Voice of Liberal Learning, Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Pelikan, Jaroslav (1984), The Vindication of Tradition, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Roberts, Peter (2021), “A Philosophy of Hope: Paulo Freire and Critical Pedagogy,” in Anna Pagès (ed.) A History of Western Philosophy of Education in the Contemporary Landscape, 107–28, London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Rorty, Amélie Oksenberg (ed.) (1998), Philosophers on Education: New Historical Perspectives, London: Routledge. Ruitenberg, Claudia (2010), What Do Philosophers of Education Do? And How Do They Do It?, Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Siegel, Harvey (ed.) (2009), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Education, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Soltis, Jonas F. (ed.) (1981), Philosophy of Education since the Mid-Century, New York: Teachers College Press. Standish, Paul (2007), “Rival Conceptions of Philosophy of Education,” Ethics and Education, 2 (2): 159–71. Titone, Connie (2007), “Pulling Back the Curtain: Relearning the History of Philosophy of Education,” Educational Studies, 41 (2): 128–47.

GENERAL EDITORS’ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The General Editors wish to thank the individuals who worked so tirelessly and graciously on this series. We owe a significant debt to our dedicated and tenacious volume editors: Andrea R. English, Kevin Gary, Tal Gilead, Avi Mintz, and Anna Pagès. They undertook a Herculean effort without which this series would not have been possible. We thank the chapter authors in each volume for their scholarly commitment and their responsiveness to our editorial suggestions. We appreciate the artful editorial assistance of three doctoral students in our Program in Philosophy and Education at Teachers College: Buddy North, Kirsten Welch, and Ting Zhao. Our editor at Bloomsbury Publishing, Mark Richardson, and his always upbeat assistant, Kim Bown, provided the perfect slipstream for our many-sided endeavor. Before Kim Bown, Maria Giovanna Brauzzi offered patient guidance as we shifted to the Bloomsbury Content Management System. We also want to thank the many colleagues who provided support and guidance along the way. Family and friends were always there to lighten our spirits at the end of a long day. For us, the series evokes the many years we have spent together with students in our program reading and discussing the great texts in our field, moving toward our deepest inquiries, and participating in one of humanity’s most compelling conversations.

VOLUME EDITORS’ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank Lisa Mcnulty, Amos Hofman, Grace G. Roosevelt, Rebekka Horlacher, Jürgen Oelkers, Katy Dineen, and Naoko Saito for their respective chapters in this volume. Each of their contributions covers a vast topic, and having to narrow it down to a single chapter was a demanding and challenging task. The authors’ willingness to revise their chapters according to the comments and suggestions made by the general editors and me should not be taken for granted. I would like to extend a special thanks to Grace G. Roosevelt for providing terrific insights and suggestions on my introduction, and for assisting me with the other chapters. I owe a debt of gratitude to the general editors, Megan Jane Laverty and David T. Hansen, for their editorial guidance and support. Finally, I thank my wife Yael and our children Or and Omri, for their support during the entire length of this project. We had in this time wonderful experiences that provided me with the energy needed to undertake and complete this volume.

TIMELINE

1632 Birth of John Locke 1687 Publication of François Fénelon’s The Education of Girls 1688 The Glorious Revolution in England 1689 Publication of Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding 1693 Publication of Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education 1711 Birth of David Hume 1712 Birth of Jean-Jacques Rousseau 1714 Birth of Étienne Bonnot de Condillac 1715 Birth of Claude Adrien Helvétius 1723 Birth of Adan Smith 1728 Publication of Saint Pierre’s A Project for Perfecting Education 1738 Publication of Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature 1743 Birth of Nicolas de Condorcet 1746 Birth of Johan Heinrich Pestalozzi 1746 Publication of Condillac’s Essay on the Origin of Human Knowledge 1748 Publication of Hume’s An Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding 1754 Publication of Condillac’s Treatise on Sensation 1755 Publication of Rousseau’s Discourse on Inequality 1758 Publication of Helvétius’s De l’esprit or Essays on the Mind 1759 Birth of Mary Wollstonecraft 1762 Publication of Rousseau’s The Social Contract 1762 Publication of Rousseau’s Emile, or On Education 1762 Publication of Louis-René de Caradeuc de La Chalotais’s Essay on National Education 1764 The expulsion of the Jesuits from France 1768 Publication of Johann Bernhard Basedow’s Idea to Philanthropists for Schools, Along with the Plan of an Elementary Book of Human Knowledge

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1772 Publication of Helvétius’s Treatise on Man 1773 Publication of Johann Georg Sulzer’s General Theory of the Fine Arts 1776 Birth of Johann Friedrich Herbart 1776 Publication of Adam Smith’s An Inquiry into the Nature and Cause of the Wealth of Nations 1776 United States Declaration of Independence 1782 Birth of Friedrich Fröbel 1787 Publication of Pestalozzi’s Leonard and Gertrude 1787 Publication of Wollstonecraft’s Thoughts on the Education of Daughters 1789 The French Revolution begins 1790 Publication of Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman 1792 Condorcet delivers his plan on public education to the national assembly 1793 Publication of Wilhelm von Humboldt’s Theory of Bildung 1797 Publication of Pestalozzi’s My Research on the Course of Nature in the Development of the Human Race 1801 Publication of Pestalozzi’s How Gertrude Teaches her Children 1801 Birth of Henry Newman 1803 Birth of Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803 The start of the Napoleonic Wars 1806 Birth of John Stuart Mill 1806 Publication of Herbart’s Science of Education 1807 Birth of Harriet Taylor Mill 1810 Birth of Margaret Fuller 1812 Publication of Jeremy Bentham’s Chrestomathia 1817 Birth of Henry David Thoreau 1826 Publication of Fröbel’s The Education of Man c. 1834 Amos Bronson Alcott and Elizabeth Peabody create the Temple School 1835 Publication of Herbart’s Outline of an Education Doctrine 1836 Publication of Emerson’s “Nature” 1837 Publication of Emerson’s “The American Scholar” c. 1840 Publication of the transcendentalist journal The Dial 1843 Publication of Fuller’s The Great Lawsuit 1845 Publication of Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century 1849 Publication of Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience 1851 Publication of Harriet Taylor Mill’s “The Enfranchisement of Women” 1852 Publication of Newman’s The Idea of the University 1854 Publication of Thoreau’s Walden; or, Life in the Woods

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1861 Publication of Fröbel’s The Pedagogics of Kindergarten 1861 Publication of Herbert Spencer’s Education: Intellectual, Moral and Physical 1869 Publication of J.S. Mill’s The Subjection of Women

Introduction: Enlightenment and Education TAL GILEAD

INTRODUCTION In September 1791, at the height of the French Revolution, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, a future minister, presented to the National Assembly a plan to reform education. “Instruction,” he declared, is “a source of goods for society, and equally a fertile source of goods for individuals” (Talleyrand-Périgod 1791: 114). “Public instruction,” he added, “must act relentlessly for the perfection of the political body and increasing national prosperity” (p. 109). Talleyrand argued that, to achieve these aims, education must be provided for all men and women, for the old and the young. Primary education, he continued, must be free for all. A few months later, in April 1792, the Marquis de Condorcet, a famous politician, mathematician, and scientist, delivered to the same assembly a vision of public education that was somewhat similar but even more radical. Condorcet called for free instruction at all levels, for almost identical education for men and women, and for higher educational equality for all. He also proposed placing a greater emphasis on the scientific, technical, and vocational aspects of education (Palmer 1985). Most significantly, Condorcet maintained, unlike Talleyrand, that religion has no place in the public education system (Condorcet 1792: 178). What Condorcet aspired to achieve through

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education was similar to what Talleyrand desired. Condorcet wrote, “to offer all the individuals of the human species a way to meet their needs, to ensure their well-being, to know and exercise their rights … is the first goal of national instruction” (p. 181). The plans of Talleyrand and Condorcet were not immediately put into effect. The social, political, and economic conditions at the time were not ripe for these changes (Reisner 1922). Yet their ideas did not vanish—far from it. Around this historical period, there was in numerous countries a wave of educational plans that advanced similar conceptions. A new educational discourse was created, and fairly quickly realities also changed. Within a few decades, the vision of a publicly provided education system was materializing in numerous places including Prussia, France, and parts of the United States (Green 1990). By 1850, for many in Europe and the United States, the educational ideas advanced by Talleyrand and Condorcet had become a part of life. In many ways, our existing systems of education are still modeled along lines devised during the Enlightenment. Moreover, for many of us today, although more than 200 years have passed, the ideas of Condorcet seem as worthy and relevant as they were to his contemporaries. If, however, we traveled two centuries back, or even one, from when Talleyrand and Condorcet presented their plans, their ideas would seem odd, preposterous, or dangerous, even to the progressive educational thinkers of the day. There were many reasons for this, and they will be discussed in detail throughout the Introduction, but two fundamental shifts of perspective that took place in the educational thought of the Enlightenment are particularly significant. The first was a shift in historical outlook. For centuries, educational thinkers have looked to the past for guidance. The thinkers of the Middle Ages mostly looked for inspiration in religious sources, and those of the Renaissance in ancient philosophy. In contrast, writing at the peak of one of the most significant upheavals in human history, Talleyrand and Condorcet gazed into the future. Condorcet wrote, “we have distanced ourselves from the ancients, we have so much surpassed them in the route towards truth” (1792: 193). “You owe to the French Nation,” he therefore proclaimed, “instruction at the level of the spirit of the 18th century, of this philosophy that [prepares] … the [progress of] future generations” (p.  194). Condorcet and Talleyrand were not the first to orient education toward the future. Others, such as La Chalotais in 1763, had done it before them. Neither were the thinkers of the late eighteenth century the last to look into the past. Today, many still look to the past for educational inspiration. In the Enlightenment period, however, a profound transformation occurred as the future rather than the past came to dominate educational thought. This had far-reaching implications because it enabled a shift of emphasis in education from maintaining stability to achieving progress, from continuation of the status

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quo to reform, from the preservation of tradition to the preparation for what was yet to come. One needs only to look at the vast number of articles, books, reports, policy documents, and committees discussing how education should prepare us for what is to come to understand how influential this turn has been and how future-oriented education currently is. Another new development during the Enlightenment was in the understanding of the fundamental roles of education. Traditionally education was oriented toward achieving human betterment. Education sought to bring people closer to the truth and make them more virtuous, pious, or civilized. Education was guided by a positive ideal and a conception of the good.1 This did not change during the Enlightenment, as educational philosophers strived to enlighten or morally improve students. Alongside this aim, however, arose a new conception of the role of education that, if it existed at all, had been marginal in previous historical periods. In the Enlightenment period, we see the rise of the idea that education should not just improve people but also improve the conditions in which they live. Education was increasingly viewed as a tool for enhancing the quality of life of individuals and societies. Both Talleyrand and Condorcet, we have seen, stressed the importance of education for meeting people’s needs, furthering their well-being, and augmenting public prosperity. Again, they were not the first to do so but rather reflected a conception prevalent in their period. This development was closely connected to the fact that, in the eighteenth century, as James F. Jones points out, “the notion that man could and indeed should seek to be happy evolved to operate as a pre-supposition in the fiber of Western thinking” (1982: 288). The focus on happiness was also clearly reflected in educational philosophy. Already in 1728, the Abbé de Saint Pierre declared that “the goal of a good education … is to render the happiness of the pupil, his parents, and the other citizens much bigger then it was without such an education” (1728: 1). Embracing a similar attitude, many Enlightenment educational thinkers considered happiness to be a primary educational aim and consequently were concerned with the potential contribution of education to the quality of life. To understand how influential the new educational emphasis on improving living conditions has been from a historical perspective, we need only look to the educational policy of our day. In the eyes of policymakers and the public, education has become above all an instrument for improving the quality of life by facilitating economic growth, advancing the sciences, and generating the appropriate social conditions (OECD 2001). The two shifts discussed were sufficient to render the plans of Talleyrand and Condorcet peculiar to those who lived a short while before them. These shifts, however, were only two aspects of a much broader transformation of educational philosophy that took place during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and the first half of the nineteenth centuries. This Introduction aims to provide a broad discussion of significant developments in educational thought in this

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decisive historical period. It does not attempt to deliver a comprehensive historical account of the educational philosophy of the time. The focus will not necessarily be on the most dominant or widespread educational ideas of the age, which during most of the period reflected the conceptions of past generations, but rather on change and innovation. This Introduction proceeds as follows. The following section provides the background for understanding the period by discussing the Enlightenment as an historical phenomenon. From there, the emphasis shifts to the investigation of the period’s educational theory. The third section focuses on how the development of a new philosophical outlook during the Enlightenment period influenced conceptions of the relationship between education and religion. We begin with attitudes toward religion because it underlies all other developments. The fourth section examines contemporary changes in the conception of human nature and their impact on educational philosophy. These changes were not only shaped by religious attitudes but also influenced them. The developments discussed in the third and fourth sections must, therefore, be seen as interconnected and mutually reinforcing. The fifth section moves from the micro to the macro level. It investigates contemporary transformations in the understanding of the social aims of education. The rise of new aims raised the question of who should provide education, which the sixth section examines while focusing on questions related to state education. The seventh section explores attitudes toward the education of women, which were intensely debated due to the changes explored in the previous sections. The eighth section takes us beyond the Enlightenment period and introduces some key nineteenth-century reactions to Enlightenment thought. The ninth section provides some concluding reflection and remarks, and the final section introduces the rest of the volume and briefly discusses the chapters in it.

THE ENLIGHTENMENT At present, the Enlightenment is praised as often as it is condemned. It is revered for being the source of much good in our world and blamed for being responsible for much of the bad in it. It is seen as liberating and oppressive, as constructive and ruinous. This dual attitude toward the Enlightenment is not new and has accompanied it from when it first took shape (Fleischacker 2013). Few, however, doubt the historical significance of the Enlightenment. Admirers and even critics, such as Horkheimer and Adorno (2002), regard it as a major turning point in human history. Disagreement, nevertheless, reemerges when we try to define what the Enlightenment is and delineate exactly when and where it took place. Peter Gay opens his classic study of the Enlightenment by declaring that “there were many philosophes in the 18th century, but there was only one

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Enlightenment” (1966: 3). He argues that the Enlightenment was a unitary movement that spread from Europe to the United States but whose base was in France. Historically, he locates it between the English Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the French Revolution of 1789. What brought the Enlightenment together, he contends, was a “vastly ambitious program, a program of secularism, humanity, cosmopolitanism, and freedom above all, freedom in its many forms” (p. 3). Although Gay’s conception of the Enlightenment proved to be highly influential, today scholars challenge almost every aspect of it. From the 1970s, the idea of a unified Enlightenment came under attack. Roy Porter and others claimed that the ideas of the Enlightenment could not be isolated from the specific conditions in which they emerged. These scholars maintained that there was not one Enlightenment but rather multiple Enlightenments reflecting the national context in which they developed (Withers 2008). The French Enlightenment was close to what Gay described, but the English, Scottish, German, and American Enlightenments each had unique characteristics. In addition, scholars argued that there were also Dutch, Swiss, Italian, Austrian, Swedish, and Russian Enlightenments (Porter and Teich 1981). More recently, however, the notion of national Enlightenments has also been questioned. It is asserted that many thinkers in France had more in common with philosophers in Scotland or England than with their compatriots and that the same holds for many nations. Instead of speaking of national Enlightenments, it is claimed that we should divide the Enlightenment into strands that run across national borders (Edelstein 2010). Jonathan Israel, for example, suggests that the Enlightenment had a radical branch that developed from the ideas of the Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza and was committed to freedom, equality, and restructuring society, and a conservative branch, whose representatives are John Locke and Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet), which sought only limited reforms that would not shake the existing social order (Israel 2006). In addition to such strands, there was also the counter-Enlightenment, which rejected the Enlightenment’s ideas but, by opposing them, indirectly contributed to their development (Albertan-Coppola and Porter 2002). The accumulating scholarship on the Enlightenment has changed the way we view it. It is no longer considered as a mainly French affair but as a movement that influenced most of the Western world. The time frame of the Enlightenment has also been expanded. At present, it is frequently held that the Enlightenment’s roots date back to around the middle of the seventeenth century and that its direct influence stretches to the early decades of the nineteenth (Withers 2008). The scholarship has also brought to light the complex relationship between Enlightenment and religion, the importance of local influences on the Enlightenment, and the Enlightenment’s often limited commitment to freedom and political change. All this, of course, is highly

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significant for understanding the influence of the Enlightenment on educational philosophy in this period. It also, however, raises the question of what brought the Enlightenment thinkers together. Many answers have been provided to this question in the literature, but the one offered by Johnathan Israel seems to be the most relevant for the educational context. According to him, what united the Enlightenment thinkers was that they were “consciously committed to the notion of bettering humanity in this world through a fundamental, revolutionary transformation discarding the ideas, habits and traditions of the past either wholly or partly” (Israel 2013: 7). When such an understanding of the Enlightenment is adopted, it should come as no surprise that the Enlightenment attributed a central place to education and that educational thinkers were tremendously influenced by it. First, in every attempt to improve the world, education naturally receives a central place. Enlightenment thinkers recognized the importance of education and brought this issue to center stage (Lucas 1971). Key figures of the Enlightenment, including Locke, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Denis Diderot, and Immanuel Kant, wrote books or treatises about education. The number of articles, pamphlets, books, and treatises discussing education spiked in this period, and education became a hotly debated and controversial topic like never before. Second, educational philosophy has traditionally been, at least since the days of Plato, concerned with human improvement. The educational philosophers of the Enlightenment period, although not all committed to Enlightenment ideas, share with it, in one way or the other, the desire to improve humanity. As a result of this inherent affinity between Enlightenment philosophy and educational aspirations, the ideas of the former came to influence educational philosophers even when the thinking of the time was not embraced. Let us now turn to look at how educational philosophy was transformed during the Enlightenment.

A NEW SCIENTIFICALLY INSPIRED OUTLOOK AND ITS INFLUENCE ON RELIGION AND EDUCATION Around the middle of the sixteenth century, people started to study and think about the natural world differently. The work of scientists such as Nicolaus Copernicus, Johannes Kepler, Galileo Galilei, and many lesser-known figures challenged truths that scholars have taken for granted for centuries, if not millennia (Figure 0.1). The Aristotelian worldview, which was supported by theology, was breaking down (Luxembourg 1967). What replaced it in the seventeenth century was a mechanistic worldview developed mainly by Pierre Gassendi and the French philosopher René Descartes. According to the mechanistic worldview, nature was to be explained in terms of shape, size, quantity, motion, and other concepts that could be mathematically represented

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(Henry 2001). The mechanistic worldview disposed of magic, exalted mathematics, and turned God from an active participant in the world into its designer. In addition, alongside the mechanistic worldview (and not completely separated from it) emerged a conception of the study of the physical world that emphasized induction, data collection, experiments, and the practical use of knowledge. The most famous proponent of this approach was the English philosopher Francis Bacon, who argued that humanity must strive to gain dominion over nature and improve the lives of people through technological innovations (Bacon 1620/1960). The development of scientific methods and theories continued throughout the seventeenth century and culminated with Isaac Newton’s publication of Principia Mathematica in 1687, which included his laws of motion. Nevertheless, until the last part of the seventeenth century, few understood or adhered to the new way of thinking about the world and the philosophy that supported it, and therefore its influence on educational philosophy remained marginal (Porter 2001). In the late seventeenth century and the eighteenth, however, the new science was presented to the public in a more accessible way. In this period, the interest in science and the philosophy that supported it rose dramatically, not only among professionals but also among members of the educated public (Porter 2001). Many Enlightenment philosophers, such as Voltaire, thought that the scientific perspective held an important promise for improving the world and worked to popularize it through their writings. Gradually, a new way of looking not just at nature but at all aspects of life emerged, and methods taken from or inspired by the methods and attitudes of the natural sciences were used in other domains. From this period on, the new scientifically inspired intellectual outlook influenced educational philosophy in two profound ways. First, it helped alter existing attitudes toward religion. Second, it propelled an investigation into human nature, which would eventually transform educational thought. Let us start by examining the question of religion before moving to the science of man in the next section. Before the new scientifically inspired outlook started to spread, most aspects of education were dominated by religion. Education was mainly provided by religious teachers, organizations, or orders. The catechism, a set of basic religious truths, was a core part of the curriculum, and educational philosophy was primarily guided by religious ideas and concerns (Julia 2006). The importance of religion is best reflected in the educational aims of the Jesuits, who ran the most potent educational organization in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Catholic Europe. For them, education had one principal aim, which was “to help the neighbor to a knowledge and love of God and to the salvation of their souls” (Ignatius 1556/1933: 100). In practice, the religious control over the provision of education mostly remained in place until around the start of the nineteenth century, but in educational philosophy novel attitudes toward religion appeared from the end of the seventeenth century.

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FIGURE 0.1  Frontispiece of Cosmic System by Galileo, 1663. ITALY—AUGUST 11: Aristotle, Ptolemy and Nicolaus Copernicus, from an edition of Galileo’s ‘Systema Cosmicum’ (‘Cosmic System’) published in London in 1663. (Photo by SSPL/Getty Images)

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When we examine the influence of the new scientifically inspired outlook, which eventually became one of the building blocks of Enlightenment thought, on the place attributed to religion in the educational philosophy of the age, two processes, which are partly connected, are salient. To begin with, the new scientifically inspired outlook propelled a transformation of religious beliefs. Religion and the new outlook are often portrayed in the literature as rivalrous, but this is only partly true (Barnett 2018). A significant number of those responsible for the development of the new outlook, including Newton himself, held that it went hand in hand with religion and even supported religion by revealing the work of God. Similarly, many educational thinkers in this period tried to combine the new scientifically inspired outlook with profound religious beliefs. Locke is one well-known early example (Wolterstorff 1994). Such attempts to combine innovative perspectives with religious beliefs, it is important to stress, were not the hallmark of a transition period from one outlook to the other but rather accompanied educational philosophy into the nineteenth century and can be found in the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, Friedrich Fröbel, the American Transcendentalists, among others. Religious beliefs, however, were changing. Most significantly, key religious concepts that formerly had a profound influence on educational philosophy were being widely renounced. The doctrine of original sin, according to which humans are born with a propensity to wrongdoing and an inability to discover the truth, was in the process of being rejected even within many religious circles (Harrison 2002). Two other central religious notions that were losing ground are that God takes an active part in the world and that the next life is more important than this one. The decline of these doctrines was especially significant for those concerned with education because it enabled them to combine religious beliefs with the idea that humanity could take control of its destiny. If people are not prone to evil and error, mundane life is important, and if God’s help is neither available nor needed, then education can contribute a great deal more than was traditionally thought to improve the state of humanity. Although, as will be made clear in what follows, religious developments took various forms, what stood out after the seventeenth century is that religious beliefs as a whole were influenced by the new scientifically inspired outlook and became more akin to the belief of the age in the power of humanity and education. Moreover, teaching religion was increasingly regarded by educational philosophers not just as an aim in itself but also as a means for achieving all sorts of social and economic improvements. Many educational philosophers maintained that religious education was required to achieve nonreligious aims. While the rise of the new scientifically inspired outlook caused many educational philosophers to revise religious beliefs, it also triggered a parallel process of secularization among others. For some (and the numbers tended to grow as the centuries progressed) the new scientifically inspired outlook and

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religion were mutually exclusive (Jacob 1988). At the end of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth, educational philosophies that do not conceive religion as central started to emerge. For example, Locke remained highly committed to Christianity, but his educational program emphasizes moral and cultural aspects of instruction rather than the religious ones (Parry 2006). Although this development mainly resulted from the abovementioned changes in religious thinking rather than the secularization of society, it did pave the way for the latter shift by creating a view of education not based on religion. Another important step toward secularization was an attack, mainly in France, on the education provided by the church. In the 1720s, the Scot Thomas Gordon and the Irishman John Trenchard questioned the utility of an education provided by clerics. Their views circulated in Britain and the American Colonies (Cremin 1974). Moreover, in France of the 1760s a group of influential educational thinkers comprising members of local parliaments such as Louis-René La Chalotais (1762), Jean Baptiste Louis Crevier (1762), and L.B. Guyton de Morveau (1764), as well as leading philosophers, such as Claude Adrien Helvétius (1758/1807) and Denis Diderot (1775/1932), mounted a devastating attack on church-provided education, especially after the expulsion of the Jesuits from France in 1762. They argued that the church’s education served foreign political interests, that it did not align with the interests of the state, and that it was inadequate for the social and economic realities of the time (Grandière 1998). They also maintained that the religious education impeded social progress and the spread of happiness because it was based on superstition, false beliefs, and obsolete ideas. Knowledge in all fields, La Chalotais proclaimed, had greatly advanced, but the church’s “instruction has remained the same” (1762: 48). Two ways to deal with the situation were suggested: to reform religious education or to remove education from the hands of the religious establishment altogether. The progress of secular ideas within educational philosophy during the second half of the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth was not linear. Within this time frame, there were periods of religious revival and of mounting secularism. Johann Bernhard Basedow in Germany and Thomas Jefferson in the United States advanced secular conceptions of education, but these were countered by strong religious trends (Mercer 1993; Reed 2015). During the French Revolution secular ideas spread quickly, and Condorcet was not alone in asserting that religion has no place in public education. But, after the revolution, religious views regained currency, including in educational philosophy. In some circles, however, the conviction that the new scientifically inspired outlook and religion are incompatible deepened. In the nineteenth century, not only philosophers but also reformers, politicians, scientists, positivists, and utilitarians challenged religion (Harvery 2012). This shift also found its way into educational philosophy. For example, Jeremy Bentham, the founding

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father of British utilitarianism, devised in 1812 a radical plan to reform schools under the title “Chrestomathia,” which excluded all subject matter related to religion (Itzkin 1978). The Enlightenment thus raised serious questions regarding the place of religious ideas in education but did not conclusively resolve them. Today educational philosophers still passionately debate the relationship between secular and religious ideas in education, often referring back to the Enlightenment (Alexander 2001; Hand 2003; Haydon 2011).

EDUCATION BASED ON THE “SCIENCE OF MAN” Another important consequence of the rise of the new scientifically inspired outlook that had far-reaching educational implications was the establishment of what already in the eighteenth century came to be known as the “science of man” (Pagden 2013). The science of man was an investigation into human nature that sought to replace traditional (mainly theological) conceptions of what it means to be human by employing systematic inquiry. Inspired by developments in natural science, this inquiry touched on a great variety of issues, from the place of man in the natural world to the development of human history. However, it was issues regarding the source of human knowledge, the origins of sociability, the direction of behavioral tendencies, the limits of malleability, and the nature of personal differences that dominated educational philosophy. Prior to the rise of the mechanistic worldview in the seventeenth century, the prevailing concepts of knowledge and the mind were grounded in Aristotelian ideas. According to this theory, knowledge comes to mind through the senses. The mind, however, perceives the abstract “forms” or the essences of objects in the world, which exist in them independently of their material qualities (Meyers 2014). Yet, at the same time, it was also held that, due to original sin, the mind is prone to error and our ability to acquire knowledge and know the truth is limited (Harrison 2002). Nevertheless, with the rise of the mechanistic worldview, the idea that objects have an immaterial essence or form was rejected, and the senses were therefore no longer viewed as a reliable source of knowledge in themselves. Instead, René Descartes (1637/1957) famously suggested that our ability to acquire reliable knowledge stems from the existence of innate ideas and principles engraved in our mind. The rise of the mechanistic worldview did not bring the Aristotelian conception of knowledge to its end. Grounded in religious doctrines and beliefs, it continued to influence educational theory (Boyd 1966). The mechanistic worldview, however, with its emphasis on rationalism and the role of the intellect in acquiring knowledge, also had a significant impact on educational theory during the Enlightenment. Rationalistic conceptions, such as those of Descartes, Nicolas Malebranche, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz, and Christian Wolff, were prevalent, especially in Germany, around the turn of the eighteenth

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century, and their influence was still felt throughout the Enlightenment age. But the theory of mind and knowledge acquisition that had the most profound and lasting effect in educational thought was what is now generally referred to as “sensationism.” In 1690, Locke published his monumental An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. In this groundbreaking book, he attacks the claim that people are born with innate ideas. The mind, he famously argues, is a blank slate, and all knowledge comes to us from the senses. According to Locke, knowledge has two sources: direct sense experience and reflection. Reflection is an internal faculty that turns simple sense experience into more complex ideas. Although sensationism and the notion of the mind as a blank slate have long historical roots, it was only after Locke that they were widely embraced in educational theory (Wood 1992). Sensationism, however, developed in multiple and even contrasting directions. Some educational thinkers emphasized the passive or receiving elements of the mind. For example, Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, whose ideas are discussed in length in Chapter 3 on the French Enlightenment, argued that all knowledge comes directly from sense experience and dismissed the existence of what Locke saw as the faculty responsible for reflections. In practice, the view of the mind as passive often led to materialistic conceptions of human nature (Boyd 1966). In contrast, other educational thinkers, such as Pestalozzi, focused on the active part of the mind while holding that sense perception is mediated and supplemented by internal mechanisms (Lucas 1971). One influential theory, which grew out of sensationism and has had a profound influence on educational theory in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries is the association of ideas. Developed mainly by Scottish thinkers such as David Hume, Francis Hutcheson, David Fordyce, and George Turnbull, this concept spread rapidly to other parts of the world (Parry 2006). The Scottish Enlightenment (in general, it must be noted) was an important source of innovative ideas concerning human nature and education (Hanley 2011). The fundamental insight behind the association of ideas is that some notions in the mind are so tightly connected that one automatically evokes the other (Kallich 1970). Locke already recognized this but viewed it a source of mistakes and confusion. Yet, following philosophers such as David Hartley, educational theorists came to see this association as having great potential. They held that, if education can actively create a beneficial association between ideas, it can promote learning and even moral behavior. As the influential Scottish educational thinker Fordyce wrote, “the Associations or Knots of Ideas … [are] the Spring of our Happiness or Misery in Life. It must, therefore, be an Affair of the utmost Importance in Education, to settle just Associations in the Minds of Youth, and to break and disunite wrong ones” (1757/1996: 270, emphasis in original). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the spread of sensationism and other concepts that stem from it transformed existing perceptions of the concept

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of learning. These ideas shifted the educational emphasis from correcting naturally imprinted misconceptions and looking inward to looking outward and taking in what the world has to offer (Lucas 1971). The ability to shape and control the environment in general and the students’ experience of it in particular came to be seen as the key for effective learning and a good education. For sensationists, learning was no longer just intellectual but involved the senses and emotions. Education and learning were no longer restricted to a formal setting but could take place in every moment of life. Also, education was not just for children but for all ages (Gill 2010). Rousseau, whose work is discussed in Chapter 2 of this book, took these guiding ideas and developed them into what is probably the most famous and influential educational theory of the Enlightenment period, but he was not alone. Sensationists’ ideas of learning, which emphasized the role of experience and consequently learning by doing, gained, especially after Rousseau, a hold in educational theory that lasted well beyond the Enlightenment period and still resonate today. Sensationism also ignited a debate among educators about the limits of human pliability. This debate had two aspects. The first revolved around the question of whether cognitive abilities could be augmented through education and exposure to a supportive environment. The second concerned the degree to which basic behavioral tendencies are fixed. Different answers were provided to the first question. Locke famously argued that “Of all Men we meet with Nine Parts of Ten are what they are … by their Education” (1693/1989: 83), yet not everyone agreed. Thomas Jefferson, for example, held that people are born with a potential that education can help fulfill or destroy but that it cannot create new abilities or talents (Brick 2005). Throughout the Enlightenment period, however, there was a growing tendency among educational thinkers to attribute to education and the environment a more central role in determining cognitive abilities (Ballinger 1959). Some even took this idea to the extreme, arguing that cognitive potential is set solely by education. “Education,” wrote Helvétius, “makes us what we are” (1758/1807: 363). But what about the noncognitive aspects of human nature? When we turn to the question of behavioral tendencies, a very different picture emerges. The traditional Christian view was that humans are naturally guided by self-love and the passions, which were both considered detrimental for society and individuals (Meyer and Barsky 2000). It was held, therefore, that education must help people overcome or curb their basic tendencies. It was usually maintained that this could best be done by placing reason, which was regarded as the higher or divine element in human nature, in its rightful place. Reason was perceived as able to subdue self-love and the passions and serve as a proper guide to human behavior. Until the third decade of the eighteenth century, practically every educational thinker adopted versions of the above conception of human tendencies (Grandière 1998). After that, however,

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important aspects of the traditional conception of human nature were called into question in educational theory. What led to this was an attempt, inspired by developments in the physical and biological sciences, to make education more scientifically grounded (Gilead 2009a). The Scottish philosopher George Turnbull noted, “There can be no sure rules concerning education but those which are founded on the experimental knowledge of human nature” (1742: 1). The result of this development has been the appearance of new conceptions of behavioral tendencies. First, from the 1720s, we find in educational theory the idea that “self-love … always acts in us for us to be satisfied” (Buffier 1726: 158). For many educational thinkers, self-love came to be seen as an irreversible human tendency that stems directly from our senses (O’Neal 2008). Many thinkers argued that, rather than trying to overcome self-love, education has to find a way to manage it. Second, from around the mid-eighteenth century, it was increasingly argued that the passions could not be effectively controlled, restricted, or eradicated. “The heart,” wrote the French educator ÉtienneGabriel Morelly, “is always moved by one of the passions” (1745/1970: 10). Some others, including Helvétius and Rousseau, went as far as to argue that reason is subordinated to the passions and self-love and can never control them (Emberley 1985). The skepticism toward the changeability of natural behavioral tendencies was accompanied, however, by a new appreciation of their potential benefits. As the eighteenth century progressed, it was increasingly argued that self-love could lead to moral conduct, pro-social behavior, and even piety. “The Child’s first sentiment,” wrote Rousseau, “is self-love, his second, which is derived from it, is love of those about him” (1762/2001: 209). It was maintained that, if people can be enlightened regarding what is in their own true interest or simply taught it, self-love itself will direct them to act in desirable ways. Instead of trying to overcome self-love, education has to create a link between the social and personal good and let self-love guide the way. Meanwhile, a new understanding of the passions was also emerging. Many educational thinkers reconceived the passions, which were traditionally seen as a detrimental force that threatens morality and happiness, as a source of human motivation that has to be preserved (Gilead 2009a). Some, including Rousseau, even argued that the passions are an essential source of sociability and morality. Although its advocates often changed the terminology and wrote about the sentiments rather than passions, the view that certain unmediated behavioral tendencies were essentially good was common, especially in Scotland. Educational thinkers, like the philosophers around them, wrote about innate moral sentiments and sympathy (Rorty 1982). Under the emerging scientifically inspired conception, it was held that human nature could not easily be changed or controlled, but this was not necessarily seen as a negative thing. Human nature was not all bad.

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The new conceptions of human nature just discussed did not replace old ones but developed alongside them. They also did not provide one agreed-upon alternative to the traditional Christian conception, taking many differing shapes instead. What they did do was to bring to the fore the idea that education and the social arrangements it supported had to fit human nature. Perhaps the most significant aspect of this development was the recognition that to increase happiness people’s actual needs and desires have to be met and that education should, therefore, cater to them. Some of the emphasis shifted from the role of education in controlling human nature to the idea that it should beneficially direct it. This was a monumental change. It was clear that directing human nature was no easy task, but under sensationist psychology, it seemed at least feasible. If by using the right methods desirable ideas can be instilled and our basic tendencies, such as self-love and the passions, directed to serve them, then education has great potential to improve humanity and society. It is to this subject that we now turn.

SOCIAL ASPECTS During the Enlightenment a conviction emerged that knowledge gained through novel means of investigation could be applied to improve social structures. Education was therefore conceived not just as having a positive effect on individuals but as a benign tool for making societies and states more prosperous, knowledgeable, scientifically advanced, moral, just, and, above all, happier (Julia 1990). There were, however, deep disagreements regarding the best means to achieve social improvements through education. Different thinkers focused on different aspects of social life, and, even when there was consensus concerning what aspects were most crucial, opinions about what exactly was to be done significantly diverged. One question that drew considerable attention during the Enlightenment was the degree to which social life could be improved through moral education. Traditionally, moral education was embedded in religion, and the role of religious education was to create pious and virtuous individuals. Since the moral and social organizations were perceived as representing a divine or natural order, it was maintained that the best way moral education could serve society was by making sure that everyone obeyed the long-established moral rules so that the social framework would be kept intact (Gilead 2009b). Under this conception of moral education, individuals were required to overcome their basic tendencies and submit to the power of authority. During the Enlightenment, the traditional conception of moral education just discussed did not disappear but did become less prevalent. Inspired by the new modes of thought, a growing number of educational thinkers started to challenge the view that the existing social order was an ideal one. Saint Pierre

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wrote that “many [existing] moral maxims … are unjust, rash, unreasonable” (1728: 194) and that education must teach students to reject them. A reform in the moral order, a growing number of educational thinkers started to suggest, was badly needed. The renowned English educator John Brown wrote, “To throw the Manners and Principles of a Nation into a new Channel is certainly a work of no small difficulty. – On the other hand, we seem to have many materials lying round us ready to be converted into the Means of this great work” (1765: 158). It is important to note that what might seem a small change of attitudes favoring reform was actually a profound intellectual revolution. Under the traditional conception of morality, the existing social arrangements were seen as serving moral ends. What the Enlightenment thinkers did, including those writing on education, was to reverse this order. For them, morality and moral education became a means to serve social aims such as increasing happiness or prosperity (Gullace 1993). Moreover, the conception of morality itself was changing. During the Enlightenment, following the abovementioned development in the conception of human nature, emerged the idea that, instead of trying to transform morality, morality has to be adapted to human nature. For the thinkers who held this view, morality, to succeed, must find ways to manipulate the individual’s self-love or sentiments so that they can be placed in service of the greater public interest (Domenech 1989). One result of this new conception was that matters of social organization came to the forefront. The primary purpose of moral education shifted from developing personal traits to creating and supporting beneficial social structures. One clear indication of this is the close connection established between moral education and the law (Gullace 1993). Another result of this new conception was that morality took on a strong utilitarian bent. After the middle of the eighteenth century, the moral ideas just discussed became prevalent, and moral education progressively came to be seen in such terms. Through the influence of key Enlightenment thinkers, such as Helvétius and Diderot, important figures in the French Revolution, such as Condorcet and Talleyrand, renowned English Utilitarians, such as Bentham and John Stuart Mill, and the writings of countless social reformers, this instrumental and utilitarian conception of morality took center stage in educational theory. Even in the work of John Dewey there are strong traces of it.2 Another avenue through which it was thought that education could significantly benefit society is by helping improve the material and physical conditions in which people lived. The emphasis was placed here on two key dimensions: mastering nature through the progress of the natural sciences and bettering the economic conditions of the population. I shall discuss each of these in turn. Prior to the Enlightenment, most educational thinkers did not give science education or “natural philosophy,” as it was called at that time, a central place in

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the curriculum. It was held that the sciences should be taught but on a very basic level. Locke for example, maintained that natural philosophy should be part of a gentleman’s curriculum but argued that “a governor would be much to blam’d that should keep his pupil too long, and lead him to far” in it (1693/1989: 156). The reason for attributing to science such minor importance was that it was taught mainly to strengthen piety by acquainting students with the work of God or to make students more cultured or knowledgeable, and neither of these aims required a profound understanding of science and its workings. The curriculum supported by most educational thinkers in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, therefore, gave a marginal place to natural philosophy and was chiefly humanistic with an emphasis on teaching the ancient languages (Boyd 1966). The exception to this was vocational education, where it was widely agreed that providing a good grounding in science was vital. Outside of educational circles, however, a new and powerful understanding of the role of science emerged. At its core stood Francis Bacon’s idea that science should serve to increase human flourishing. Although this Baconian perception of the role of science was not smoothly incorporated into educational theory, eventually the growing influence of the new modes of thought, discussed in the previous section, became more influential (Gilead 2011b). By the middle of the eighteenth century, numerous educational thinkers, often mentioning Bacon by name, explicitly embraced his conception of the role of science. They argued that science should be an essential part of the curriculum and that science should be taught in-depth. For example, Diderot (1775/1932) maintained that hydraulics, experimental physics, chemistry, and anatomy should be an integral part of secondary education. In England, influential figures such as Joseph Priestley and other members of the Lunar Society called to reform science teaching along utilitarian lines (Uglow 2003). In the United States, Franklin and Jefferson aspired to do the same (Hurd 1998). Those who sought to advance the teaching of science did not necessarily reject its traditional aims; what guided them was a vision of science and the teaching of science as contributing to the improvement of people’s lives. For this to happen, many educational thinkers held, science had to be taught more extensively and profoundly and with an emphasis on its practical uses (Gilead 2011b) (see Figure 0.2). In the first half of the nineteenth century, the link between science and education grew even more formalized. The Industrial Revolution had demonstrated that science could yield great technological advances and economic benefits. It simultaneously raised the demand for scientific expertise. Countless philosophers and scientists now discussed science teaching. They agreed that science teaching is indispensable for advancing the economy and technology, but to this was added the ideas that science is essential for developing thinking and the mind (DeBoer 2019). To function in the modern world, it was increasingly argued, it is necessary to be acquainted with scientific modes

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FIGURE 0.2  A philosopher giving a lecture on the Orrery, after Joseph Wright of Derby, 1768. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty images)

of thought. A  prominent advocate of this view was the philosopher Herbert Spencer. Spencer (1861) famously argued that scientific knowledge, in the broad sense of the word, is the most worthwhile. It is needed, he believed, to maintain health, earn a living, create good citizens, foster discipline, and enjoy life (1861: 53). Spencer, therefore, held that teaching the sciences should take precedence over classical humanistic studies (Tomlinson 1996). The foundation, then, of our current fascination with teaching science at all phases of education was laid, for good and bad, during the Enlightenment. For many educational thinkers of the Enlightenment period, advancing science was one essential component of furthering material well-being. The other, as noted, was improving the economy. The latter, however, was much more contentious and stirred deep divisions among the Enlightenment supporters themselves. While few doubted that individuals could benefit economically from education and especially from vocational training, the question of whether education can or should be used to advance large-scale economic aims remained contested and unresolved. At the start of the eighteenth century, educational thinkers had very few reasons, if any, to link education with economic improvements. The economic

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theories of the period, which focused on international trade, did not postulate that education could yield economic benefits. On the contrary, it was thought that overeducation could be economically ruinous (Gilead 2011a). Reflecting on this idea, the English philosopher Bernard Mandeville wrote in his book on charity schools, “To make society happy and People at ease … it is requisite that great numbers of them should be Ignorant and poor” (1723: 328). Moreover, it was commonly held at that time that wealth and especially luxury had devastating moral effects on individuals and nations because they breed corruption. In the mid-eighteenth century, however, the intellectual atmosphere was changing. Economic growth in some parts of Europe, such as England, and economic crises in other countries, such as France, turned the economy into a hotly debated topic (Shovlin 2007). New economic theories emerged, and these created a closer link between education and economic advancement. The physiocrats who were a group of leading eighteenth-century French economic thinkers, argued, for example, that providing the peasants with a practical education could greatly increase agricultural yield and thereby enrich the country (Gilead 2011a). Similar views regarding the economic value of education were advanced in Germany by Cameralists. By the last third of the eighteenth century, these new economic ideas started to resonate in educational treatises. Writing on the education of the lower classes, the French reformer Louis Philipon stated that education should “render all the children of the lower ranks suitable for all the professions which are the lot of this class of citizens” (1783: 131). Simultaneously, it was also recognized that in the modern world the power of a nation stems to a considerable extent from its wealth. As a result, a growing number of thinkers called to make education more practical and useful. Education and the curriculum, they held, should be adapted to serve the economic needs of the state and the population. Not surprisingly, some of the Enlightenment’s most prominent thinkers raised powerful objections to the spread of an economically utilitarian view of education. The Scottish philosopher Adam Smith, who is often considered the founding father of modern economics, questioned the economic value of vocational education (Rothschild 1998). His economic analysis led him to hold that the vast majority of available jobs required very low skills and that, therefore, education could do little to improve productivity directly (Smith 1776/1999). Smith suggested that, instead of trying to serve economic advancement, education should focus on countering the detrimental effects of economic requirements (Kitcher 2009). Fearing that the unchallenging and routine work required for economic progress would render large segments of the population stupid, ignorant, physically unfit, and morally corrupt, Smith argued that education should be used to prevent social degeneration and called for greater public investment in education. Rousseau, for his part, reconceptualized the

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FIGURE 0.3  Child Labour circa 1820: Child labour in a mill during the industrial revolution. (Photo by Edward Gooch Collection/Getty Images)

notion that increased wealth leads to corruption and moral decline. He wrote, “money is the source of all the false ideas of society … countries rich in silver must be poor in everything else” (1762/2001: 183). Like many of Rousseau’s claims, this one profoundly influenced many educational theorists. In the following decades, opinions on the role of education in the economy continued to be divided. On the one hand, following Smith, professional economists believed that education could not yield serious economic benefits (O’Donnell 1985). In addition, they warned that subordinating education to economic needs would intensify detrimental moral effects. On the other hand, many educational reformers continued to argue that all people should be provided with an economically useful education. In fact, economic considerations

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had played a significant role in spreading the call for universal education even among educational philosophers (Gilead 2011a). This was especially clear in educational works published during the French Revolution, but it continued deep into the nineteenth century. Eventually, both in theory and in practice, an economically utilitarian conception of education prevailed, and they became a vital ingredient of educational thought with the question becoming how to improve the economy (Figure 0.3). Many developments contributed to this change, such as political turmoil and the Industrial Revolution, but it seems to have been particularly influenced by the connection established between economic progress and the power of the state, which brings us to our next topic.

THE QUESTION OF EDUCATIONAL PROVISION AND STATE EDUCATION At the core of the Enlightenment conception of education, as we have seen, stood a demand to reform education and, through it, society. Naturally, educational thinkers primarily discussed the question of what reforms were needed, but they were also concerned by the question of who could best implement these reforms. Most of those demanding reform rejected the idea that it could be left to the religious establishment, which had control over education at the time, because religious institutions were seen as anachronistic and serving their own narrow interests (Grandière 1998). Instead, it was increasingly argued that education should be placed in the hands of the state. Although the support for state education was often driven by political motives and historical circumstances, it was mainly claimed within educational circles that education should be entrusted to the state because the state interests coincided with that of the public. In the Enlightenment, we find a strengthening idea that the state has to serve the common good rather than serve the king or other rulers (Poggi 1982). After long centuries in which almost all educational theorists did not assign the state any role in education, at the beginning of the eighteenth century the idea that the state should have regulatory power over education started to circulate. In 1728, Saint Pierre, for example, called for the establishment of a ministry of education that would be responsible for improving education. By the 1760s, educational philosophers increasingly maintained that education should be nationalized. Education, many argued, must be centralized and provided by the state (Grandière 1998). Various reasons were provided for why the state should take control over education, and these reasons became even more persuasive after the French Revolution, in 1789, and the industrial revolutions, which started in England at the very end of eighteenth century and later spread to the rest of Europe. At the heart of the argument was the idea that only the state is equipped to establish a centralized educational system for all citizens. Under current conditions, it was

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increasingly argued, such a system is necessary for maintaining political and social stability because every citizen has to learn what their duties are. Moreover, the establishment of such a system was perceived as the key to accelerating scientific progress and developing the economy. Only the state, it was held, can provide every person with a useful education that suits their abilities. Another central idea at the time, which was advanced by Jefferson, Condorcet, and many others, was that through education the most talented members of society can be identified, even among the lower classes, and be placed in positions where they best serve the public interest by advancing science or contributing to the economy (Rippa 1988). Finally, state education was seen as a powerful engine for social reforms. For example, Mary Wollstonecraft (1790/2014), seeking to establish equal rights for women, thought that a state education system is an essential ingredient for achieving these rights. Wollstonecraft’s proposed reforms were far-reaching, but also many of those seeking more limited reforms believed that a centralized state education system was needed. Nevertheless, not all contemporary thinkers shared the growing enthusiasm for state education. Especially in England and parts of the United States, where there was traditional mistrust of the state, strong objections to state education were voiced. Debating the role of the state in education, Joseph Priestley (1778) raised concerns that state control over education would lead to a standardization of education and therefore of people. Diversity and variety, he claimed, were essential for human progress, and, therefore, state education endangered this progress. In England, almost a century later, John Stuart Mill expressed similar views (Garforth 1980). Priestley also maintained that “to put the education into the hands of the civil magistrate … would be like fixing the dress of child, and forbidding its cloaths ever to be made wider or bigger” (1778: 145). Educational methods, Priestley held, must develop freely and in diverse ways, but entrusting education to one body, the state, would prevent such developments. The Welsh educational reformer and philosopher David Williams (1774) feared that education by the state would become an education for the state, placing the interest of the state as a body above that of the individual who composes it. Historically, Williams’s fears proved to be well founded, and the idea that education should be entrusted to the state developed, both in theory and in practice, into a demand for education that serves the narrow state interest. More will be said about this development when we discuss the reactions to the Enlightenment. Thus, while most educational thinkers, especially in continental Europe, supported state education, others were suspicious of it. Yet regardless of their particular position on this issue, during the Enlightenment people widely agreed that for political, economic, and social reasons all citizens should receive an education. As trivial as this idea might seem to us today, it was revolutionary at the time. When we look, however, at the specific education that was thought

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to be suitable for the vast majority of the population, “the limits of reform in the Enlightenment,” to borrow Harvey Chisick’s (1981) phrase, become evident. With very few exceptions, if any, the educational thinkers of the time maintained that people should receive an education that “is fitting to [their] place in society” (Chisick 1981: 274). For the lower classes this meant learning to read, write, do basic math, and, most significantly, become useful workers and loyal, docile citizens (Van Horn Melton 2003). This was thought to be true regardless of whether education was administrated by the state or another body. Disagreement, though, existed regarding the degree of social mobility that education should permit. Although some thinkers objected to any change in social standing, others, such as Diderot, Condorcet, and Jefferson, thought that in the name of social utility the talented members of the lower classes should be given more educational opportunities. During the French Revolution, Maximilien Robespierre and others even argued that children of all classes should study together in the first phases of education, but these ideas were quickly pushed aside (Palmer 1985). The educational philosophy of the nineteenth century, at least until the 1850s, did not bring a change of attitudes toward the education of the lower classes. As in the previous century, the upper and middle classes were still viewed as fundamentally different from the lower classes, who, even if not genetically different, were condemned by necessity to live a life of deprivation and hardship (Chisick 1981). Even the period’s most liberal thinkers, such as Alexis de Tocqueville and Mill, held that the lower classes should first learn to submit to authority (Villa 2017). Perhaps the general attitude toward the lower classes is best epitomized in the development of the monitorial system, which spread

FIGURE 0.4  Boys School 1839: Senior boys instructing their juniors, with toys hanging from the ceiling for good marks, at a school under Joseph Lancaster’s Monitorial System in the East End of London. (Photo by Rischgitz/Getty Images)

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in England, France, Germany, and the United States. According to this system, one teacher could teach more than 200 students by using more knowledgeable students as aids. What this system of education, which was constantly praised, aimed to do was to provide lower-class children with very basic skills, teach them discipline, and do it all at a very low cost (Mesquita 2012) (see Figure 0.4). When it came to the lower classes, then, the importance of the utilitarian tendencies of the Enlightenment and the boundaries of its liberating effects become evident. The same is true when women were discussed.

THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN The French author François Fénelon opened his 1687 book on the education of women by declaring, “Nothing is more neglected than the education of girls.” “People,” he continued, “imagine that this sex should be given little instruction” (Fénelon 1687/1966: 1). Fénelon himself offered a different approach. He argued that women should receive at home an education that prepared them for being capable mothers and running an estate or household. He maintained that the traditional curriculum for women, which included reading, religion, and needlework, should be extended to include useful subjects such as writing and mathematics. While Fénelon’s approach was quite conservative, and some of his contemporaries such as Poulain de Barre, Wolf Helmhard von Hohberg, and even Locke expressed more egalitarian views, his book played an important role in opening an enduring debate about the education of women (Jouslin 2012). This debate on education proved to be highly influential within a broader discussion about the status of women in society, which was known at the time as the “question of women” (Clinton 1975). Although the term “feminism” entered the English language in the second part of the nineteenth century, many of the issues that later came to be discussed under this label had already been raised during the Enlightenment. At the center of Enlightenment debate about women’s education stood some fundamental questions that still preoccupy educational philosophers today (Martin 1987). The first and probably most fundamental question regarding the education of women was how the sexes stand in relation to one another. For a long period in history, women were seen as inferior, even if they were not explicitly labeled as being so. In the Enlightenment, these views were still occasionally expressed, but even conservative thinkers tended to argue that men and women were equal though fundamentally different. The most renowned representative of this approach was Rousseau. According to Rousseau, nature made men and women dissimilar, with each gender having its relative advantages. He explains, for example, that men are good at understanding abstract truth and women at interpreting feeling (Jonas 2016). Rousseau basically held that ultimately nature destined men to be active and strong and women passive and submissive.3 Unlike

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many of his other views, Rousseau’s conception of women and their education was orthodox rather than innovative, in line with traditional writings on the subject (Petschauer 1986). Still, Rousseau’s views became highly influential. To begin with, many of his followers explicitly embraced them, especially during the French Revolution and its aftermath. In addition, they stirred harsh reactions, particularly from women philosophers, which transformed the nature of the debate (Trouille 1997). In 1774, Madame d’Epinay directly challenged Rousseau’s view that women are inferior to men in intellectual matters (Trouille 1997). In 1790, the English historian Catharine Macaulay dismissed the idea of sexual differences, stirring Mary Wollstonecraft to mount a devastating attack on Rousseau’s conception of women’s education (Frazer 2011). In Germany, Gottlieb von Hippel expressed similar views. These are, of course, just a few well-known examples from a much broader literature. At the heart of the attack on the orthodox view was the idea that, while in practice men might be intellectually superior to women, that superiority is due to their education and not their biology: the inadequate education provided to women prevents them from developing their capabilities, which potentially are equal to that of men. With the right education, it was held, women can become as reasonable as men. Strongly supporting this view were the rise of empiricism and the notion of the blank slate as the starting point for all education (as discussed in the section “Education based on the ‘science of man’”). The logical conclusion of empiricism was that all differences, including those between the sexes, come from the environment, and authors such as Macaulay were not afraid to draw that conclusion. While these ideas were not entirely new and were already raised by thinkers such as Locke and Helvétius, toward the end of the eighteenth century they were presented in a forceful and persuasive way. Moreover, they were accompanied by a demand for educational reform. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, it was increasingly argued that, if education rather than biology is the real cause of women’s supposed intellectual inferiority, then it has to be reformed. If the education of men is designed to develop reason and abstract thinking, then that of women should do so as well. We find in this period a growing number of authors, both male and female, asserting that the education provided to both sexes should be almost identical. Wollstonecraft (1790/2014) suggested, for example, that women should learn physics, mathematics, and philosophy. Some even argued that boys and girls should be instructed together. Few, nevertheless, challenged the accepted idea that women’s education should take place within a domestic setting. Even Macaulay and Maria Edgeworth, who were central supporters of the women’s cause, held that the education of girls should be domestic. Two notable exceptions to this were Wollstonecraft and Condorcet, who envisioned a state education system for men and women.

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Nevertheless, until the middle of the nineteenth century, when works such as those by Harriet Taylor Mill and John Stuart Mill appeared, calling for equality between the sexes, the idea that women should remain in the private sphere was rarely challenged. Even Wollstonecraft, whose ideas were often perceived as radical and even dangerous, did not question traditional sex roles (Martin 1987). At this stage of history, the plea to improve the education of women was supported by the idea that women have a right to fully develop their potential, not by a desire to emancipate women and change the social order (Taylor 1999). Here too, as in the case of the lower classes, there were limits to the Enlightenment reforms. During the Enlightenment and the early nineteenth century, the notion that women’s education should be broadened and improved became widely accepted, but during the Enlightenment and its aftermath women were still perceived primarily as mothers and household managers.

RESPONDING TO THE ENLIGHTENMENT The Enlightenment and its educational philosophy stirred counter reactions throughout their development, but in the first half of the nineteenth century these intensified. The effects of the French and industrial revolutions, which were associated by many with the Enlightenment, were felt everywhere and propelled many thinkers to take a critical stance toward the Enlightenment itself. Although such distinctions are never clear-cut, it is possible to divide the reactions to the Enlightenment in this period into two major strands: reactionary/conservative and romantic (Beiser and Edwards 2012). The two reactions had many features in common. Both reactions placed a renewed emphasis on religion and religious traditions (Löwy and Sayre 2002). Both looked into the past rather than the future for guidance (Mosse 1988), and both were skeptical of the new scientific approaches and their benefits. But while the conservatives sought to restore the pre-Enlightenment order and modes of thought, the Romantics sought to correct what they saw as the flaws and detrimental effects of the Enlightenment (Beiser and Edwards 2012). In this section, the emphasis will be placed on the ideas of the Romantics. Romanticism, like the Enlightenment, cannot be easily defined. It is conventionally held that Romanticism reached its peak in the first half of the nineteenth century but that its roots go back to the eighteenth; scholars also typically agree that its influence stretched well into the twentieth century. At its height, Romanticism was very popular and embraced by a larger variety of people than the Enlightenment ever was (Mosse 1988). Romanticism is often depicted as opposed to the Enlightenment. It is portrayed as stressing feelings and the imagination rather than reason and calculation, the particular rather than the universal, art and literature rather than science, and a return to nature

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rather than progress (Löwy and Sayre 2002). This portrayal has undoubtedly much truth in it, but it is also misleading. Romanticism was a highly complex movement that cannot be reduced to generalization, mainly since it was deeply influenced by the specific national context in which it emerged. Moreover, it is often not easy to draw the line between Enlightenment and Romantic thought. The clearest example of this is Rousseau, who is considered one of the greatest Enlightenment thinkers and simultaneously as the founding father of Romanticism. The same holds true in various other cases, like that of Pestalozzi. The difficulties surrounding the conceptualization of Romanticism, together with the limited scope of this chapter, do not permit a detailed exploration of the effect of Romanticism on educational thought. Here the focus will be on a number of selected issues that are educationally significant and with respect to which the ideas of Romanticism both are continuous and contrast with those of the Enlightenment. The first such issue is that of childhood. Since the publication of Philippe Ariès’s Centuries of Childhood (1962), there has been considerable disagreement among historians regarding the question of when a distinct conception of childhood first emerged, but there is no doubt that the concept went through significant changes during the Enlightenment and its aftermath (Cunningham 1995).4 Locke’s work played a significant role here. Locke presented children as malleable, relatively intelligent, and deserving of respect. Children, he argued, should be permitted to play and act like children, and the use of corporal punishment should be limited (Ezell 1983). This was innovative because, at the time, the prevalent view was that children were sinful and rebellious due to original sin. It was mostly suggested that the attitudes toward them should be autocratic and severe so they learn to subordinate themselves to authority (Richardson 2004) (see Figure 0.5). Despite Locke’s favorable view of childhood, however, it was for him not much more than a necessary stage on the way to adulthood. Children, he believed, have no innate sense of selfhood, and education should refrain from developing their imagination (Wolff 1998). Most of the Enlightenment educational philosophers adopted Locke’s views and focused on children’s malleability and their preparation for adulthood until Rousseau offered a new conception of childhood. Although Rousseau adopted an empiricist stance, he stressed the positive natural tendencies of children rather than their malleability. Depicting nature as inherently good, he thought that, since children are closer to childhood, this stage of life has a special significance. In contrast to most of his predecessors and contemporaries, Rousseau considered childhood to be a unique time of life to be enjoyed and not just a preparation for adulthood (Wolff 1998). He also held that human development takes place in stages, with each period of childhood having its distinctive characteristics. Education, he argued, must be adapted to developmental stages. It is hard to overestimate the importance of Rousseau’s conception of childhood and education. Rousseau’s idea that education must

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FIGURE 0.5  FRANCE—CIRCA 1866: “The surprised sleeper”, engraving according to a watercolour of A.H. Burr. 1866. (Photo by Roger Viollet Collection/Getty Images)

be adapted to children and not children to education became a cornerstone of modern educational philosophy. Moreover, his thought paved the way for the emergence of the idea that education should take into account not just children’s abilities but also their interests. While not all of his ideas discussed here were entirely original, Rousseau played a crucial role in developing and popularizing them. It was his conception of childhood, which went beyond the one that dominated mainstream Enlightenment thought, that opened the door for a whole new way of thinking about education (Howlett 2013). During the nineteenth century, Rousseau’s conception of childhood was developed further, especially by Romantic thinkers, such as William Wordsworth and William Blake, and by those influenced by Romanticism, such as Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi and Friedrich Fröbel. For Romantics thinkers, childhood was not just significant but often was conceived of as the most cherished period of life. Children were seen as guided by divine powers, which made them superior to adults (Richardson 2004). Children were also increasingly portrayed as innocent, uncorrupted, and, therefore, inherently good. Education was, consequently, seen by many Romantics as having to find ways to preserve and protect this inherent goodness rather than mold the child into a new form (see Figure 0.6). Another influential contribution of Romanticism was in highlighting and examining the relationship between childhood and adulthood (Cunningham 1995). “The child,” Wordsworth

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famously wrote in 1802, “is father of the man” (1820: 3). For numerous Romantics, the answers to the questions of who we are and what we become are set in childhood, and education is consequently of tremendous importance. Finally, the Romantics placed an emphasis on what is special and unique in every child. The Enlightenment philosophers (even Rousseau) focused on what children have in common while the Romantics cherished individual differences. “In every human being,” wrote Fröbel, “there lies and lives humanity as a whole; but in each one it is realized and expressed in a wholly particular, peculiar, personal, unique manner; and it should be exhibited in each individual human being in this wholly peculiar, unique manner” (1826/1908: 18). Our modern conception of childhood and education, then, owes a great deal to Rousseau but also the Romantics. In an age of high-stakes testing, we sometimes forget that childhood has intrinsic importance and that children differ from each other. Although few today overtly reject these ideas, in practice we place the emphasis on preparation for the future while neglecting the present and judge all children according to a single measuring rod rather than celebrate personal differences, as did the Romantics. The Romantics and those influenced by them not only recognized the importance of individual difference in children but also strove to develop the unique potential of every individual. Motivated primarily by religious or artistic conceptions, a growing number of nineteenth-century educational thinkers

FIGURE 0.6  Summer joy (Children playing in a field), painting by Ernestine Friedrichsen (1824–1892), woodcut by R Jericke from Moderne Kunst (Modern Art), illustrated magazine published by Richard Bong, 1892, Year VI, No 23, Berlin. (via Getty Images)

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argued that the scientific outlook and Enlightenment rationalism are limited and can never capture human nature in its entirety (Morrow 2011). Humans, they held, have more facets to them than assumed by Enlightenment thinkers. As a result, the concepts of human betterment, fulfillment, or perfection reemerged but, in contrast with the past, personal differences were glorified. For many educational thinkers, the aim became cultivating each person’s individuality alongside their common humanity. An important indication of this change is that, while the Enlightenment thinkers, including Rousseau, saw the development of the imagination as unimportant or even dangerous, Romantic thinkers attributed a crucial educational importance to it (Shuffelton 2012). In early nineteenth-century educational philosophy, the idea of developing individuality took various forms, as is demonstrated in the work of American Transcendentalists such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, in European Romanticism, and especially in the German conception of Bildung. In practice, it meant that art, literature, religion, and even ancient languages received a renewed significance because they were viewed as an essential ingredient for human betterment and the formation of individuality. In Wilhelm von Humboldt’s conception of Bildung, for example, exposure to ancient texts and art forms was seen as necessary for fully developing one’s unique potentialities. For von Humboldt, it was the meeting between the subject and cultural object that enables individuality to flourish, and education, he held, must promote such encounters (Seigel 2005). Von Humboldt’s conception of individuality and human betterment, like that of many others, conflicted with many Enlightenment beliefs but still took the individual as the basis of education. For von Humboldt, human betterment remained a personal endeavor (Seigel 2005). Other thinkers in the nineteenth century, however, especially in Germany, took the ideas of human betterment in a completely new direction that would have a profound impact on educational theory. Following the work of Johann Gottfried Herder and Johann Fichte, some scholars argued that the full development of human potentialities can only take place within organic communities (Morrow 2011). Individuals cannot fulfill their powers in isolation, and thus individual perfection demands communal perfection (Jonas 2013; Kivelä 2012). Identifying the community with the state,  Fichte claimed that, to develop the full potentialities of individuals, the state must take control of education and prepare students for its service (Turnbull 1937). For him, the state was a natural entity responsible for the development of culture and hence the ultimate object of education. In his thought, education and the individuals become subordinated to the state in the name of individuality and human perfection. Fichte’s conception of state education, it is important to stress, is far removed from that of the Enlightenment. Many Enlightenment thinkers supported state education and even argued that the state has the right and duty to prepare

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people for its service. For Enlightenment thinkers, including Rousseau, the state has no natural existence and is a mechanism aimed at protecting individual interests. For Herder, Fichte, and their followers, in contrast, the state was an organic entity that reflected common culture, aspirations, and sentiments, which stem from a common history and language. We find here the seeds of cultural nationalism that would have a profound influence not only on history but also on educational philosophy in the centuries to come. It would often clash with Enlightenment educational thought in a struggle that is still ongoing.

CONCLUSION During the Enlightenment our current view of education, especially as manifested on the policy level, first took shape. The view that education is a tool for social reform, the persuasion that education must be established on a scientific basis, the notion of state education, the demand for mass education, and many other fundamental convictions we now almost take for granted are direct products of the Enlightenment. It was the Enlightenment that set the framework in which most current educational debates take place. Moreover, it was Enlightenment ideas that inspired the rise of state systems of education that still play a significant role in determining how education is conducted and perceived today. At the heart of Enlightenment thought about education, however, is a tension that has remained unresolved to the present day. The Enlightenment commitment to increasing human happiness through education took two, and often conflicting, shapes. The first was the desire to augment directly the happiness of each and every individual by equipping them with the tools to become happy. We find here the grains of liberating and equalizing educational tendencies, even if they did not always take this form during the Enlightenment itself. The commitment to raising each individual’s happiness is easily turned into a demand that education should benefit members of marginalized groups such as women, children, and the lower classes. The second shape that the commitment to increasing happiness took was an endeavor to secure the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Here the idea of social efficiency dominates. Education becomes a tool for technological advances, economic flourishing, efficient social organization, and life that is more comfortable. Each of the two approaches, it is important to stress, has marked advantages, and the benefits of the latter approach should not be underestimated. In the philosophy of education, the good of the individual has remained center stage. The most famous philosophers of education from the period discussed here—Locke, Rousseau, Pestalozzi, Fröbel, and Emerson—all stressed individual development. Historically, nevertheless, it was approaches oriented toward achieving social utility that took the upper hand in education. The

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present organization of the educational systems, the curriculum that is taught, and the way schools are built are mostly designed to serve social utility and place relatively little emphasis on individual happiness. It is no coincidence that the largest educational expansion took place in the time in which nation-states took control of education. The Enlightenment, then, leaves us with dual legacies. Individual development and social efficiency frequently coincide, but they as often conflict with each other (Kitcher 2009). Today, like in the Enlightenment when the dual legacies first emerged, we need to find the right balance between them. In addition, regardless of which of the two approaches was embraced, the Enlightenment thinkers held that education should remain committed to augmenting the good of individuals. At present, this is rarely the case, as other aims often take precedence in education. What were for most Enlightenment thinkers simply means for increasing happiness, such as economic progress, technological advances, and increased state power, have currently become educational ends in themselves. These ends, however, are still closely associated with the Enlightenment because many of its critics view them as an inevitable trajectory of the Enlightenment ideas. These critics focus on what the Enlightenment has become rather than what it was. To distinguish between the Enlightenment and its outcomes, however, we need to go back to history and reexamine the Enlightenment educational philosophy when it was founded. This is what this volume attempts to do. When viewed historically, the Enlightenment project of increasing happiness and the quality of life through education is an incomplete one that has strayed in different directions along the way. Seen from this perspective, and especially in light of current realities, it becomes clear that the Enlightenment might still have much to offer and that its continuation could be in our best interest. Finally, even if we choose to align ourselves with the Enlightenment’s educational ideas, they should not be uncritically embraced. As historical research has shown, not all Enlightenment ideas are worthy—far from it. Furthermore, the reality in which the Enlightenment took place is not our own. While many of the ends set in the Enlightenment are still valid today, the means through which Enlightenment educators sought to achieve them rarely are. We face problems they could not even imagine, such as increased pollution, and have overcome, at least in developed countries, some of their most pressing concerns, such as extreme scarcity. Those who sympathize with the Enlightenment and its ideas are, therefore, required to rethink what continuing it means for education today. To do so effectively, I believe, demands that we reexamine those ideas first, that we comprehend better what the educationalists of the period attempted to do, that we understand why they envisioned education in the way they did. It is worth going back to the Enlightenment’s educational ideas, then, not only to understand how we got to where we are now but also

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to consider where we should head next. This volume takes us into one of the most fascinating, influential, and challenging periods in the development of educational philosophy.

AN OVERVIEW OF THIS VOLUME The introduction to this volume has attempted to provide an overview of the key developments that took place in educational theory during the Enlightenment period and its aftermath. The next seven chapters of this volume offer a more in-depth analysis of the most central and influential educational philosophers and intellectual movements that shaped this period. All chapters focus on educational philosophy, but they were written from a variety of perspectives representing the different backgrounds and intellectual traditions embraced by the authors. Researching and writing about past philosophies are not easy tasks and can be approached in several ways. Most notably, educational philosophers and historians, which are the main two groups contributing to this volume, differ in where they place the emphasis of their investigation. Philosophers of education tend to view the arguments of past philosophers as timeless (Depaepe and Smeyers 2007). They often see philosophers as participating in one long conversation over the ages (Tröhler 2007). They tend to take the claims and ideas of past authors out of their historical context and focus on the truth value of their claims. It is not surprising that they are prone to write about past philosophers in the present tense. Historians, on the other hand, focus on the context in which the philosophies developed and are troubled by the gap between the past and the present. They tend to see the arguments of philosophers as belonging to a specific place and time and not as part of a lasting conversation. They, therefore, seek to ground the discussions of past philosophies within the specific intellectual or social condition in which they emerged (Depaepe 2007). Like in the rest of the series, in this volume, as will be soon made clear when each chapter is presented, the philosophical approach is dominant in the majority of cases. Nevertheless, an effort has been made in all chapters to combine historical and philosophical elements, although to different degrees. Let us see, then, what lies ahead. Chapter 1 examines the educational philosophy of John Locke. Although Locke is primarily renowned for his contributions to epistemology and political philosophy, his work has had a lasting influence on the development of educational thought. Both Locke’s educational writings and his more general philosophical books were widely read and known during the Enlightenment and served as an important reference point for other educationalists. In Locke’s philosophy, we find not only a novel theory of learning and the mind that had tremendous influence but also an educational perspective that incorporated new attitudes toward religion, morality, children, and women. Locke’s philosophy,

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then, is an excellent starting point for the examination of the Enlightenment’s educational philosophy since it marks a significant turn in educational thought. In Chapter 1, “Locke on Education,” Lisa McNulty offers a holistic reading of Locke’s epistemological and educational writings. She begins the chapter by discussing Locke’s rejection of the view that people are born with innate ideas. She also explains Locke’s reasons for this rejection and highlights its implications. McNulty then moves on to examine Locke’s theory of learning and how it relates to his proposed curriculum and methods of instruction. Next, the chapter turns to Locke’s conception of moral education, which is not as well known as his epistemology but still played a very significant role in the development of the Enlightenment’s educational ideas. The chapter ends by tracing Locke’s influence on subsequent educationalists, primarily in the British Isles. McNulty also shows that his influence extended beyond philosophy to poetry and the popular press. Chapter 2 is devoted to the most famous, influential, insightful, and controversial educational philosopher of the Enlightenment period and perhaps of the whole of history: Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Rousseau was well acquainted with Locke’s ideas and incorporated some of them into his writings, but he took educational thought in an entirely new direction. Since its publication, Rousseau’s educational philosophy had such an immense impact that, by now, it has been examined and analyzed from almost every possible direction. Summarizing Rousseau’s contribution to educational philosophy within the scope of a single chapter is, therefore, a very challenging task, which is taken up here by Amos Hofman. In Chapter 2, “Rousseau’s Philosophy of Education,” Hofman not only introduces the most central aspects of Rousseau’s educational philosophy but also points to the many tensions and contradictions pervading it, such as the one between freedom and control. In the first part of the chapter, he places emphasis on Rousseau’s dual educational aim of forming a man and a citizen. The second part of the chapter discusses Rousseau’s conception of family relationships, his views on the education of women, and connections between these ideas. The last part of the chapter critically examines Rousseau’s educational legacy and highlights its mixed reception. Hofman concludes, however, that even if Rousseau’s ideas are not embraced, Rousseau should still be read since his writing aimed to inspire, something it can still do today. Chapter 3 investigates the educational ideas of the French Enlightenment. In the current academic literature, the fact is often overlooked that, around the same time in which Rousseau published his ideas, other French thinkers also made a lasting contribution to education. Although Rousseau reacted to their theories and many of them commented on his, most French thinkers at the time drew much more heavily on Locke. In many ways, the educational ideas of prominent thinkers in the French Enlightenment can be seen as a direct continuation and development of Lockean conceptions. In Chapter 3,

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“Educational Legacies of the French Enlightenment,” Grace G. Roosevelt refers to many thinkers who wrote on education but focuses on three key philosophers: Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, Claude Adrien Helvétius, and Nicolas de Caritat Marquis de Condorcet. After presenting their main ideas, she shows that each of them played a central role in the development of educational philosophy. She links Condillac to the emergence of new theories of learning based on the senses, Helvétius to concepts of educational equality and a strong belief in the power of education, and Condorcet to the idea of free public instruction for all. Many crucial elements in our existing educational system, Roosevelt argues, can be traced back to the French Enlightenment in general and to the thought of the three philosophers examined in the chapter in particular. Chapter 4 explores the spread of educational ideas in the eighteenth-century German-speaking world. The German-speaking world is a compelling case in point. On the one hand, there are evident similarities between development in it and the rest of the enlightened world. Many of the general educational trends discussed in the Introduction are apparent in it. On the other hand, the Germanspeaking world also gives rise to unique educational philosophies that have no clear parallel outside it, such as Pietism and Bildung. In her chapter, “German Educational Thought: Religion, Rationalism, Philanthropinism, and Bildung,” Rebekka Horlacher maps and analyzes the principal educational movements in the eighteenth-century German world. Unlike the authors of the other chapters, she does not concentrate on specific thinkers and instead provides a broad and contextualized picture of the German-speaking educational thought of the time. The four main movements she identifies are education in Pietism, which was a contemporary strand of Christianity; an education that was based on the rationalistic philosophies of the time and stresses reason and virtue; philanthropinism and other enlightened trends that emphasized social utility and resemble French trends; and Bildung, a unique German idea that places cultural and individual development at its center. The chapter recounts the main ideas of these trends and grounds them historically. It does not, however, attempt to trace their subsequent influence since the author believes that educational ideas should not be taken outside of their historical context. Chapter 5 remains in the German-speaking world but moves forward in time into the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth. It concentrates on the works of three of the most well-known educational philosophers of the time: Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, Johann Friedrich Herbart, and Friedrich Fröbel. In their thought, the growing influence of Rousseau is clearly felt, and they respond to it and develop his ideas. They also go beyond the Enlightenment and advance some conceptions that can be regarded as Romantic. In his chapter, “Philosophies of Education ‘in Action’: Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, Johann Friedrich Herbart, and Friedrich Fröbel,” Jürgen Oelkers draws a close link between the three thinkers’ personal experiences

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and their educational philosophies. He shows how Pestalozzi’s reputation as a caring and loving educator was built through his writings and theories but argues that his deeds were not always in accordance with his theoretical framework. He then examines Herbart’s unique pedagogy, which was deduced from its direct link to morality. In contrast to most thinkers, Oelkers maintains, Herbart viewed  pedagogy as standing on its own and not an extension of practical philosophy, psychology, or politics. Next, Oelkers investigates the life and work of Fröbel, explaining how, despite the lack of appeal of his educational writings, Fröbel was able to create an educational institution that still thrives today and continues to operate along almost the same lines that he laid out: the kindergarten. Finally, the chapter briefly discusses the educational legacy of the three thinkers. Chapter 6 takes us back to the subject of the education of women, which was discussed earlier in this Introduction. In contrast to the approach taken in the Introduction, Katy Dineen places the focus on the ideas of two specific thinkers: Mary Wollstonecraft and Harriet Taylor Mill. Among the many thinkers who wrote on the subject of women’s education, these two were chosen not only because they were relatively innovative and radical but also because they made a significant contribution to the development of feminism in general and ideas on how women should be educated in particular. In her chapter, “Mary Wollstonecraft and Harriet Taylor Mill on Women, Education, and Gender Socialization,” Dineen emphasizes the question of gender socialization. She opens the chapter with Wollstonecraft’s sharp criticism of the existing education of women and traces its origins. She then moves on to describe Wollstonecraft’s own view of gender socialization and the education it requires. Dineen also points to the limitations of Wollstonecraft’s views. Next, Dineen discusses the ideas of Harriet Taylor Mill, showing how she goes beyond Wollstonecraft and develops a more radical conception of women’s education. The chapter ends by connecting the work of the two thinkers to current realities. Dineen argues that we still have much to learn from the work of the two thinkers examined in her chapter. Chapter 7, the final chapter of the volume, studies developments on the other side of the Atlantic. American thinkers, such as Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, took, as can be seen in the Introduction, an active part in the Enlightenment’s educational debates from an early stage. A genuinely distinct strand of educational philosophy emerged in the United States, however, only with the work of the transcendentalists around the middle of the nineteenth century. Some similarities can be found between transcendental and Romantic ideas and between the views underlying transcendental philosophy and the German concept of Bildung. Transcendentalism, however, stands on its own and has some unique features. In her chapter, “Teachings of Uncommon Schooling: American Transcendentalism and Education in Emerson, Thoreau,

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and Fuller,” Naoko Saito delves deep into the educational philosophies of three key figures associated with American transcendentalism: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Margaret Fuller. She maintains that, to understand their thought, we must think of education in the broadest terms possible and go far beyond the concept of schooling. Saito investigates central elements in the philosophies of the three, such as Emerson’s idea of moral perfectionism, Thoreau’s concepts of nature and language, and Fuller’s notions of the feminine voice and conversation. She also links these ideas to their views of education. In the final part of her chapter, Saito persuasively maintains that transcendentalism has rich implications for education today and especially for political education. Each of the chapters in this volume can be read on its own. For those interested in the specific topics dealt with, the chapters provide an excellent introduction to the topics and can also serve as a starting point for becoming acquainted with the more specialized literature on their respective subjects. Read together, however, the chapters provide a comprehensive historical and philosophical overview of one of the most exciting periods in the development of educational thought. They can shed important light and stimulate reflection not only on the past but also on the present and future.

NOTES 1 2 3 4

For more on the idea of human betterment before the Enlightenment, see Volumes 1 and 2, this series. For more on Dewey’s educational philosophy, see Waks, Chapter 1, Volume 4, this series. For more on Rousseau’s view of the education of women and its influence see Hofman, Chapter 2, this volume. For more on conceptions of childhood in educational philosophy, see BurdickShepherd, Chapter 6, Volume 4, and Gregory, Chapter 6, Volume 5, this series.

REFERENCES Primary sources Bacon, Francis (1620/1960), “The New Organon or True Directions Concerning the Interpretation of Nature,” in The New Organon and Related Writings, ed. H.A. Fulton, 33–268, New York: Macmillan Publishing Company. Bentham, Jeremy (1812), Chrestomathia (Collected Works of Jeremy Bentham series), ed. M.J. Smith, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brown, John (1765), Thoughts on Civil Liberty, on Licentiousness and Faction, London: J. White and T. Saint. Buffier, C. (1726), Traite de la Société Civile et Du Moyen de se Rendre Heureux en Contribuant au bonheur des Personnes Avec Qui l’on Vit, Vols. 1–2, Paris: Chez Briasson.

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Condorcet, Marie J.A.N. (1792), “Rapport et Projet de Décret sur l’Organisation Générale de l’Instruction Publique,” in Bronislaw Baczko (ed.), Une Éducation pour la Démocratie: Textes et Projets de L’ Époque Révolutionnaire, 181–261, Geneva: Droz. Crevier, Jean Baptiste Louis (1762), De l’Education Publique, Amsterdam. Descartes, René (1637/1957), A Discourse on Method, trans J. Vetich, London: J.M. Dent & Sons. Diderot, Denis (1775/1932), “Plan for a Russian University,” in F. Fontainerie (ed.), French Liberalism and Education in the Eighteenth Century: The Writings of La Chalotais, Turgot, Diderot, and Condorcet on National Education, 199–310, London: McGraw. Fénelon, François S. (1687/1966), “The Education of Girls,” in H.C. Barnard (ed.), Fénelon on Education, 1–97, London: Cambridge University Press. Fordyce, David (1757/1996), Dialogues Concerning Education, Vol. 1, London: Routledge. Fröbel, Friedrich (1826/1908), The Education of Man, trans. W.N. Hailmann, New York: Appleton. Guyton De Morveau, L.B. (1764), Mémoire sur l’Education Publique: Avec le Prospectus d’un Collège. Helvétius, Claude Adrien (1758/1807), De l’esprit or Essays on the Mind, trans. W. Mudford, London: M. Jones. Ignatius (1556/1933), “The Constitution of the Society of Jesus,” trans. M.H. Mayer, in F.A. Edward (ed.), St. Ignatius and the Ratio Studiorum, 49–118, London: Hill Company. La Chalotais, Louis-René (1762/1932), “Essay on National Education,” in F. Fontainerie (ed.), French Liberalism and Education in the Eighteenth Century: The Writings of La Chalotais, Turgot, Diderot, and Condorcet on National Education, 40–169, London: McGraw. Locke, John (1690/1979), An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Locke, John (1693/1989), Some Thoughts Concerning Education, ed. J.W. Yolton and J.S. Yolton, London: Clarendon Press. Mandeville, Bernard (1723), “An Essay on Charity and Charity-Schools,” in A Fable of the Bees or Private Vices, Publick Benefits with an Essay on Charity and CharitySchools and A Search into the Nature of Society, 285–370, London: J. Tonson. Morelly, Étienne-Gabriel (1745/1970), Essai sure le Coeur Humain ou Principes Naturels de L’Education, Paris: Delespine. Philipon, Louis (1783), Vue Patriotique sur l’Education du Peuple, Lyon: Bruyset – Ponthus. Priestley, Joseph (1778), Miscellaneous Observations Relating to Education: More Especially As It Respects the Conduct of the Mind, Birmingham: M. Swinney. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762/2001), Emile, or On Education, trans. B. Foxley, London: Everyman. Saint Pierre, C.I. (1728), Projet pour Perfectionner L’Education: Avec Un Discoure sur la sainteté Des Hommes, Paris: Chez Briasson. Smith, Adam (1776/1999), An Inquiry into the Wealth of Nations, London: Penguin Books. Spencer, Herbert (1861), Education: Intellectual, Moral and Physical, London: Manwaring.

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Talleyrand-Périgord, Charles M. (1791), “Rapport sur l’Instruction Publique,” in Bronislaw Baczko (ed.), Une Éducation pour la Démocratie: Textes et Projets de L’ Époque Révolutionnaire, 107–73, Geneva: Dorz. Turnbull, George (1742), Observation upon Liberal Education: In All Its Branches, London: A. Millar. Williams, David (1774), Treatise on Education, London: Payne. Wollstonecraft, Mary (1790/2014), A Vindication of the Rights of Women, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wordsworth, William (1820), “My Heart Leaps Up,” in Miscellaneous Poem of William Wordsworth, Vol. 1, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown.

Secondary sources Albertan-Coppola, Sylviane and Catherine Porter (2002), “Counter-Enlightenment,” Alan C. Kors (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, 307, New York: Oxford University Press. Alexander, Hanan A. (2001), Reclaiming Goodness: Education and the Spiritual Quest, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Ariès, Philippe (1962), Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life, London: Jonathan Cape. Ballinger, Stanley E. (1959), “The Idea of Social Progress through Education in the French Enlightenment Period: Helvetius and Condorcet,” History of Education Journal, 10: 88–99. Barnett, Stephen J. (2018), The Enlightenment and Religion: The Myths of Modernity, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Beiser, F.C. and P. Edwards (2012), “Philosophical Responses to the French Revolution,” in A.W. Wood and S.S. Hahn (eds.), The Cambridge History of Philosophy in the Nineteenth Century (1790–1870), 601–22, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boyd, William (1966), The History of Western Education, London: Adam & Charles Black. Brick, Blanche (2005), “Changing Concepts of Equal Educational Opportunity: A Comparison of the Views of Thomas Jefferson, Horace Mann and John Dewey,” American Educational History Journal, 32: 166. Chisick, Harvey (1981), The Limits of Reform in the Enlightenment: Attitudes toward the Education of the Lower Classes in Eighteenth-Century France, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Clinton, Katherine B. (1975), “Femme et philosophe: Enlightenment Origins of Feminism,” Eighteenth Century Studies, 8: 283–99. Cremin, Lawrence A. (1974), American Education: The Colonial Experience 1607– 1783, New York: Harper & Row. Cunningham, Hugh (1995), Children and Childhood in Western Society since 1500, London: Longman. DeBoer, George (2019), A History of Ideas in Science Education, New York: Teachers College Press. Depaepe, Marc (2007), “Philosophy and History of Education: Time to Bridge the Gap?,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 39: 28–43. Depaepe, Marc and Paul Smeyers (2007), “On Historicized Meanings and Being Conscious about One’s Own Theoretical Premises: A Basis for a Renewed Dialogue

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between History and Philosophy of Education?,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 39: 3–9. Domenech, Jacques (1989), L’Éthique des Lumières: Les Fondements de la morale dans la philosophie française du XVIII siècle, Paris: Vrin. Edelstein, Dan (2010), The Enlightenment: A Genealogy, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Emberley, Peter (1985), “Rousseau and the Management of the Passions,” Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy, 13: 151–76. Ezell, Margaret J.M. (1983), “John Locke’s Images of Childhood: Early Eighteenth Century Response to Some Thoughts Concerning Education,” Eighteenth Century Studies, 17: 139–55. Fleischacker, Samuel (2013), What Is Enlightenment?, Abingdon: Routledge. Frazer, Elizabeth (2011), “Mary Wollstonecraft and Catharine Macaulay on Education,” Oxford Review of Education, 37: 603–17. Garforth, Francis William (1980), Educative Democracy: John Stuart Mill on Education in Society, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gay, Peter (1966), The Enlightenment an Interpretation: The Rise of Modern Paganism, New York: Alfred A Knopf. Gilead, Tal (2009a), “On Pliability and Progress: Challenging Current Conceptions of Eighteenth-Century French Educational Thought,” London Review of Education, 7: 101–12. Gilead, Tal (2009b), “Progress or Stability? An Historical Approach to a Central Question for Moral Education,” Journal of Moral Education, 38: 93–107. Gilead, Tal (2011a), “The Provenances of Economic Theory’s Impact on Education: French Educational Thought at the End of the ancien régime,” Educational Theory, 61: 55–73. Gilead, Tal (2011b), “The Role of Education Redefined: 18th Century British and French Educational Thought and the Rise of the Baconian Conception of the Study of Nature,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 43: 1020–34. Gill, Natasha (2010), Educational Philosophy in the French Enlightenment: From Nature to Second Nature, Farnham: Ashgate. Grandière, Marcel (1998), L’idéal Pédagogique en France au Dix-Huitième Siècle, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Green, Andy (1990), Education and State Formation, New York: St. Martin’s Press. Gullace, Giovanni (1993), “On the Moral Conception of the Enlightenment,” Journal of Value Inquiry, 27: 391–402. Hand, Michael (2003), “A Philosophical Objection to Faith Schools,” Theory and Research in Education, 1: 89–99. Hanley, Ryan Patrick (2011), “Educational Theory and the Social Vision of the Scottish Enlightenment,” Oxford Review of Education, 37: 587–602. Harrison, Peter (2002), “Original Sin and the Problem of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 63: 239–59. Harvery, V.A. (2012), “Challenges to Religion in the Nineteenth Century,” in A.W. Wood and S.S. Hahn (eds.), Cambridge History of Philosophy in the Nineteenth Century (1790–1870), 521–44, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haydon, Graham, ed. (2011), Faith in Education: A Tribute to Terrence McLaughlin, London: Taylor & Francis. Henry, John (2001), The Scientific Revolution and the Origins of Modern Science, New York: Palgrave.

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Horkheimer, Max and Theodor W Adorno (2002), Dialectic of Enlightenment, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Howlett, John (2013), Progressive Education: A Critical Introduction, London: Bloomsbury. Hurd, Paul DeHart (1998), “Scientific Literacy: New Minds for a Changing World,” Science Education, 82: 407–16. Israel, Jonathan (2006), “Enlightenment! Which Enlightenment?,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 67: 523–45. Israel, Jonathan (2013), Democratic Enlightenment: Philosophy, Revolution, and Human Rights 1750–1790, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Itzkin, Elissa S. (1978), “Bentham’s Chrestomathia: Utilitarian Legacy to English Education,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 39: 303–16. Jacob, Margaret C. (1988), The Cultural Meaning of the Scientific Revolution, Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Jonas, Mark E. (2013), “Fichte, Freedom, and Dogmatism,” Idealistic Studies, 43: 185–205. Jonas, Mark E. (2016), “Rousseau on Sex-Roles, Education and Happiness,” Studies in Philosophy and Education, 35: 145–61. Jones, F.J. (1982), “Prolegomena to a History of Happiness in the Eighteenth Century,” French-American Review, 6: 283–95. Jouslin, Claire Boulard (2012), “Conservative or Reformer?: The History and Fortune of Fenelon’s Traite de l’Education des filles in Eighteenth-Century England,” Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies, 12: 48–77. Julia, Dominique (1990), “ENFANCE ET CITOYENNETÉ: Bilan historiographique et perspectives de recherches sur l’éducation et l’enseignement pendant la période révolutionnaire,” Histoire de l’éducation, 45: 3–42. Julia, Dominique (2006), “Christian Education,” in Stewart J. Brown and Timothy Tackett (eds.), The Cambridge History of Christianity: Enlightenment, Rewakening and Revolution 1660–1815, 147–65, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kallich, Martin (1970), The Association of Ideas and Critical Theory in EighteenthCentury England: A History of a Psychological Method in English Criticism, The Hague: Mouton. Kitcher, Philip (2009), “Education, Democracy, and Capitalism,” in Harvey Siegel (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Education, 300–19, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kivelä, Ari (2012), “From Immanuel Kant to Johann Gottlieb Fichte: Concept of Education and German Idealism,” in Theories of Bildung and Growth, 59–86, Lieden: Brill Sense. Löwy, Michael and Robert Sayre (2002), Romanticism against the Tide of Modernity, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lucas, Christopher J. (1971), Our Western Educational Heritage, New York: Macmillan. Luxembourg, Lilo K. (1967), Francis Bacon and Denis Diderot: Philosophers of Science, Haderslev: Humanities Press. Martin, Jane R. (1987), Reclaiming a Conversation: The Ideal of the Educated Woman, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Mercer, Gordon E. (1993), “Thomas Jefferson: A Bold Vision for American Education,” International Social Science Review, 68 (1): 19–25.

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Mesquita, Leopoldo (2012), “The Lancasterian Monitorial System As an Education Industry with a Logic of Capitalist Valorisation,” Paedagogica Historica, 48: 661–75. Meyer, Michel and Robert F Barsky (2000), Philosophy and the Passions: Toward a History of Human Nature, University Park: Penn sylvania State University Press. Meyers, Robert G. (2014), Understanding Empiricism, Abingdon: Routledge. Morrow, John (2011), “Romanticism and Political Thought in the Early Nineteenth Century,” in G. Stedman Jones and G. Claeys (eds.), The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Political Thought, 39–76, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mosse, George (1988), The Culture of Western Europe: The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, London: Westview Press. O’Donnell, Margaret G. (1985), The Educational Thought of the Classical Political Economists, New York: University Press of America. O’Neal, John C. (2008), The Authority of Experience: Sensationist Theory in the French Enlightenment, University Park: Penn sylvania State University Press. OECD (2001), The Well-Being of Nations: The Role of Human and Social Capital. Education and Skills, Paris: OECD. Pagden, Anthony (2013), The Enlightenment: And Why It Still Matters, New York: Random House. Palmer, Robert R. (1985), The Improvement of Humanity: Education and the French Revolution, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Parry, G. (2006), “Education,” in K. Haakonssen (ed.), The Cambridge History of Eighteenth-Century Philosophy, 608–38, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Petschauer, Peter (1986), “Eighteenth-Century German Opinions about Education for Women,” Central European History, 19: 262–92. Poggi, Gianfranco (1982), “The Modern State and the Idea of Progress,” in G.A. Almond and M. Chodrow (eds.), Progress and Its Discontents, 337–60, London: University of California Press. Porter, Roy (2001), Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World, London: Penguin. Porter, Roy and Mikulas Teich, eds. (1981), The Enlightenment in National Context, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reed, Terence James (2015), Light in Germany: Scenes from an Unknown Enlightenment, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Reisner, Edward H. (1922), Nationalism and Education since 1789: A Social and Political History of Modern Education, New York: Macmillan. Richardson, Alan (2004), Literature, Education, and Romanticism: Reading As Social Practice, 1780–1832, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rippa, S Alexander (1988), Education in a Free Society: An American History, New York: Longman Publishing Group. Rorty, Amélie Oksenberg (1982), “From Passions to Emotions and Sentiments,” Philosophy, 57: 159–72. Rothschild, E. (1998), “Condorcet and Adam Smith in Education and Instruction,” in Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Philosophers on Education: Historical Perspectives, 209–26, London: Routledge. Seigel, Jerrold (2005), The Idea of the Self: Thought and Experience in Western Europe since the Seventeenth Century, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Shovlin, John (2007), The Political Economy of Virtue: Luxury, Patriotism, and the Origins of the French Revolution, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Shuffelton, Amy B. (2012), “Rousseau’s Imaginary Friend: Childhood, Play, and Suspicion of the Imagination in Emile,” Educational Theory, 62: 305–21. Taylor, Barbara (1999), “Feminism and the Enlightenment 1650–1850,” History Workshop Journal, 47: 261–72. Tomlinson, Stephen (1996), “From Rousseau to Evolutionism: Herbert Spencer on the Science of Education,” History of Education, 25: 235–54. Tröhler, Daniel (2007), “Philosophical Arguments, Historical Contexts, and Theory of Education,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 39: 10–19. Trouille, Mary S. (1997), Sexual Politics in the Enlightenment: Women Writers Read Rousseau, New York: SUNY Press. Turnbull, George Henry (1937), “The Changes in Fichte’s Attitude Toward State Intervention in Education,” International Journal of Ethics, 47: 234–43. Uglow, Jenny (2003), The Lunar Men: Five Friends Whose Curiosity Changed the World, London: Faber and Faber. Van Horn Melton, James (2003), Absolutism and the Eighteenth-Century Origins of Compulsory Schooling in Prussia and Austria, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Villa, Dana (2017), Teachers of the People: Political Education in Rousseau, Hegel, Tocqueville, and Mill, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Withers, Charles W.J. (2008), Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wolff, Larry (1998), “When I Imagine a Child: The Idea of Childhood and the Philosophy of Memory in the Enlightenment,” Eighteenth-Century Studies, 31: 377–401. Wolterstorff, N. (1994), “Locke’s Philosophy of Religion,” in V. Chappell (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Locke, 172–98, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wood, Neal (1992), “Tabula Rasa, Social Environmentalism, and the ‘English Paradigm’,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 53: 647–68.

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CHAPTER ONE

Locke on Education LISA MCNULTY

John Locke (1632–1704) is known for his considerable contributions to epistemology and political philosophy as well as to the philosophy of education. The last of these does not initially seem the most significant. A reader who focused only on Locke’s most straightforwardly educational text might be forgiven for the belief that his contribution to the field was as modest as the title Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693) suggests. The original intention behind the text was indeed modest. Based on letters written by Locke to his friends Mr. and Mrs. Edward Clark, Some Thoughts primarily provides practical advice about the physical and moral care of a boy who will become a gentleman and includes a briefly outlined academic curriculum almost as an afterthought. Locke was reticent to publish the text publicly, doing so only after being encouraged by William Molyneux, and initially the text was published anonymously. Yet, by the early eighteenth century, the educational writings of John Locke were “practically biblical” (Pickering 1981: 9). Not only did Locke inspire later educationalists (including Rousseau), novelists, and even poets (despite Locke’s distaste for the art), but his ideas also became a mainstay of eighteenth-century children’s writers, who wore their Lockean credentials on their sleeves. To understand fully the significance of Locke’s educational ideas and the reason for their influence, it is necessary to view Locke’s work as a whole. There is a note of caution to be introduced here. John W. and Jean S. Yolton (1989), in their introduction to Some Thoughts Concerning Education, are surely correct to warn readers against applying too systematic an interpretation to Locke’s works. By this, they mean that Locke does not deliberately produce a unified

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philosophical framework and then map his political, social, and educational works onto that framework. To illustrate this, it is helpful to compare Locke to Plato. Locke clearly regards education as a valuable tool to develop the necessary moral and intellectual capacities to engage in civil society, and in that respect his educational works are married to his political thought. However, Plato’s approach to education is woven into the very social structure of the Republic and exists to perpetuate it. Nothing of this kind can be said of Locke. Instead, Locke writes each of his works to address a particular question, be it epistemological, political, or moral (Yolton and Yolton 1989: 2). Nonetheless, even if a systematic interpretation goes too far, a systematic reading is very necessary, simply because philosophical projects that appear in one work continue into another. This is particularly the case with Locke’s theory of learning, a project that crosses between the Essay Concerning Human Understanding (hereafter ECHU; 1689), Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693), and the Conduct of the Understanding (1706). The ECHU provides the epistemological foundations without which any interpretation of Some Thoughts would be woefully incomplete. Some Thoughts presents epistemology of ECHU in relation to the actual educational experiences of childhood. The Conduct continues the journey begun in Some Thoughts, applying the same theories of knowledge and learning to the experiences of an autodidactic adult. It is worth noting, however, that Locke’s relatively modest conception of the limits of human knowledge is reflected in his educational works. We have very little in the way of intuitively or demonstratively certain knowledge, and this is reflected in the focus of Some Thoughts and the Conduct. In the case of the Conduct and the academic curriculum of Some Thoughts, the focus is upon improving our imperfect judgment as best we can. However, the bulk of Some Thoughts is concerned with the moral development of the child. The concept of a child as a blank slate, writ upon by experience, gives education a powerful role to play in the sort of person that child is going to be. When Locke says that “of all the men we meet with, nine parts of ten are what they are, good or evil, useful or not, by their education” (Some Thoughts §1), he is speaking of their moral character more than their intellectual capacities. Furthermore, even the development of intellectual capacities is often presented in moral terms. The more academic elements of Some Thoughts recommend inculcating the child with a love of truth and a love of learning by making the tasks enjoyable and avoiding negative associations with academic pursuits (i.e., the use of the rod). Therefore, while Locke’s contribution to the philosophy of education does draw on his epistemology, it is in large part a treatise on moral education broadly defined (see Figure 1.1). This chapter begins by presenting Locke’s case against innatism and his alternative empirical theory of the origins of our ideas. It moves on to explore

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FIGURE 1.1  Engraving of English philosopher John Locke (1632–1704), author of Essays Concerning Human Understanding, 1690. (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

his theory of learning, beginning with the epistemology of the ECHU and then tracing implications of this epistemology through the childhood educational experiences laid out in Some Thoughts and into the advice leveled at adults in the Conduct. It then turns to Lockean moral education with its emphasis on the child’s development of self-discipline even from the cradle. This is crucial, since children have no natural inclinations toward virtue or away from vice. Finally, the final section of the chapter explores Locke’s legacy, revealing the role he

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played in reshaping our conception of childhood and elevating the status of education as a means of forming moral and intellectual character.

REJECTION OF INNATISM Before addressing either Locke’s theory of learning or his thoughts on moral education, however, it is necessary to consider the central philosophical argument that underlies them: Locke’s rejection of the doctrine of innate ideas. This is perhaps the single most important philosophical commitment of the ECHU and certainly is the epistemic claim with the most powerful hold over Locke’s educational theory. Originating at least as far back as Plato and repopularized in the seventeenth century by Descartes, innatism is the position that humans are born possessing innate knowledge. Candidates for “innate” status included certain mathematical or metaphysical ideas (such as “whatsoever is, is”), moral ideas, which Locke calls “practical principles,” and, notably, knowledge of God (Lowe 1995). The latter is to be expected, since God supposedly placed these ideas within us. Innatism is meant to explain the universal acceptance of certain ideas as true. It also allows us to rest easy in the certainty that these ideas in fact are true: God placed the ideas within our minds and would not deceive us (Aaron 1971). Locke dedicates chapters 2–4 of the ECHU to discrediting innatism. His motivations for forming such a strong case against innatism were, in part, political. While there was a broad acceptance of the concept of innatism in seventeenth-century political society, there was no unity regarding what those innate ideas actually were. Effectively, any idea that one could not actually remember acquiring might be an innate idea. Given the special “undoubtable” status given to innate ideas, this is a situation ripe for exploitation. In a society that accepts the existence of innate ideas, political and religious authorities can easily claim the existence of innate knowledge of principles that would be useful for them to make universally accepted: it was of no small advantage to those who affected to be Masters and Teachers, make this the Principle of Principles, That Principles must not be questioned … In which posture of Blind Credulity, they might be more easily governed by, and made useful to some sort of Men, who had the skill and office to principle and guide them. (ECHU 1.4 §24) The doctrine of innate ideas therefore carries the potential to close off rational debate on the questions that those in authority can plausibly claim are known innately by everyone. In this way, it can stifle the discovery of truth and the development of political freedom. One powerful example of this is the divine right of kings. Suppose the populace at large were convinced that kings had a divinely ordained right to rule over them and, furthermore, were convinced that everyone innately knows this to be true. Such a populace may be

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unwilling to rebel against the king, however harshly he might rule over them. Considered in this light, it is easy to see how Locke’s political commitments would lead him to reject innatism. In Locke’s Second Treatise of Government, he argues that a system of government that fails to protect the people’s natural rights to life, liberty, and property should be met with revolution. Furthermore, Locke’s arguments in favor of religious tolerance are grounded in the possibility of reasonable disagreement about religious ideas, which is not compatible with those ideas being placed within us innately. His rejection of innatism, therefore, is also a defense of freedom of thought: an assertion that all ideas should be up for inquiry and debate. Locke’s opponents (not directly named, in part because he is attacking what would have been a common opinion) defend innatism as the best available explanation for the presence of universal ideas. Locke’s initial response is to argue that God would not place principles directly in our minds if he has already granted us the ability to gain those ideas independently: I imagine any one will easily grant, That it would be impertinent to suppose, the Ideas of Colours innate in a Creature, to whom God hath given Sight … and no less unreasonable would it be to attribute several Truths, to the Impressions of Nature and innate Characters, when we may observe in our selves Faculties, fit to attain as easie and certain Knowledge of them, as if they were Originally imprinted on the Mind. (ECHU 1.2 §1) Locke compares this situation to bridge-building. God gave us hands, the capacity to reason, and suitable building materials to work with; why then would he build bridges for us (ECHU 4 §12)? Surely God’s intent is that we attain independently all the achievements of which he has seen fit to make us capable. Therefore, the best explanation for our possessing any given idea is that we gained it through our own experience and reflection. The only reason to suppose that an idea is innate is that we could not have got at that idea in any other way except innately. Part of Locke’s attack on innatism, then, is to turn the abductive approach on its head. It becomes reasonable to ask of the innatist to show that innatism is the only possible explanation for the possession of certain ideas. Yet Locke is aware that this is unlikely to work as a strategy, since while intellectual fairness might shift the burden of proof to Locke’s opponents, it is Locke himself who is defying the conventional opinion, and that in itself is enough to make his argument the one requiring the stronger defense (ECHU 2 §1). Therefore, Locke lays out his arguments carefully and at length. The first is a response to the key defense of innatism: that it is the best explanation for the universality of certain ideas. Locke argues that there, in fact, is no such thing as universal ideas—commonly accepted ones, certainly, but not universal. He takes the example of the apparently innate maxim, “That it is impossible for

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the same thing to be, and not to be” (ECHU 1.1 §4). It might be that among people who have reflected on the meaning of this phrase, we are unlikely to find disagreement. However, many people have not reflected on the meaning and therefore do not know it to be true. Locke maintains that children and “Ideots” (in his unfortunate phrasing) “have not the least Apprehension of Thought of them” (ECHU 2 §5). They do not understand the idea. In the case of children, they may have the potential to understand the idea, but that is not the same as understanding it. If our understanding of innate ideas is developmental, with individuals unable to understand them until a certain age, then these ideas become indistinguishable from ideas gained experientially. One possible response might be that, while we possess innate ideas from birth, we do not understand or assent to them until we arrive at the age of reason. Locke regards this response as both “false and frivolous.” It is false because coming to understand these ideas is a gradual process that happens after a child attains reason. Anyone who spends time around children will be aware that they “get not those general Ideas, nor learn the Names that stand for them, til having for a good while exercised their Reason about familiar and more particular Ideas.” It is frivolous because, even if certain ideas were universally assented to by everyone who has reached the age of reason, this fact would not prove that those ideas were innate. They could be universal simply because children learn to abstract their various particular empirical experiences into general truths. Take the example of a child learning basic mathematics. A Child knows not that Three and Four are equal to Seven, til he comes to be able to Count to Seven, and has got the Name and Idea of Equality … The truth of it appears to him, as soon as he has settled in his Mind the clear and distinct Ideas … And then, he knows the Truth of that Proposition, upon the same Grounds, and by the same means, that he knew before, that a Rod and Cherry are not the same thing. (ECHU 2 §17) It is not necessary that children have innate ideas of number for them to come to the same conclusion about the mathematical relationship between three, four, and seven. It is only necessary that they are able to count. They will learn how to count with reference to particular physical objects, one with apples, another with stones, and so on. Once they have done so, they will perceive the difference between the numbers as easily as the difference between a rod and a cherry. In each case, knowledge of the difference is rooted in empirical experience, not in innate ideas. If innatism is a questionable doctrine for “speculative principles,” the case is more problematic still for “practical principles” or moral beliefs. In contrast to truths such as “that it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be” (ECHU 2 §4), where anyone who understands the proposition will assent to it, there is no universality in moral behavior. Even the most plausibly universal

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moral compulsion, which Locke identifies as “Parents, preserve your Children” (ECHU 1.3 §12) is so far from being a universal practice of human behavior that “it was a familiar, and uncondemned Practice amongst the Greeks and Romans to expose, without pity or remorse, their innocent Infants” (ECHU 1.3 §12). While it might be plausible to have a universal assent to a moral obligation that we nonetheless fail to meet in practice, the rejection of a principle at the societal level is best explained by there being no such thing as innate practical principles. The implications of Locke’s rejection of innatism are profound, both for his theory of learning and for his ideas regarding moral education. His theory of learning must include an explanation, firstly, of where our ideas come from and, secondly, how we may determine which (if any) of our beliefs about the world count as “knowledge.” Locke must also offer an account of how we can become moral people, if this does not occur by possessing innate knowledge of moral truths. Both theory of learning and moral education are vital elements of his overall philosophy of education.

LOCKE’S THEORY OF LEARNING Locke’s theory of learning is underpinned by his epistemology. Four elements are particularly influential: his theory of the origins of ideas, his conception of knowledge, his conception of judgment, and his emphasis on the power of associations between ideas. We gain all of our ideas through one of two sources: sensation and reflection. These are the twin “fountains of knowledge.” Sensation is our perception of external objects via our physical senses. From this we gain our ideas of “Yellow, White, Heat, Cold, Soft, Hard, Bitter, Sweet, and all those which we call Sensible Qualities” (ECHU 2.1 §3). Reflection is our perception of the “operations of our own Minds.” Via reflection, we gain our ideas of “Perception, Thinking, Doubting, Believing, Reasoning, Knowing, Willing” and other operations of the mind. Both perception and reflection are forms of empirical experience of the external world and of our own minds respectively. The implication for educational practice is relatively straightforward: empirical experience takes priority, as it is vital that children gain simple ideas in the first place before they can come to have knowledge or judgment about those ideas. The possession of ideas is necessary but not sufficient to gain knowledge. Locke is very particular about his use of the honorific “knowledge,” equating it to “certainty.” Knowledge lies in the “Perception of the Agreement, or Disagreement, or any of our Ideas” (ECHU 4.3 §1). There are two forms of knowledge. The first is intuitive knowledge, which is an immediate perception of the agreement or disagreement between our ideas, for example, our perception that black is not white. Intuitive knowledge is the clearest and most certain form

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of knowledge (Ayer 1998). Educators can maximize children’s stock of intuitive knowledge simply by providing them with empirical experiences that expose them to new ideas. Next is demonstrative knowledge. This is the perception of the agreement or disagreement of ideas, but in this case, the knowledge is achieved via one or more intermediate ideas, as is the case with a mathematical equation. To illustrate this, Locke uses the Euclidean demonstration that the angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees: The Mind being willing to know the Agreement of Disagreement in bigness, between the three Angles of a Triangle, cannot by an immediate view and comparing them, do it: Because the three Angles of a Triangle cannot be brought at once, and be compared to any other one, or two Angles; and so of this the Mind has no immediate, no intuitive Knowledge. In this case the mind is fain to find out some other Angles, to which the three angles have an Equality, and finding those equal to two right ones, comes to know their Equality to two right ones. (ECHU 4.2 §1) Demonstrative knowledge is less certain than intuitive knowledge, in part owing to its dependence on intermediate ideas. In this case, the intermediate ideas are the “other angles to which the three angles have an equality.” These serve a similar function to a measuring stick, which might show “two houses to be of the same length, which could not be brought together by juxta-position” (ECHU 4.17 §18). While each step is itself a piece of intuitive knowledge, as we multiply the steps we increase the likelihood of falling into error: in this case, of a mismeasurement. Nonetheless, Locke regards demonstrative knowledge as worthy of the honorific and, unsurprisingly, grants mathematics a central role in the curriculum. However, since by this definition, knowledge is extremely rare, we are all largely dependent on the “twilight state,” which Locke calls “judgment.” Therefore, the primary role of the educator (and educated) is to improve judgment as best we can. Like demonstrative knowledge, judgment consists in perceiving the agreement or disagreement of ideas via intervening proofs. However, in the case of judgment, the intervening proofs do not provide a “constant and immutable” connection between the ideas. Instead they offer a connection that is (merely) frequent or reliable enough for us to judge the likelihood of a proposition being true or false (ECHU 4.15 §1). Judgments are therefore assessments of probability. To illustrate the contrast between demonstrative knowledge and judgment, imagine a student who is struggling in a mathematics class and does not understand the proof that shows that the angles of a triangle always add up to 180 degrees. There is a sense in which this student does not know that the angles of a triangle always add up to 180 degrees; the student lacks demonstrative knowledge that this is the case. Nonetheless, the student might rely on the teacher’s testimony that this proposition about the

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angles of a triangle is the case.1 If the student is aware from prior experience that the teacher is competent and has no reason to lie, then he might be justified in believing that the angles of a triangle always add up to 180 degrees even though he does not understand the proof. The student’s mathematical education would, of course, be much improved if he understood the proof independently. Locke might accuse the student of “Laziness, Unskillfulness, or Haste” (ECHU 4.14 §3) for deliberately choosing mere testimony when he could have certainty but would nonetheless acknowledge that this lazy, unskillful student has good reason to believe that the angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees. In this scenario, the student lacks knowledge but has demonstrated good judgment. We might also criticize the teacher here for not ensuring that the student gained demonstrative knowledge rather than merely demonstrating good judgment, but a mathematics teacher is in a rather unique position in this respect. Teachers of science or history, meanwhile, are legitimately concerned with their students’ capacity to assess probabilities, an area where demonstrative knowledge is out of reach. This is reflected in how history is taught in a Lockean curriculum: With Geography, Chronology ought to go hand in hand, I mean the general part of it, so that he may have in his Mind a view of the whole current of time … Without these two, History, which is the great Mistress of Prudence and Civil Knowledge … without Geography or Chronology, I say, History will be very ill retained, and very little useful; but will be only a jumble of Matters of Fact, confusedly heaped together without Order or Instruction. (Some Thoughts §182) The best the educator can hope to achieve is to ensure that the ideas presented to the child are given in a clear and orderly way, with the relationships between the historical events made as obvious as possible. This is best achieved with an interdisciplinary approach that draws on geography and chronology, not only because these provide a helpful framework but also because relationships between ideas will naturally cross disciplinary boundaries. In addition to knowledge and judgment, ideas can be related purely by association. While some of our ideas have a “natural Correspondence and Connexion one with another,” in other cases, “Ideas that in themselves are not at all of kin, come to be so united in some Mens Minds, that ’tis very hard to separate them” (ECHU 2.33 §5). These associations are acquired through custom and habit. They need not necessarily be harmful; one example Locke gives is a musician who associates a series of notes with one another so that he is able to hear the whole tune in his head. However, associations of ideas can be damaging. For example, if a “foolish Maid” encourages children to associate darkness with “Goblines and Sprights” (ECHU 2.33 §9 emphasis in original), she may make them permanently and irrationally afraid of the dark. Children who are punished for mistakes in their studies may thereafter associate “studying” and “pain” so

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strongly that “reading becomes a torment to them” (ECHU 2.33 §15). Once these associations are made, they are difficult to reverse. Even if, through reason, we can discover that the connections are not rational, our minds will continue in the habit of the association. Therefore, Locke recommends that educators take care to “prevent the undue Connexion of Ideas in the Minds of young People” (ECHU 2.33 §8), thereby protecting them from irrational associations that might otherwise affect them all their lives. It is worth noting that while Locke uses masculine pronouns throughout Some Thoughts, it was not his intent that the educational and moral advice therein was only to be applied to boys. Locke tells us that Some Thoughts “will not so perfectly suit the education of daughters; though where the difference of sex requires different treatment, it will be no hard matter to distinguish” (Some Thoughts §12 emphasis in original). The implication is that the difference is a slight one. For example, parents will be aware of the social necessity of maintaining a feminine appearance in girls such that “their tender skins should be fenced against the busy sunbeams, especially when they are very hot and piercing” (Locke 1968) while their brothers will not need such protection, as a sun tan is of no consequence for them. The clear implication is that, in general, the treatment and education that suits boys will also suit girls. While Rousseau’s Emile (1762) and The Whole Duty of a Woman (1737) both presented entirely separate educational approaches for boys and girls, Locke treats girls as capable of the same intellectual and moral development as boys. Indeed, in recommending that boys are educated at home by tutors, he is embracing an approach more traditionally associated with the education of girls. The potentially negative effect of associations between ideas has implications for the environment in which children should be educated. Any environment in which the child is expected to pay attention to his lessons at set times and is punished or “chided” for a neglect of them risks the impression of painful punishment being associated permanently with learning. This is avoided by creating an environment where the activity of learning is set up first as play and later as a privilege associated with praise and esteem. This method may be slower, but Locke considers it preferable to allow a child to learn to read a year later than allow an aversion to learning to develop at this stage. Instead, learning should be associated with pleasurable experiences so that the child does not know when play ends and work begins.2 Locke’s clearest suggestion in this regard is that the learning of letters should be achieved through various forms of play suited to the individual constitution of a child: for example, having dice and playthings with letters on them.3 After the child knows the letters, the games should be adapted to incorporate syllables and spelling games, so that children learn how to read without ever knowing that is the task that they are being set. This serves two purposes within Locke’s epistemology. Firstly,

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the ideas being offered are introduced gradually, one at a time, so that each is clear in the mind before another is added, and the resultant ideas are clear and distinct from one another, so that connections between them can be perceived. To take the example of learning to read, the child learns what each letter is individually, in sound and in written form, before putting the sounds and letters together into syllables, then words and sentences. This pattern of presenting ideas in as simple a way as possible and connecting each new idea to the ones previously learnt is one that continues through early learning and into the more formal Lockean curriculum. Once the child is able to read, he should be provided with suitable books. Locke recommends that the books contain as many pictures as possible. This will ensure that the child actually gains ideas about the objects the book describes: For such visible objects Children hear talked of in vain, and without any satisfaction, whilst they have no Idea’s of them; those Idea’s being not to be had from Sounds; but from the Things themselves, or from their Pictures. (Some Thoughts §156) Pictures (or in the case of geography, globes) are a more direct representation of the objects than language can be, and they allow for some kind of sensory engagement with the object, even in its physical absence. The use of pictures and drawing is continued as the child grows, with drawing being taught alongside writing as a means of representation. Drawing is essential because it can serve as a more direct means of representing and communicating certain ideas than language can. Drawing “helps a Man often to express, in a few Lines put well together, what a whole Sheet of Paper in Writing, would not be able to represent, and make intelligible” (Some Thoughts §161). Language is a comparatively untrustworthy form of communicating knowledge, not only because it contains no sensory element but also because the ideas attached to a word may differ from speaker to listener (ECHU 3.5 §8). One application of this to educational practice is the approach to teaching languages. Locke avoids the use of translation. Words attached to simple ideas such as “yellow” or “cold” might be translatable, but this is less likely with complex ideas. Awareness of the limits of translation has political significance: The Terms of our Law, which are not Empty Sounds, will hardly find words that answer them in Spanish, or Italian, no scanty Languages … These are too sensible proofs to be doubted; and we shall find this much more so, in the names of more abstract and compounded ideas; such as are the greatest part of those which make up Moral Discourses: whose Names, when Men come curiously to compare, with those that are translated into, in other Languages, they will find very few of them exactly to correspond in the whole extent of their Significations. (ECHU 3.5 §8)

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An overreliance on translation would leave the adult unable to engage in political or moral discourse with a foreign speaker, and therefore, it is unsurprising that a Lockean child learns languages by immersion. Locke recommends that languages are learnt by conducting all the child’s lessons in French and Latin until he can speak it well. Once the child can read, and Locke moves toward a more formal curriculum, we find a focus upon our two “springs of knowledge”: sensation and reflection. We begin with those studies that: fall under the Senses, and require little more than Memory. For there, if we would take the true way, our Knowledge should begin, and in those Things be laid the Foundation; and not in the abstract Notions of Logick and Metaphysics, which are fitter to amuze, than inform the Understanding, in its first setting out towards Knowledge. (Some Thoughts §166) If, as Locke claims, our knowledge is traceable to our sensory experience of the world, then it is important that the early development of a child’s reasoning is integrated with such sensory experiences. For this reason, geography takes a very early and very dominant role in the child’s curriculum. A child’s early education in geography is of the “natural parts of the globe,” meaning the names of continents and seas, “not coming yet to those Artificial and imaginary Lines, which have been invented, and are only suppos’d for the better improvement of that Science” (Some Thoughts §178–9). In short, the child begins with geographical knowledge that can be understood via sensation alone. Only once this is well established do we have any significant investment in knowledge gained via reflection. At this point, Locke’s approach “zig-zags” between the two main areas of knowledge acquisition, namely sensation, which is related to empirical discovery in the form of geography, and reflection, which is related to rationalism in the form of mathematics. Predictably, empirical discovery comes first. While Locke deems arithmetic the “easiest and consequently the first sort of Abstract Reasoning which the Mind commonly bears” (Some Thoughts §180), he still delays any mathematical reasoning more complex than simple counting until after the study of geography has begun. Furthermore, mathematical reasoning is taught as far as possible in connection with geography. Once the child understands addition and subtraction, their attention is redirected toward the globes, this time from a more mathematical perspective. At this point they learn about the “Poles, Zones, Parallel Circles, and Meridians … [and are] taught Longitude and Latitude” (Some Thoughts §180). Their newfound level of abstract reasoning can now influence their perception of the globes, allowing them to perceive the “imaginary Lines” in addition to the “natural parts” (Some Thoughts §179). Locke’s recommendation that children begin their studies in geography with globes, only later moving on to maps (Some Thoughts §180) also reflects his

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empiricist commitments. The children cannot look at the actual planet as a whole, of course, but these three-dimensional physical objects offer the closest possible approximation to the physical form of the planet. It is interesting to connect this to Locke’s defense of including drawing in the curriculum, on the grounds that illustrations can make ideas more intelligible than words alone (Some Thoughts §161). Globes, like illustrations, offer a greater degree of sensory experience than the available alternative, but maps, like written prose, offer a greater level of focus and detail. Therefore, it is useful that once the child has mastered longitude and latitude, they can “be made to understand the use of Maps” (Some Thoughts §180), firstly of our planet and the regions within it, and then of the constellations. This journey from the empirical and concrete toward abstraction is also reflected in Locke’s recommendation that once the child “has got such an acquaintance with the Globes … he may be fit to be tried a little in Geometry,” namely the first six books of Euclid (Some Thoughts §181). In that case, their sensory experience of geometrical objects, the globes, becomes their foundation for exploring more abstract and complex geometry. The curriculum is thus a natural extension of Locke’s claim that knowledge is about relations between ideas. Most importantly, it maximizes the perceptions of connections between ideas by laying them out in the clearest possible fashion. This, like no other approach, serves to develop the child’s capacity to reason under a Lockean system: So that we may in Reason consider these four Degrees; the first and highest is the discovering, and finding out of Proofs; the second, the regular and methodical Disposition of them, and laying them in a clear and fit Order, to make their Connexion and Force be plainly and easily perceived; the third is in perceiving their Connexion, and the fourth, the making of a right conclusion. (ECHU 4.17 §2) For Locke, reasoning is not a distinct subject to be taught in the form of logical syllogism. Rather, the development of the child’s reasoning skills is incorporated into the curriculum design as a whole, which is laid out to maximize the child’s opportunity to perceive connections between ideas and lay them out in a methodical way, a habit that will hopefully remain with him into his adult life. Locke aims to produce for the child a “mental map” of ideas leading from the earliest and simplest up to the most complex and providing links between subject areas, which can later be traced by the learner.4 In this map, the individual ideas are clear and distinct from one another, but, equally importantly, the map presents the learner with clear relations between ideas. The learner is taught the relationships between topics and subjects even as he is taught the subjects. This maximizes the benefits of the information that has been given and of the individual memory since such a mapping out of subjects allows for easier recollection. It also encourages a continuation of this method of

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study when the individual’s learning becomes independent. Where subjects are regimented and taught separately, recognizing relations between subject areas is the mark of an excellent student; in a Lockean education it is an expectation from the beginning. Interestingly, if individuals who received a Lockean education in childhood were to examine their minds as adults, they would have less difficulty than many in tracing their complex ideas back to the simple ideas of which they were composed; therefore, they would be more likely to reject innatism. (This would reinforce greatly a Lockean view of epistemology, perhaps producing a young generation of Lockeans.) The arrangement of the curriculum serves as a means of developing the child’s capacity to reason. In particular, developing the habit of tracing the connections back to their origin should aid the child’s ability to recognize any associations between ideas that are not “natural” or appropriate. Locke’s approach is notably unlike the methods of learning more prevalent in his time. Grammar schools such as Locke’s own Westminster School had a curriculum composed almost entirely of the learning of Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic, with a far smaller amount of geography, geometry, and arithmetic (with the latter three all taught in Latin) (Woolhouse 2007: 11). Not only does the sheer amount of time devoted to those languages detract from focusing on empirical experience, but the languages were also largely taught by translation, of which Locke disapproves. Abstract logic and rhetoric took pride of place in the typical seventeenth-century curriculum, with logic holding the status in universities that is now accorded to mathematics (Watson 1908). This form of study was considered the appropriate method of developing the child’s reason and stands in sharp contrast to Locke’s more holistic approach and his rejection of syllogistic reasoning. In the Conduct of the Understanding, Locke makes no assumptions that the autodidact adults he addresses will have had the benefits of such a curriculum resembling his own design. Part of his goal, therefore, is to correct damage that he assumes has already been done. No longer “blank slates,” these adults have developed understandings, but their understandings may well have developed flaws. There is no assumption that the readers of the Conduct received the recommended Lockean education. The purpose of the Conduct is, therefore, to guide these adults in how to think clearly and rationally and how to improve their judgment and inform their decisions. Locke aims to reveal the flaws that exist within the reader’s understanding so that they might address them. One potential flaw is an unfortunate habit of allowing others to reason on our behalf, abdicating responsibility for our own beliefs. Alternatively, we might allow our emotions to overcome our reason. We might also possess prejudices (perhaps from early associations between ideas) that are preventing us from reasoning properly. We are therefore responsible as adults to uncover and reflect upon our principles and ensure that we are not being guided by falsehoods. The ideal

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is that we become as epistemically independent as possible. To this end, we are called upon to read, and to read widely. But readers cannot be said to know the content of a book until they have assimilated it into their own understandings rather than merely having the ability to repeat the content of the book at will (Conduct 20). Nonetheless, even as independent epistemic agents, we retain a level of dependence on the testimony of others to have an informed view of the world. In particular, it is vital that we are exposed to ideas and opinions sufficiently different from our own. Note Locke’s comic archetype of the illeducated man: A country gentleman who, leaving Latin and Learning in the university, removes thence to his mansion house, and associates with neighbours of the same strain, who relish nothing but hunting and a bottle; with these alone he converses … Such a patriot, formed in this happy way of improvement, cannot fail, as we see, to give notable decisions upon the bench at quarter sessions, and eminent proofs of his skill in politics. (Conduct 3) This country gentleman’s judgment is compromised because he deliberately keeps the company least likely to challenge his ideas or provide him with new information. Therefore, when the “country gentleman” is called upon to make political decisions, he is ill-equipped to do so and inevitably makes them badly. Here we see that Locke regards education as a lifelong commitment necessary for participation in civil society, especially among those likely to wield political power and responsibility.

LOCKE’S MORAL EDUCATION Locke’s theory of learning, then, provides an account of how we come to gain knowledge of the world and of speculative principles in the absence of innate ideas. Just as important, however, is to show how we become moral people in the absence of innate “practical principles.” The Lockean answer is, of course, “by education.” A Lockean conception of morality places the educator in an extraordinary position of power and responsibility. It is not only the child’s intellect but also this moral character that will be shaped by his early impressions. A far larger proportion of Some Thoughts is devoted to the moral development of the child, broadly construed, than to the curriculum itself; therefore, it is “only a slight exaggeration to say that Locke’s Some Thoughts is mainly a treatise on moral education” (Yolton and Yolton 1989: 18). Locke’s conception of morality is traditionally Christian in the sense that morality is understood to be obedience to God. Specifically, we have a duty to obey God’s law, or “natural law.” These are laws that exist in the state of nature. They grant us our natural rights to life, liberty, and property (as explored in the Second Treatise of Government) (Ayers 1998). How we come to know that we

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have these rights, and corresponding duties, is a trickier issue. Locke’s approach here is, perhaps, at odds with his reputation as the archetypal empiricist. Locke implies in the Essay that it is in principle possible to arrive at moral truths through demonstration. However, he does not in fact provide a system of demonstrative morality (Connolly 2019: 435–51). Consistent with his modest conception of the limits of the human intellect, he ends by recommending that we look to Revelation in the Bible to learn moral rules. While God does not place knowledge of moral truths innately within us, Locke regards it as possible for us to learn them via God’s revelation in the Bible. The result is that the actual virtues and vices referred to in Some Thoughts—for example, honor, humility, and love of God on the one hand; indolence, lies, and malice on the other—were solidly traditional and would not have been contentious ones for his Christian readership. We do not, according to Locke, have a natural inclination toward virtue or away from vice. Some interpreters of Locke have taken this to mean that Locke rejects the doctrine of original sin (Passmore 1965). Nonetheless, we do have innate inclinations toward pleasure and away from pain. In Locke’s theory of learning, this fact is used to best advantage by ensuring that the child takes pleasure in learning and does not associate educational experiences with pain (either through dullness of repetition or though corporal punishment for intellectual errors). However, in the case of moral education, our natural inclinations may lead us away from a virtuous path. Therefore, our moral development requires that we learn to control our natural inclinations. The vices and virtues focused upon by Locke have a core thematic link: they concern self-discipline, or self-control. The core of a moral education, then, is to ensure that the child gains mastery over his inclinations from as early an age as possible. In the very earliest sections of Some Thoughts, Locke makes fairly extensive suggestions for the benefit of the child’s physical health. These are drawn both from his personal experience of the children of his friends and from his training as a physician. However, his recommendations for the physical health of the child are clearly made with their moral development in mind. Food should be plain and simple, with an emphasis on bread rather than meat. Sugar should be avoided, as should strong alcohol (something likely to meet with the approval of modern ears). Nothing should be offered between meals except dry bread: “If he be hungry more than wanton, Bread alone will down, and if he be not hungry, it is not fit he should eat” (Some Thoughts §14). Recommendations as to the child’s diet are motivated by health but also by Locke’s view that the child’s “wantonness” should not be indulged. Locke’s recommendations for clothing are similarly ascetic. Clothing is to be thin and shaped to the body rather than to fashion. Shoes are to be made with the deliberate intention of

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letting in water (Some Thoughts §5). The medical justification for this is that children who are accustomed to tolerating changes in temperature will be hardier, and, in particular, children who often get their feet wet deliberately are unlikely to become ill as a result of getting them wet accidentally. However, just as important to Locke is the moral justification. The child’s first appetites are for unhealthy foods and excessive comforts, and these appetites are to be curbed. Initially this is done externally, by adults, but the purpose is that eventually the children should be habituated into controlling their appetites themselves. This is clearest in the section Locke writes on sleep. While children should be permitted as much sleep as they wish (Locke the physician recognizes this as essential), they are to be woken early in the morning so that they go to bed early rather than sleep late: He that, from his Childhood, has, by a setled Custom, made Rising betimes easie and familiar to him, will not, when he is a Man, waste the best and most useful part of his life in Drowziness … it will follow of Course, that they must go to Bed betimes; whereby they will be accustomed to avoid the unhealthy and unsafe Hours of Debauchery. (Some Thoughts §21 emphasis in original) Self-discipline is to be taught literally from the cradle, as an essential tool for the development of virtue. In terms of a more formal acquaintanceship with morality, a child’s first encounter is with the idea of God and praying to God: “As the Foundation of [virtue] … there ought very early to be imprinted on his Mind a true Notion of God … from whom we receive all our good, who loves us, and gives us all things” (Some Thoughts §135). This will incline the child toward loving and obeying God and, therefore, toward virtuous behavior. The next tool is to instill in the child a horror of lying: “Let him know that Twenty Faults are sooner to be forgiven, than the Straining of Truth, to cover any one by an Excuse” (Some Thoughts §139). In this way, an educator can at least ensure that the child’s moral faults are exposed and, therefore, can be addressed directly. The next important method is by example. The best way of ensuring that the child is settled in good habits is to keep him in the company of those who already have those habits. This is one of the advantages of educating the child at home. He is to be kept as far as possible in the company of his parents, kept away from the company of servants, and certainly not exposed to the unpredictable influence of schoolboys. Finally and importantly, the parents and tutor can appeal to the child’s developing reason. One of the most notable pieces of advice in Some Thoughts is that “in Morality, Prudence and Breeding, Cases should be put to him, and his Judgement asked” (Some Thoughts §98). In this manner a child gradually becomes a moral peer, considered capable of making ethical judgments for himself, surely the ultimate goal of any system of moral education.

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LOCKE’S LEGACY Locke was far from the first British educationalist, and he clearly drew upon the existing literature. Milton in particular has notable similarities to Locke, even suggesting that the curriculum should begin with arts “most obvious to the sense” (Milton 1959: 54). Previous British educationalists John Aubrey and John Eachard had also advocated similar reforms (Ezell 1983: 141).5 Nonetheless, Lockean influence over the educational thought of the following century was profound. Locke brought the philosophy of education into public discourse to a degree not achieved by his predecessors. Part of the reason for this is the accessible style of Some Thoughts, which is written in a clear and straightforward manner unfettered by quotations in Greek or Latin and without references to classical literature (Pickering 1981: 5). Its humble origins as a letter of recommendations to a friend expanded its readership to ordinary middle-class parents, who were understandably responsive to the idea that, through education, they could shape their children’s characters. Locke’s familiarity with and fondness for children shine through in both the ECHU and Some Thoughts Concerning Education, and this too may have contributed to the text’s popularity. It is also notable that Locke’s epistemology places education in a very different and more optimistic position than alternative conceptions of childhood that were available in the early eighteenth century. Locke rejects—or, at any rate, is often interpreted as rejecting—the doctrine of original sin. The Augustinian view that children are inherently sinful naturally leads to a conception of education as a means to reform children toward piety and virtue as best we can. The alternative proposed by Rousseau, that children are naturally good and that society is a corrupting influence (as explored in Emile, or On Education), sees the role of education as preserving that natural purity as far as possible. Locke’s conception of children as “tabula rasa,” to be written on by experience, means that adult influences on a child’s character are both achievable and desirable. This is the view adopted by those whom Margaret J.M. Ezell calls the “educationalists” (Ezell 1983: 140). Drawing on Locke’s metaphors of blank paper or soft wax, the educationalists regarded children as impressionable and malleable and the purpose of education to be the shaping of their character and intellect. Many educational writers and practitioners throughout the eighteenth century drew directly upon Locke. In Sermons on the Religious Education of Children (1732), Phillip Doddridge cited Locke and Solomon to prove that men were formed by their educations; Philander argued in Fordyce’s Dialogues on Education (1745) that setting “just Associations in the Minds of Youth” was “an Affair of the utmost Importance in Education”; and Catherine Macaulay Graham wrote in her Letters on Education (1790) that “without an adequate

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knowledge of the power of association” a tutor would be unable to “fashion the mind of his pupil” (Pickering 1981: 9). Locke’s influence was not limited to such treatises. His ideas also appeared in the popular press. Eustace Budgell, in his series in the Spectator (1712), imitates Locke in his discussion of the importance of education for virtue (Ezell 1983: 142). He influenced novelists, notably Samuel Richardson, who, in Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, gives the title character a copy of Some Thoughts. (Pamela largely endorses the work, although she holds some skepticism regarding the possibility of finding a tutor wise enough to apply the theory [Richardson 1929–31: 315].) Locke even inspired poetry, such as Richard Blackmore’s poem Creation (1712). This perhaps would not have pleased him, given his view that “Poetry and Gaming, which usually go together … seldom bring any advantage” (Some Thoughts §174). In short, references to Locke’s educational ideas were commonly and casually made in a variety of literature in a manner that Ezell (1983: 148) compares to the modern-day treatment of Sigmund Freud. Most surprising and notable, perhaps, was Locke’s overwhelming influence on an area that, if not entirely new to the eighteenth century, certainly proliferated there for the first time: children’s literature. Pickering, in his book John Locke and Children’s Books in Eighteenth-Century England, tells us that he “approached children’s books from the perspective of my earlier study on evangelicalism and the novel. Instead of finding religion on every page, however, I found the ideas of John Locke” (1981: xi). There is evidence to suggest that Locke was not merely influential within the field of children’s literature but may have been instrumental in its newfound popularity: Before the reign of Queen Anne, the Guardian of Education stated in 1802, there were “very few” books written for children. “The first period of Infantine and Juvenile Literature” began, the journal declared, after Mr. Locke popularised “the idea of uniting amusement with instruction.” (1981: 7) Locke’s followers in this field included Isaac Watts, whose Divine Songs (1715) became the most popular poetry collection for children for over a century. Watts adopted Locke’s theories on the origin and association of ideas, adapting them to religious instruction, stressing the importance of impressing proper ideas of God upon children. He echoed Locke in his recommendations that children should not be permitted to be cruel to animals out of fear that this might harden their characters and make them cruel to fellow human beings (Pickering 1981: 16). Watt’s rejection of fairy tales as suitable for children also has Lockean roots, a natural extension of Locke’s recommendations against children listening to old wives’ tales and having false associations left in their minds (Pickering 1981: 43). John Newbury’s A Pretty Pocket Book references “the great Mr. Locke” directly in its introductory essay. Newbury links learning

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to play and recreation, including a Song Book to, as the full title states, “teach children the use of the English Alphabet, by way of Diversion” (Newbury 1966: title page). The book itself was designed to appeal to the senses, being covered in Dutch floral paper. There was even a story with a suggested accompanying toy: a ball for Tommy or a pincushion for Polly. The toys were half black and half red and accompanied by ten pins. When the child was good, a pin was to be stuck on the red side; when the child was bad, a pin was placed on the black side. When all ten pins were on the red side, the child would receive a penny, but when all ten pins were on the black side, the child would be “whipt.” Surely this is not in keeping with Locke’s view on corporal punishment, and yet the embedding of moral lessons in an object perceivable by the senses is very much a Lockean one. Sarah Trimmer’s first book for children, An Easy Introduction to the Knowledge of Nature, And Reading the Holy Scriptures (1780), was influenced both by Locke and by Watts. The first 200 pages of the book immerse the reader in a walk through the natural world, describing the sights and smells; the book ends with reflections on the God who made the natural world. So extensive was Locke’s influence that Maria Edgeworth and Richard Lovell Edgeworth, in Practical Education (1798), express concern that the Lockeaninspired association of learning with play had gone too far: When we speak of rendering literature agreeable to children, and of the danger of associating pain with the sight of a book, or with the sound of the word task, we should at the same time avoid the error of those who, in their first lessons, accustom their pupils to so much amusement, that they cannot help afterwards feeling disgusted with the sobriety of instruction. (Edgeworth and Edgeworth 1798: 54) Locke might wish to correct such an extreme himself, given his emphasis on the virtue of self-control. Yet perhaps, for the most part, he would regard accustoming children to playful learning as a pleasing change from the casual use of the rod to correct mistakes in Latin.

CONCLUSION The influence of Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education far outstripped his ambitions. Locke’s goals for the work were modest, and in his opening letter to Edward Clark, he denies having written a “just Treatise on Education” and expresses his wish that “someone abler and fitter for such a Task … rectifie the Mistakes I have made in this” (Some Thoughts 79). Some Thoughts ends with the message that “there are a thousand other things that may need consideration” (§217). Yet with that modestly titled book, in combination with the epistemology he had developed elsewhere, Locke helped to generate a

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cultural shift toward a belief in the power of education to form both intellect and moral character. The positioning of a child as tabula rasa, possessing neither innate ideas nor original sin, correspondingly placed educators in a profound position of power to influence who the child becomes, a power that they were eager to acknowledge and embrace. This combined with Locke’s emphasis on the moral aspects of education goes some way toward explaining his profound influence over educational writing and children’s publishing over the course of the eighteenth century. His influence remains active today. Locke’s theory of learning includes an emphasis on learning through the senses, on learning through play, and on maintaining positive associations with learning. These are all widely reflected in modern educational practices, and we might note how they appear in the works of Fröbel, Maria Montessori, and Quentin Skinner, respectively. In addition to the influence of his theories themselves, we owe much to Locke for bringing philosophy of education into public discourse. It would likely please him to know that his invitation to question his works and elaborate upon them was accepted by many of the educationalists the reader will meet in the remainder of this book.

NOTES 1

2

3 4

5

It is worth noting briefly here that Locke has a reputation for skepticism about our capacity to gain knowledge via testimony. I have argued elsewhere that this reputation is unjustified: see McNulty (2013). For here, it is sufficient to say that Locke does regard it as possible to justify our beliefs via testimony, provided we are able to give a critical evaluation of the testimonial source. See ECHU 15 §4 for details. There is an interesting contrast to be made here between Locke and Rousseau. While Rousseau also stressed the importance of play, he did not do so simply because play was pleasurable but because play was a valuable way for children to learn from the consequences of their actions, some of which would in fact be painful. Locke was not the first to suggest this approach; it appears in Hugh Plat’s work The Jewell House of Art and Nature, published in 1594. However, it was Locke who popularized the integration of learning and play. It is interesting to note that Locke does not provide any ages for the progression between subject areas. He is only concerned that the child comprehends one subject before moving on to the next. For example, “when he has the natural Parts of the Globe well fix’d in his Memory, it may then be time to begin Arithmetick” (Some Thoughts 179). This approach is in marked contrast to Rousseau, for whom life stages were a far more central concern. For example, Eachard, in The Grounds and Occasions of the Contempt of the Clergy (1670), challenged the necessity of keeping “Lads… in pure slavery to a few Latin and Greek words” (1670: 4), while Aubrey, in Idea of Education of Young Gentlemen (begun in 1699 but unpublished in his lifetime), argues that children should have their own mathematical tools, for a more engaging learning experience (Stephens 2012: 85).

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REFERENCES Primary sources Eachard, John (1670), The Grounds and Occasions of the Contempt of the Clergy, London: Printed by E. Tyler and R. Holt for Nathaniel Brooke. Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership, 2011. Available online: http://name.umdl.umich. edu/A39232.0001.001 Edgeworth, Maria and Richard Lovell Edgeworth (1798), Practical Education, Boston: T.B.Wait & Sons. Locke, John (1689/1979), An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. P.H. Nidditch, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Locke, John (1689/1983), A Letter Concerning Toleration, ed. J.H. Tully, Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company. Locke, John (1693/1989), Some Thoughts Concerning Education, ed. J.W. Yolton and J.S. Yolton, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Locke, John (1706/1892), Conduct of the Understanding, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Locke, John (1968), “Letter to Mrs. Clarke, February 1685,” in The Educational Writings of John Locke, ed. James L. Axtell, 344, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Locke, John (1978), The Correspondence of John Locke, ed. E.S. de Beer, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Locke, John (1988), Two Treatises of Government, ed. P. Laslett, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Locke, John (1997), Political Essays, ed. M. Goldie, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Milton, John (1959), “Of Education,” in Prose Works, Vol. 2, ed. Ernest Sirluck, 362–415, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Yolton, John W. and Jean S. Yolton (1989), “Introduction,” in The Clarendon Edition of the Works of John Locke: Some Thoughts Concerning Education, 1–71, Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Secondary sources Aaron, R.I. (1970), John Locke, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Aarsleff, Hans (1982), From Locke to Saussure: Essays on the Study of Language and Intellectual History, London: Athlone Press. Ayers, Michael (1991), Locke: Epistemology and Ontology, London: Routledge. Ayers, Michael (1998), “The Foundations of Knowledge and the Logic of Substance: The Structure of Locke’s General Philosophy,” in V. Chappel (ed.), Locke, 24–47, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carrig, Joseph (2001), “Liberal Impediments to Liberal Education,” Review of Politics, 63 (1): 41–76. Carson, Emily (2002), “Locke’s Account of Certain and Instructive Knowledge,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 10 (3): 359–78. Chappell, Vere (1998), Locke, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clark, Donald Leman (1964), John Milton at St. Paul’s School: A Study of Ancient Rhetoric in English Renaissance Education, Hamden, CT: Archon Books. Connolly, Patrick J. (2019), “Locke’s Theory of Demonstration and Demonstrative Morality,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 98 (2): 435–51. Crane, Judith K. (2003), “Locke’s Theory of Classification,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 11 (2): 249–59.

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Dawson, Edward E. (1959), “Locke on Number and Infinity,” Philosophical Quarterly, 9 (37): 302–8. Dawson, Hannah (2003), “Locke on Private Language,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 11 (4): 609–35. Dewhurst, Kenneth (1963), John Locke as Physician and Philosopher, Norwich: Jarrold and Sons. Ezell, Margaret J.M. (1983), “John Locke’s Images of Childhood: Early Eighteenth Century Response to Some Thoughts Concerning Education,” Eighteenth-Century Studies, 17 (2): 139–55. Hight, Marc A. (2001), “Locke’s Implicit Ontology of Ideas,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 9 (1): 17–42. Johnson, M.S. (1977), Locke on Freedom: An Incisive Study of the Work of John Locke, Austin, TX: Best Printing Company. Lowe, E. Jonathan (1995), Locke on Human Understanding, London: Routledge. Mackie, John Leslie (1976), Problems from Locke, Oxford: Clarendon Press. McNulty, Lisa (2013), “Lockean Social Epistemology,” Journal of Philosophy of Education, 47 (4): 524–36. Mehta, Uday Singh (1992), The Anxiety of Freedom: Imagination and Individuality in Locke’s Political Thought, New York: Cornell University Press. Midwinter, Eric (1970), Nineteenth Century Education, London: Longman Group. Newbery, John (1966), A Little Pretty Pocket-book, London: Oxford University Press. Passmore, John (1965), “The Malleability of Man in Eighteenth-Century Thought,” in Earl R. Wasserman (ed.), Aspects of the Eighteenth Century, 21–46, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Pickering, Samuel F. (1981), John Locke and Children’s Books in Eighteenth Century England, Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Rand, Benjamin (1975), The Correspondence of John Locke and Edward Clarke, New York: Books for Libraries Press. Richardson, Samuel (1929–31), Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, Shakespeare Head Edition, 4 vols., Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Rogers, Graham Alan John (1996), Locke’s Philosophy, Content and Context, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Romanell, Patrick (1984), John Locke and Medicine, New York: Prometheus Books. Rorty, Amelie O., ed. (1998), Philosophers of Education: New Historical Perspectives, London: Routledge. Schuurman, Paul (2001), “Locke’s Way of Ideas as Context for His Theory of Education in Of The Conduct of the Understanding,” History of European Ideas, 27 (1): 45–59. Stephens, James E. (2012), Aubrey on Education: A Hitherto Unpublished Manuscript by the Author of Brief Lives, London: Routledge. Tarcov, Nathan (1984), Locke’s Education for Liberty, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Watson, Foster (1908), The English Grammar Schools to 1660: Their Curriculum and Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woolhouse, Roger (2007), Locke: A Biography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yolton, John W. (1956), John Locke and the Way of Ideas, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yolton, John W. (1970), John Locke and the Compass of the Human Understanding, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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CHAPTER TWO

Rousseau’s Philosophy of Education AMOS HOFMAN

Countless scholarly papers and books have been written about Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78) and his views on education, yet there is no consensus about the value of his major pedagogical ideas or their relevance to modern educational theory and practice. Rousseau’s educational ideas—just like his political ones—are quick to raise heated debates: his supporters see him as the prophet of modern education, while his opponents claim that he invented nothing new, but merely rephrased the ideas of his predecessors or proposed doubtful—not to say totally unacceptable—educational methods. Rousseau was a controversial thinker and, according to many witnesses, an arrogant and unpleasant person. Most of his fellow philosophes did not like him and he felt an alien in their company. He haughtily believed that he was a unique person and that the rest of humanity should look up to him as the sole representation of true human nature (Rousseau 1782/1982: 17).1 By the mid1760s, he severed his relations with the philosophes and gradually withdrew into a life of seclusion. Already in the eighteenth century he was perceived as one of the major thinkers of the Enlightenment and at the same time one of its foremost critics. This paradoxical position suited him well: “I do not see as do other men,” he wrote in the introduction to his greatest educational work, Emile, ou de l’éducation (Emile, or On Education) (1762) (Rousseau 1762/1979: 34). Rousseau ardently believed that modern life is full of contradictions, which cannot be reconciled: “pardon me my paradoxes,” he wrote; “they are necessary and whatever you may say, I prefer to be a paradoxical man than a prejudiced

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one” (1762/1979: 93). One of these paradoxes, dominant in all his works, is the dual existence of human beings both as individual, private persons and as public citizens. The recognition of this existential attribute of human nature had profound implications for his philosophy of education (see Figure 2.1). Rousseau’s distrust of modernity, and consequently his oppositional position regarding the main premises of the Enlightenment (e.g., the belief in human rationality and the prospect of moral and scientific progress), made him famous but caused him numerous predicaments and troubles. His major political and educational works, Du Contrat social (The Social Contract) (1762) and Emile, were banned and burnt by the authorities in France and in Switzerland soon after their publication (see Figure 2.2). He ended his life in solitude, lonely and unappreciated by his contemporaries. Yet public interest in his works was renewed at the outbreak

FIGURE 2.1  Rousseau, circa 1760: French political philosopher, educationalist and author Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778). (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

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FIGURE 2.2  Jean Jacques Rousseau [misc.]. Portrait of French-Swiss author, philosopher, and participant in the French Enlightenment, Jean Jacques Rousseau’s (1712–1778) most famous work, the Social Contract being publicly burned at Geneva, 1763. Source: Time Life Pictures/Mansell/The LIFE Picture Collection via Getty Images).

of the French Revolution, which welcomed Rousseau as its most radical herald. His educational philosophy, however, was not part of the revolutionary agenda, and there was never a serious attempt to implement it in France. During the nineteenth century, except for a few pedagogical idealists who adopted some of his principles, Rousseau’s educational ideas were almost forgotten. Only in the twentieth century were these ideas revived by a small number of progressive philosophers, who considered them to be the origin of modern, child-centered education. Interestingly, Rousseau was the only major Enlightenment philosopher that gave education a dominant position in his works. John Locke, whose Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693) profoundly inspired Enlightenment thought about processes of learning and teaching, did not make education his central theme. Neither did the major French philosophes of the Enlightenment, notably Voltaire, Montesquieu, Diderot, and d’Alembert—the founders and leaders of the first generation of the Enlightenment in France— who considered only some narrow aspects of education. Rousseau’s works, however, are absorbed with education. Even though Rousseau emphasized in his autobiography that he was never attracted to the field of education and that he failed as a teacher and was actually “disgusted” by a profession for which he was “not fitted” (1782/1982: 255), it is quite clear that education fascinated him: from his early Discourse sur les sciences et les arts (Discourse on the

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Sciences and the Arts) (1750)—the essay that made him a kind of intellectual celebrity—to his final autobiographical Confessions (1782), he was concerned with education, and images of schools, teachers, and pupils are prominent in many of his works. Why read Rousseau’s educational philosophy today? Primarily, I think, because it was meant to inspire. He never intended to produce a practical handbook for teachers or provide an outline for an extensive educational reform. In any case, he never trusted reforms, which to his mind merely “propose some good which can be allied with the existing evil,” thus ending up by preserving the prevailing order (Rousseau 1762/1979: 34). Instead of dealing with educational practice (as did most educational theorists of his day), he wanted his readers to think about the deep meaning of the idea of education itself—education as a much broader concept than its associated notions, such as teaching, instruction, schooling, and learning. Rousseau never perceived education in purely instrumental terms but as a process that defines human existence and thus becomes a lifelong endeavor, essential for the well-being of all people, in all times and at all places.

BASIC PREMISES Rousseau’s earliest statement about education appears in the Discourse on the Sciences and sets the stage for his systematic attack on the basic tenet of Enlightenment thought, namely that progress in scientific knowledge contributes to the improvement of morality.2 Not so, emphasizes Rousseau: I see everywhere immense institutions where young people are brought up at great expense, learning everything except their duties. Your children will not know their own language, but they will speak in others that are nowhere in use; they will know how to write verses they can barely understand; without knowing how to distinguish error from truth, they will possess the art of making them both unrecognizable to others by specious arguments. But they will not know what the words magnanimity, equity, temperance, humanity, courage are; that sweet name fatherland will never strike their ear; and if they hear of God, it will be less to be awed by him than to be afraid of him. (1750–4/1964: 56) Rousseau criticizes here the commonplace perception of education as schooling, that is to say, a process of acquiring systematic knowledge of specific subjects dictated by a dominant authority, such as the state or the church. According to Rousseau, established educational practice completely fails to address the issue of virtue in its curriculum and thus fails to educate citizens devoted to their communities. Instead, it creates selfish, self-centered people pumped full of useless theoretical knowledge that contributes nothing to their moral well-

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being. Schools do nothing to “purify morals,” but actually serve as tools of oppression in the hands of governments, which seek only to preserve their power. “The sciences, the letters, and arts,” asserts Rousseau, “spread garlands of flowers with which men are burdened, stifle in them the sense of that original liberty for which they seemed to have been born, make them love their slavery, and turn them into what is called civilized peoples” (1750–4/1964: 36). Thus the civilizing process, and especially scientific progress, makes all people slaves. As Rousseau succinctly summarized this argument about a decade later in the opening chapter of The Social Contract, “Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains” (1762/1981: 49). Rousseau’s philosophy of education is developed mainly in Emile—a monumental work, which by his own account summarizes his thought not only on education but also on the human condition in general. “I showed,” wrote Rousseau, explaining his motives for composing Emile, “that all the vices which are imparted to the human heart are not natural to it; I showed how they come to be acquired; I followed, so to speak, their genealogy, and revealed how by the successive corruption of men’s original goodness, they became what they are now” (Rousseau, Letter to Christophe de Beaumont, quoted in Cranston 1991: 177). Rousseau presents his educational method as the only possible antidote to this “genealogy” of human vices. And indeed—as Rousseau famously declares in the opening paragraph of Emile—if “Everything is good as it leaves the hands of the Author of things; everything degenerates in the hands of man,” and if man “turns everything upside down … disfigures everything” and “wants nothing as nature has made it, not even man” (1762/1979: 37) and, finally, if established practices of education are integral parts of the degenerative process of human society (or perhaps even its source) then the true purpose of education must be to restore the “original goodness” that man has destroyed and to reinstate the balance between humankind and nature. From this point of view, education is nothing less than a process of salvation, designed to save men from the corrupt society that they inevitably share. How are these aims to be achieved? Rousseau’s prescription can be simply stated: the two aspects of human nature, the private man and the public citizen, must constitute two distinct stages in the educational process. This separation is necessary because of the tremendous gap between these two phases in human life: Natural man is entirely for himself. He is numerical unity, the absolute whole which is relative only to itself or its kind. Civil man is only a fractional unity dependent on the denominator; his value is determined by his relation to the whole, which is the social body. Good social institutions are those that best know how to denature man, to take his absolute existence from him in order to give him a relative one. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 39–40)

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The process of education should therefore consider the dual aspect of human existence and achieve opposing goals: it must first form the man and then the citizen. The critical issue in education thus becomes the transition from childhood to adulthood, the “stormy revolution” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 211) that necessarily brings about the shift from the individual, isolated, self-sufficient man to the public life of the citizen within a political community. Recognition of adolescence as a critical period in education is not unique to Rousseau. All theorists of education since Locke saw the transition from childhood to adulthood as a natural process that necessarily ends in relatively stable adulthood. Rousseau, however, thought that the gap between the child and the adult is almost unbridgeable, for it reveals the existential gap between “man” and “citizen” or, more broadly, between “nature” and “culture.” Addressing this gap thus becomes the focus of Rousseau’s educational philosophy. Here, then, is the essence of Rousseau’s educational program: first, at infancy (from birth to age 5; Emile, book 1), deal only with elementary physical needs of the baby, avoid excessive pampering, and challenge him to contend with various difficulties.3 Later, at childhood (age 5–15; Emile, books 2–3), focus upon bringing up an autonomous person, completely isolated from social responsibilities, taking care of himself alone, without any social obligations or collective duties. Then, at adolescence (age 15–20; Emile, book 4), gradually introduce the child into society, making him accept moral and political responsibility by developing his natural sense of compassion. Finally, at adulthood (age 20–25; Emile, book 5), form a relationship based on love between himself and a woman chosen for him. A successful union of this man and that woman will be the nucleus of a new social order, one based on the principles expounded in the Social Contract. This entire process is perceived as an obedient response to the call of nature. Following nature, as Rousseau constantly repeats, will ensure the desired outcome of education: the resolution of the contradictions between the private and the public aspects of humanity.

NATURAL EDUCATION Rousseau is often considered the foremost propagator of the eighteenth century’s perception of nature, but in fact “nature” was one of the most used (some would say abused) concepts of Enlightenment thought.4 All philosophers since Thomas Hobbes used this term, but it did not have a single accepted definition. The intuitive approach views “nature” as the sphere of untamed savagery and wilderness, which is opposed to “culture,” as the sphere of regulated, organized society. Sometimes, however, “nature” was interpreted as a synonym for the universal order, which includes human beings as well as the social relations among them. Montesquieu, for example, believed that there is a close link between “nature” and “law,” and therefore ecological (especially

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climatic) differences can account for the variations between political systems and social customs across the world (Montesquieu 1748/1964, books 1, 14). Most Enlightenment educational theorists connected nature to education by drawing a parallel between “nature” and the notion of “second nature.” “Second nature” meant an ingrained habit, an acquired trait that is practiced so many times that it becomes deeply fixed in one’s character so as to appear natural. Educational intervention is one of the primary means to instill habits, for it can channel people to fulfill specific goals or social roles. “Of all the men we meet with,” observed John Locke, “nine parts of ten are what they are, good or evil, useful or not, by their education.” The power of education, he maintained, is the creation of habits (or “tendencies”) that determine the direction men will take. Education operates like channels diverting the natural course of rivers: “As in the fountains of some rivers,” explains Locke, “where a gentle application of the hand turns the flexible waters in channels, that make them take quite contrary courses and by this direction given them at first in the source, they receive different tendencies, and arrive at last at very remote and distant places”—so education can divert the child to whatever purpose is chosen by his parents or educators, or by society in general (Locke 1693/2007: 25). Even though Locke and his followers wrote a lot about nature and stressed that nature alone is the proper guide to good education, they did not fully trust nature to achieve an appropriate social environment that would enhance the happiness and well-being of all members of society. The disorderly conduct of children, for example, or the supposedly deviant behavior of the lower classes, was proof of the problematic role of nature and of the urgent need to instill “second nature” in young children, which could lead them to useful and disciplined adulthood. Mainstream Enlightenment educators viewed education primarily as a means to form productive citizens for the state. From their point of view, “second nature,” instilled by education, was actually preferable to children’s original nature because deeply ingrained habits will make it “natural” for them to enter their designated social roles. The radical conclusion from this line of thought—usually associated with the French philosopher Claude Adrien Helvétius (1715–71)5—perceives education as an act of state, by which an all-powerful legislator channels all children to undergo a process of behavioral structuring, acting upon their sensual perceptions and thus making their private, individual wills coincide with the General Will, obviously articulated by the legislator himself (Helvétius 1758, Discourse 2, ch. 17).6 All the intellectual aspects of education, such as learning for the sake of pure knowledge and individual enlightenment, are completely lost in this educational scheme, superseded in favor of the public role of education as the means to supply the state with skilled, useful, and faithful citizens. Rousseau’s unique interpretation of nature was radically opposed to views such as these. According to Rousseau, the primeval “state of nature” (état de

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nature) is uncorrupted by civilization and therefore lacks any kind of social relationships. Natural man, stripped of all attributes derived from social structures, is therefore entirely self-sufficient and self-reliant, completely free from any social obligations. Natural man’s dominant quality is amour de soimême—a natural predisposition to his private well-being and to the protection of his own life. According to Rousseau, the state of nature is not at all a savage and dangerous existence, creating a constant condition of war of “every man against every man” (Hobbes 1651/1981: 185)7 but rather a happy, peaceful condition for humankind. In the state of nature, contends Rousseau, man is “the most advantageously organized of all [creatures].” Natural man is fully independent and self-supporting: “I see him satisfying his hunger under an oak, quenching his thirst at the first stream, finding his bed at the foot of the same tree that furnished his meal; and therewith his needs are satisfied” (Rousseau 1750–4/1964: 105). Natural man needs nothing from others and is free to roam around and do whatever he pleases. He is happy because his natural life creates a perfect balance between his needs and desires. He actually needs nothing that he cannot attain using his natural strength and resources.8 From this it follows that man in the state of nature does not need any education. Whatever he learns, he does so intuitively, based on his experience and concrete needs. “Education,” says Rousseau, “comes to us from nature or from men or from things.” Education from nature means “the internal development of our faculties and our organs.” Hence, he adds, “[education] coming from nature is in no way in our control” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 38). In other words, the natural course of development from childhood to adulthood will take place regardless of formal education that the child might receive. Natural man is not educated in any formal way, yet he is no less a man. From this it follows that the purpose of natural education is to extricate the child in the man, or in other words, to emphasize the child’s (and later, the adult’s) human qualities or his very existence as a living being, regardless of his future profession or social position: Let my student be destined for the sword, the church, the bar. I do not care. Prior to the calling of his parents is nature’s call to human life. Living is the job I want to teach him. On leaving my hands, he will, I admit, be neither magistrate nor soldier nor priest. He will, in the first place, be a man. All that a man should be, he will in case of need know how to be. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 41–2) Rousseau opposed the parallel drawn by Enlightenment education theorists between nature and second nature/habit. Habit, he emphasized, can never replace nature: Nature, we are told, is only habit. What does that mean? Are there not habits contracted only by force which never do stifle nature? Such, for example, is

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the habit of the plants whose vertical direction is interfered with. The plant, set free, keeps the inclination it was forced to take. But the sap has not as a result changed its original direction; and if the plant continues to grow, its new growth resumes the vertical direction. The case is the same for men’s inclinations. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 39) Since nature is never under our control, instilling habits will not change the natural course of development of any person. Even though many habits are forced upon children, these cannot change their fundamental nature. Hence, from Rousseau’s perspective, nature does not consist of the personal traits of specific persons, acquired by instruction or learning. For Rousseau, nature means the universal and unchanging inclinations and qualities that are common to all humankind, including the manner in which human beings perceive and comprehend the world around them. Moreover, for Rousseau, the state of nature lays the foundation of human ethics. Rousseau believed that morality is a natural human trait, not acquired by experience. Moral capability, according to Rousseau, is an inborn, natural quality, and therefore cannot be explained simply by the natural urge to avoid suffering and to be attracted to pleasure. “There is in the depths of souls,” he says, “an innate principle of justice and virtue according to which … we judge our actions and those of others as good or bad. It is to this principle that I give the name conscience” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 289).9 Or in summary: “He who follows conscience obeys nature” (p. 286).

CHILD-CENTERED EDUCATION How close can we get to that “natural man”? Unlike the mainstream of Enlightenment educational thought, Rousseau looked at education not from the adult’s but the child’s perspective. Rousseau views every child as a “natural person” at birth. This interpretation of childhood leads him to develop a childcentered (pedocentric) theory of education. In contrast to most theorists of education, who were “always seeking the man in the child” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 34), Rousseau concentrated on awakening the child in the man. For Rousseau, childhood is a constitutive ideal: the happiness and well-being of children is important because it can serve as a model for the happiness of adults. Childhood, as a representation of the state of nature, expresses man’s original goodness and his natural humaneness. Hence, by observing children, adults can rediscover their original nature and recover their roots as virtuous human beings.10 From this principle of child-centered education follows a radical revision of educational practice. If childhood represents a potential state of nature, then the educator’s problem is how to preserve that state or at least how to lengthen its duration for as long as possible until the right moment comes to introduce the young adult into civic society without causing him any harm and without

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jeopardizing his spirit as a natural man. The solution that Rousseau suggests for lengthening the state of nature during childhood is “negative education” (éducation négative): “the first education,” emphasizes Rousseau, “ought to be purely negative”: It consists not at all in teaching virtue or truth but in securing the heart from vice and the mind from error. If you could do nothing and let nothing be done, if you could bring your pupil healthy and robust to the age of twelve without his knowing how to distinguish his right hand from his left, at your first lessons the eyes of his understanding would open up to reason. Without prejudice, without habit, he would have nothing in him which could hinder the effect of your care. Soon he would become in your hands the wisest of men; and in beginning by doing nothing, you would have worked an educational marvel. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 93–4) Negative education means that Emile does not have a study curriculum: no books, no lessons, and no regular daily schedule. On the contrary, contends Rousseau, “what must be done is to prevent anything from being done” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 41), and practically this means that one must “lose time” in education (p. 141). Rousseau actually abolishes any kind of organized or formal educational system. Emile does not study systematically any school subjects, and even the basics of reading and writing are not taught to him directly. Furthermore, there is no need to instill habits, no need to mold the child’s personality by any deliberate, formal method; finally, there is no need to integrate the child into society. Emile is not a lonely child; he has some friends, but he does not go to school with them. When he plays with them, he thinks only about himself. He makes no attempt to adjust himself to the social situation or to initiate meaningful social ties. Instead of educating Emile in accordance with social practices, the educator wishes his pupil to feel his subordination to nature alone. That means that he is subjected only to necessary needs, which are essential to his very survival. Such needs (eating, for example) cannot be avoided. Death is a similar “necessity” or “constraint,” which cannot be escaped, and the educator dwells at length on the virtues of the natural man, who heeds no doctors, philosophers, or priests and learns how to die peacefully (Rousseau 1762/1979: 54–5). In any case, only basic needs or plain facts of life are deemed “natural”; all the rest are “artificial” in the sense that they are dependent upon social customs and manners.

NATURE DOES NOT CREATE CITIZENS Rousseau stresses several times that it is impossible for humankind to return to the state of nature. The transition from nature to culture is irreversible. “I assume,” he writes in The Social Contract, “that men reach a point where

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the obstacles to their preservation in a state of nature prove greater than the strength that each man has to preserve himself in that state. Beyond this point, the primitive condition cannot endure” (Rousseau 1762/1981: 59).11 The state of society (état social; état civil) is therefore a given condition, which JeanJacques, as educator, must take into account. “Although I want to form the man of nature,” he says, “the object is not, for all that, to make him a savage and to relegate him to the depths of the woods” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 255). Emile is raised in a normal house, he eats cooked food, meets and plays with children his age, and goes to certain events (e.g., the circus; another child’s birthday). There is nothing “natural” in all this. Consequently, “natural education” is not instruction about survival in the wilderness but education for contending with society. At the age of fifteen or sixteen, the child reaches the end of the first stage of education: the formation (or in effect, the re-formation) of the natural man. The boy is a self-sufficient “man”—a young adult, “laborious, temperate, patient, firm, and full of courage … He considers himself without regard to others, and finds it good that others do not think of him. He demands nothing of any one; … He is alone in human society; he counts on himself alone” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 208). At this stage, the educator must lead him to fulfill his duties as a citizen. This is the most critical stage of education because it is so completely opposed to the education of the natural man. The educator knows very well that transforming a man into a citizen cannot be left to the works of nature. Only constant control and supervision by the educator can ensure the success of this problematic transition. Rousseau discusses the issue of control in many of his works. For example, in the Lettre à d’Alembert sur les spectacles (Letter to d’Alembert on the Theater) (1758), he recommends cultural surveillance over the citizens of Geneva to preserve their republican spirit and avoid wasting their time and money on useless, immoral entertainment such as the theatre. But control and supervision is also a significant problem in education, which Rousseau addresses throughout Emile with indirect reference to the Social Contract. The first example is that of the baby attempting to control his parents by his constant crying—a scene that Rousseau interprets as a battle between opposing wills, a battle that the parents must win by regulating the baby’s life and distinguishing between his necessary (and hence natural) needs and childish whims (Rousseau 1762/1979: 49, 68–9).12 Other examples of control are presented in a series of anecdotes describing Emile’s trials as a young child, reacting to several complex situations designed to teach him indirectly about various social conventions and customs. For example, he learns about the right of property by an encounter with a gardener who claims the plot of land where Emile had planted some beans (p. 98–9). In another case he learns about the value of astronomy when he gets lost in the woods and has to

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apply his knowledge of the sun’s position to find his way back to the village (p. 180–1). These anecdotes seem at first to be innocent, thought-provoking examples of natural education because they demonstrate that children will naturally learn anything that provides them with practical knowledge. The answer to the typical pupil’s question “What is it good for?” must always point to the practical aspects of learning. Sitting in a classroom and studying the economic effects of property or the uses of astronomy will achieve nothing. From another perspective, however, all these experiences are exercises in control. Obviously, all these events have been preplanned by the educator. He artificially designed these situations, which his pupil perceives as natural. From the child’s point of view, his reactions to these situations are an implementation of his free will. But from the educator’s perspective, what actually takes place is a controlled experiment. And indeed, many readers of these anecdotes are shocked by Rousseau’s manipulative techniques, which often cause the child anguish and distress. Several commentators pointed out that the educator essentially creates an illusion of free will and that the boy’s freedom of choice is in fact revoked (e.g., Cranston 1991: 178). From the educator’s—that is to say, Rousseau’s—point of view, however, close surveillance over the child is an essential part of his mission to form a citizen. To achieve this, the first stage is to ensure that Jean-Jacques, the educator, is the sole guardian of the child. The “governor” (as Jean-Jacques often calls himself) assumes control over his pupil’s life from infancy to adulthood to lead him to his desired destination. He actually eliminates Emile’s (living!) parents, claiming that “Emile is an orphan. It makes no difference whether he has his father and mother. Charged with their duties, I inherit all their rights. He ought to honor his parents, but he ought to obey only me” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 52–3). Emile’s biological parents do not participate at all in his education. His father is mentioned only once more, when Jean-Jacques asserts his right to choose a wife for Emile. This delicate matter, says the educator, is rightfully his “job” because when Emile’s father agreed to place his child’s education in the educator’s hands he forfeited his fatherly rights: “in confiding his son to me [Emile’s father] yields his place to me, and he substitutes my right to his. I am Emile’s true father; I made him a man” (p. 407). By asserting his right of fatherhood over Emile, the educator/governor is in effect reclaiming the right of total supervision over his disciple, who must now obey him as he would his real father. Rousseau admits quite plainly (and some would say, cynically) that while the child must always do whatever he wants, he must want only what his educator wants. He notes that in most educational processes “the master commands and believes he governs” but “it is actually the child who governs” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 119). Rousseau seeks to reverse this:

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Let him always believe he is the master, and let it always be you who are. There is no subjection so perfect as that which keeps the appearance of freedom. Thus the will itself is made captive. The poor child who knows nothing, who can do nothing, who has no learning, is he not at your mercy? Do you not dispose, with respect to him, of everything which surrounds him? Are you not the master of affecting him as you please? Are you not his labors, his games, his pleasures, his pains, all in your hands without his knowing it? Doubtless he ought to do only what he wants; but he ought to want only what you want him to do. He ought not make a step without your having foreseen it; he ought not to open his mouth without your knowing what he is going to say. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 119–20) Rousseau’s philosophy of education is thus based on a paradox: on the one hand, he supports “natural education” at a pace determined by the child as well as the child’s absolute free will to do whatever he wants. On the other hand, the educator/governor closely controls and regulates his student’s life and environment, planning artificial situations that the student experiences as natural. The educator’s powerful control reaches its peak when he selects the right woman to be loved by Emile (see Figure 2.3). Jean-Jacques presents his choice of Sophie as Emile’s future wife as the work of nature: “It is not I who make this determination [finding a wife for Emile]: it is nature. My job is to find out the choice that nature has made” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 407). But his emphasis on nature does not hide the unnatural reality behind this scheme. After all, to orchestrate this grand final scene of Emile—the love and marriage of Emile and Sophie—there must have been prior contact between JeanJacques and Sophie’s parents. And considering the fact that for the preceding two decades Jean-Jacques was busy with Emile around the clock, when did he find the time for these subtle negotiations, and how was he able to manage Sophie’s education from afar? Rousseau does not provide an explanation to these developments of the plot. Perhaps Rousseau believed that reader who followed Emile’s fate so far is fully convinced that there are no limits to the educator’s ingenuity.13

FROM THE BOURGEOIS TO THE ROMANTIC FAMILY Having found Sophie, however, the educator is now ready to implement his grand plan and utilize the educational process to constitute a new and perfect society that will replace the current corrupt one. According to some interpretations, this is Rousseau’s attempt to adapt his theory—albeit in a roundabout way—to the mainstream of Enlightenment educational thought, which emphasized the inescapable connection between education and the interests of state, interests that Rousseau defines as the General Will (Gill 2010: 213–25).

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Rousseau had already described in his earlier works the contradictions and conflicts that modern culture creates and the distortion of human nature that follows from this condition. The Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes (Discourse on the Origins and Foundations

FIGURE 2.3  Emile, from Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Emile: Or, On Education. Here Emile Is With His Wife To Be Sophie. From Les Maitres De La Sensibilite Francaise Au Xviii Siecle. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)

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of Inequality) (1754) describes human history as a process of decline: man abandoned the uncivilized state of nature, in which he enjoyed absolute freedom and happiness, and constituted the state of society, thus losing his independence, disturbing the original balance between needs and abilities, and agreeing to live in a state of inequality in which the relations between members of society are defined by property and in which natural amour de soi-même is replaced by selfish amour-propre. At “the ultimate stage of inequality” (Rousseau 1750–4/1964: 177) society comprises a body of “bourgeois” citizens who are entirely indifferent to the common good.14 Each person concentrates only on his private needs, which he must satisfy even at the expense of his fellow citizens. Paradoxically, as the bourgeois exploits and manipulates society to attain his private ends, he becomes even more dependent upon it. He is constantly judged by public opinion, and hence defines himself—indeed views his very existence—in relation to others. Consequently he loses his autonomy as a self-contained individual. His amour-propre can never be satisfied because his selfish behavior implies his impossible demand that all others should actually prefer his interests to theirs. The bourgeois is thus the perfect embodiment of the miserable state of society. There is nothing in bourgeois society that can unite its members; there is no common good, no mutual interest, no political vision of a community, no public sphere in which everyone contributes to the general well-being. At the level of the individual household, the bourgeois family imitates the values and tendencies of bourgeois society: all members of the family are engrossed with their private interests and motivated solely by considerations of power and utility. In these families, the differences between the sexes are blurred. Men, women, parents, and children all are defined not in terms of natural qualities but with reference to “social roles” that can be transformed in response to variable situations and changing needs. Since everyone is immersed only in his private affairs, bourgeois families fail to develop close family ties: their children are brought up by hired work, and the casual relationship between men and women, who are not really committed to one another, gradually disintegrates the family, then the community, and finally the state. In contrast with the bourgeois family, Rousseau invents the “romantic family.” Rousseau did not actually use this term, but it is implied in many of his descriptions of ideal family relationships. Unlike the bourgeois family, which is based upon relations of utility and on private interests, the romantic family is based upon a relationship of love between the man and the woman (and later between parents and their children), which to Rousseau’s mind is crucial for the rise and prosperity of the entire political community. But again, as in every other aspect of Rousseau’s philosophy of education, even love is ordered by a tacit agreement, which is, in many aspects, parallel to the social contract declared by the citizens of the state.

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Rousseau is probably the only major philosopher who based his educational doctrine upon sexual desire and the experience of love. Indeed, Allan Bloom contends with some exaggeration that books 4–5 of Emile are “a treatise in sex education” (1979: 15), and Mark Jonas asserts that, for Rousseau, “sex, love, and happiness are inextricably connected” (2016: 145). I would add that, for Rousseau, even politics has a sexual dimension as a motivating force in human affairs, and it is love that finally achieves the unique bonds among the citizens forming a political community. Rousseau’s point of departure is that the family alone can serve as a sound foundation for society. Without the family, society becomes a coincidental collection of individuals absorbed with amour-propre. Because the existence of the family is so crucial for Rousseau, he emphasizes that its survival depends primarily on the actualization of the idea that women be married and mothers. If women desire to be exactly like men and undertake “masculine” occupations (for Rousseau, these would be all public offices in the state), families will not be formed, and human society will disintegrate. That is why the love story between Emile and Sophie, which captivates the readers of the final part of Emile, is an integral part of Rousseau’s philosophy of education. The educator invests much time in orchestrating Emile and Sophie’s meetings and awakening their passions to stimulate their love. They must fulfill their destiny, however, not just as lovers desiring one another but also as people who are designated to achieve a social and moral mission. Emile and Sophie’s encounters during their courtship demonstrate that they are well aware of that mission: They converse with each other enthusiastically about what gives virtue its reward. The sacrifices they make to virtue render it dear to them. In the midst of transports that they must vanquish, they sometimes shed tears together purer than heaven’s dew, and these sweet tears constitute the enchantment of their life. They are in the most charming delirium that human souls have ever experienced. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 426) This flowery, passionate language (Rousseau is often credited with inventing romantic sensibility) has political implications: Emile’s desire is actually diverted from coarse sexuality to sublime concepts such as beauty and virtue. The educator explains at length to his pupil that, lacking virtue, Sophie will not be attracted to him and soon enough might even reject him altogether. Similarly, Emile’s physical satisfaction is dependent upon his lover’s moral qualities. Consequently, sex becomes love until the two are inseparable. As they fall in love with each other, Emile and Sophie signify the constitution of a true union between two free and equal people. When Sophie and Emile finally live together as a family, they will constitute the first unit of a new society free from amourpropre and based upon a General Will that powerfully bonds its members.

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THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN Sophie is not just a woman but “the woman.” We know much more about her than we know about Emile, yet she is not simply a private person but a representation of all women, just as Emile represents all men. Women are first mentioned at the beginning of the book as nannies and wet nurses, as a background to the dominant characters of Emile and his educator, Jean-Jacques. Now women are brought into the forefront: they are the driving force of the plot, and Rousseau constructs the final part of his philosophy of education around the unique properties of women, as he sees them. Contemporary feminist thought often commences with a harsh critique of Rousseau’s opinions about women. He is portrayed as an enemy of women and accused for pursuing an unrestrained, reactionary, and neo-patriarchal gender ideology, which asserts that women are “made to please and to be subjugated [to men]” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 358).15 Rousseau’s description of Sophie and her duties as a woman is no doubt frustrating and even disappointing to the modern reader because Rousseau is otherwise so imaginative, original, and democratic in his outlook. It throws light on the limitations of Enlightenment educational thought and shows that even a critical philosopher such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau could not escape traditional perceptions of the subordination of women to men. Having said that, the instinctive call to disregard Rousseau’s opinions about women and even ban all his work because of such immoral ideas seems to me highly exaggerated.16 Even though many of his ideas on this subject are now unacceptable, one must admit that he was one of the first modern thinkers who systematically defined power relations in society as resulting from gender differences. On this issue—as on so many others—Rousseau was a pioneer whose insights actually laid the foundation for modern feminist thought. It is therefore worthwhile to attempt to understand the matter from his point of view. Rousseau believed that the preservation of the family requires not only that women be married and be mothers but also that they be different from men. If women are viewed as equal to men, the result will be a constant confrontation of identical wills.17 Similarly, if their education and occupations were the same, they would have no need for one another. From that point of view, the education each of them receives should be suited to their different social missions. A woman entering public life, maintains Rousseau, undermines the sphere of male authority and harms her own nature. Similarly, men who are closely in touch with their wives and engage in housework become somewhat effeminate. For Rousseau, there is always a precarious balance between men and women, and thus the rise of women (or of feminine interests) entails the decline of men.18 From this point of view, women’s education should be quite the opposite of men’s education: if Emile learns to think for himself and avoid dependence on others, then Sophie must learn to be completely dependent upon others. Hence

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she learns how to develop her natural capacity to be sensitive to others’ needs and emotions but does not occupy herself with abstract, theoretical learning. She is educated at home, under the supervision of her parents (unlike Emile’s absent parents, Sophie’s father and mother are very active in her upbringing). Her major values are modesty and simplicity, which provide her with an ability to cope with the constant attention directed at her by men. Emile and Sophie’s association thus constitutes a unified “moral person,” with a clear division of responsibilities between them: Emile-the-man is the “theoretical” element and Sophie-the-woman is the “practical” element of this relationship. The clear distinction between the male and the female spheres enables them to consolidate one another: Women’s reason is practical and makes them very skillful at finding means for getting to a known end, but not at finding that end itself. The social relationship of the sexes is an admirable thing. This partnership produces a moral person of which the woman is the eye and the man is the arm, but they have such dependence on one another that the woman learns from the man what must be seen and the man learns from the woman what must be done. If woman could ascend to general principles as well as man can, and if man had as good a mind for details as woman does, they would always be independent of one another, they would live in eternal discord, and their partnership could not exist. But in the harmony which reigns between them, everything tends to the common end; they do not know who contributes more. Each follows the prompting of the other; each obeys, and both are masters. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 377, emphasis added) This is precisely the language of The Social Contract adapted to the family environment. In the political sphere, the General Will unites private individuals in a political society, creating a public “moral person,” which is quite distinct from the private personality of each individual. In a society founded upon the social contract, everyone is sovereign, and, at the same time, everyone obeys, or, in the words of Rousseau, everyone “gives himself to all” but at the same time “gives himself to no one” (Rousseau 1762/1981: 61). Moreover, the General Will “is always rightful and always tends to the public good.” That is the case even if the private wills of its members are different or even opposed to it (p. 72). Each citizen knows well that the General Will is right, and therefore each citizen supports it (or at least, knows that he should support it), thus creating an impression of free choice. Precisely the same scheme is applied at the constitution of Emile and Sophie’s new romantic family: the “moral person” created by their marriage suggests signing a social contract, which is a preliminary stage in the creation of a new community based on their joint (“general”) will. Consequently, creating more

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families modeled upon that principle becomes a crucial precondition for the implementation of the social contract. A colorful description of the conduct of a married couple hosting a dinner party at their home admirably illustrates the gender differences that Rousseau finds in the social comportment of men and women: The husband omits no care in order to be attentive to all. He goes; he comes; he makes his rounds and puts himself out in countless ways; he would like to be all attentiveness. The woman stays put; a little circle forms around her and seems to hide the rest of the gathering from her. However, nothing takes place that she does not notice; no one leaves to whom she has not spoken; she has omitted nothing that could interest everyone; she has said nothing to anyone that was not agreeable to him; and without in any way upsetting the order, the least important person among her company is no more forgotten that the most important. Dinner is served. All go to the table. The man, knowledgeable about who gets along with whom, will seat them on the basis of what he knows. The woman, without knowing anything, will make no mistakes about it. She will have already read, in their eyes and in their bearing, everything about who belongs with whom, and each guest will find himself placed where he wants to be. I do not say that when the food is served, no one is forgotten. But even though the master of the house may have forgotten no one when he passed around the food, his wife goes further and divines what you look at with pleasure and offers you some. In speaking to her neighbor, she has her eye on the end of the table; she distinguishes between the guest who does not eat because he is not hungry, and the one who does not dare to help himself or to ask because he is awkward or timid. On leaving the table, each guest believes that she has thought only of him … When everyone has left, they talk about what has happened. The man reports what was said to him, what those with whom he conversed said and did. It is not always here that the woman is most accurate, but she has seen what was whispered at the other end of the room. She knows what this person thought, to what this remark or that gesture related. Hardly a meaningful gesture was made for which she does not have a ready interpretation, and one almost always in conformity with the truth. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 383–4) At the dinner party, the man applies universal standards, based upon theoretical knowledge that he has acquired, according to which all men are equal. He treats his guests with fairness and impartiality conveying the standard of the General Will, which expresses what is common to all and shared by all. The woman, on the contrary, ignores the resemblances between her guests, focusing her attention on their differences, on the characteristics of behavior that make each one of them unique. She notes private needs rather than public conduct. Together, the husband and wife manage to constitute an intimate community

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around the dinner table, hinting that the same kind of relationship could exist in the general social sphere.19

ROUSSEAU’S EDUCATIONAL LEGACY Most philosophers of education of the late Enlightenment tended to ignore Emile. Perhaps it was because they considered it too dangerous to deal with a book banned by the religious and secular authorities or because they were more interested in practical educational issues such as school organization and curriculum structure, and Rousseau’s work was not useful for them in this respect. Yet there are a few exceptions. The most prominent example is the educational enterprise of the famous Swiss pedagogue Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746– 1827; see Chapter 5, this volume). He was inspired by Rousseau’s Emile and founded several village schools based on the model of “natural” education, adapted, however, not to a single pupil but to a group of young children organized as a self-supporting community.20 If Emile was rather coldly received by professional educators, it was enthusiastically hailed by the broad public. As Robert Darnton has shown, Rousseau was flooded with letters from people who revered his works and looked upon him as an authority in matters of education. As a writer, he had a talent for breaking the barriers between the author and his readers by developing a unique mode of intimate writing, which created an impression of a conversation between the author and his reader (Darnton 1984: 234). Darnton refers especially to the enthusiastic reactions to Rousseau’s romantic epistolary novel, Julie, ou la nouvelle Héloïse, one of the greatest best sellers of the eighteenth century, but he points out that Emile triggered a similar response of profound identification between the readers and the author as well as the fictional protagonists of the book—Emile and Sophie.21 Close reading of Emile has led many readers—men and women alike—to attempt to apply Rousseau’s educational principles to their children and thus turn the imagined pedagogical experiments described in Emile into an actual educational curriculum. Furthermore, there is clear evidence that after the publication of Emile more women of the higher social classes consented to breastfeed their babies—a practice that Rousseau thought was essential for the foundation of a healthy society, for it creates a natural and everlasting bond between mothers and their children.22 Similarly, fathers became more involved in their children’s education. The romantic family, outlined by Rousseau, became an ideal model, which people aspired to achieve. Several couples chose to name their sons “Emile” and their daughters “Sophie”—Pestalozzi named his only son “JeanJacques”—as testimony to their confidence in Rousseau’s methods of “natural” education.23

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In one outstanding case a group of Polish exiles turned to Rousseau in the late 1760s and requested his advice in drafting a new constitution for Poland, a country that at the time was undergoing a series of drastic political crises that threatened its very existence. Rousseau’s response, entitled Considérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne (Considerations on the Government of Poland) (1772), included a short chapter on national education—a topic implied at the beginning of Emile but, perhaps surprisingly, not developed later in that book.24 The Considerations emphasizes the importance of education in the process of forming patriotic citizens, totally devoted to their country. “The newlyborn infant,” stresses Rousseau, “upon first opening his eyes, must gaze upon the fatherland, and until his dying day should behold nothing else.” A true republican, he remarked, is someone whose love for the fatherland “makes up his entire existence” (Rousseau 1772/1972: 19). He goes on to recommend a curriculum that seems entirely opposed to his teachings in Emile: “I should wish him, at ten, to be familiar with everything Poland has produced; at twelve, to know all its provinces … at fifteen, to have mastered his country’s entire history; at sixteen, all its laws.” The student acquires this information by studying a list of basic factual knowledge, a method that Rousseau utterly rejected in Emile (and elsewhere) as harmful to the child (p. 20). Rousseau goes on to praise the role of teachers in nation-building; all teachers must be Poles, he determines, yet he insists that teaching must never be a lifelong occupation, but merely a step, albeit significant, in the career of a civil servant. This is far removed from the image of the educator-governor, totally devoted to his mission and accompanying his single, unique student around the clock from infancy to adulthood. After this vigorous defense of formal, state-controlled education, Rousseau unexpectedly returns to the major principles of “natural” education: “I cannot repeat too often that good education must always be negative education. Choke off vices before they are born, and you will have done on behalf of virtue all that needs doing” (Rousseau 1772/1972: 21). But what is negative education if not the slow process of instructing the individual person, who is free of any patriotic sentiments? We must therefore conclude that, even after about a decade since the publication of Emile, Rousseau was still vacillating within the man/citizen dichotomy that characterized his philosophy of education all along. Rousseau’s indecisiveness in this respect, I think, points to his grave pessimism about the limits of education and to his serious doubts regarding the possibility of implementing his ideas in real situations. Indeed, on the face of it, Emile seems to have a happy ending: Emile enters Jean-Jacque’s room with the joyful news that Sophie is expecting a baby and that he is fully prepared to undertake his duties as a father. Then, in a show of total submission, Emile requests his master to continue his mission, but at a higher level:

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But remain the master of the young masters. Advise us and govern us. We shall be docile.25 As long as I live, I shall need you. I need you more than ever now that my functions as a man begin. You have fulfilled yours. Guide me so that I can imitate you. And take your rest. It is time. (Rousseau 1762/1979: 480) But this final emotional outpour merely highlights the fact that Emile’s educational process has reached its end and that the educator-governor can do no more. It is now up to Emile to apply all that he has learned and to prepare his new family for full citizenship in its community. Yet Rousseau had his doubts. What were the chances that his educational method would succeed? In a short, unfinished sequel to Emile, entitled Emile et Sophie, ou les solitaires (Emile and Sophie, or the Lonely Ones) (posthumously published, 1780), Rousseau tried to imagine his student’s fate after the withdrawal of the educator. The developments that Rousseau imagines are not at all encouraging. Tragic circumstances—the death of Sophie’s parents and that of Emile and Sophie’s baby daughter—cause the couple to move to Paris, where their relationship falls apart. Sophie becomes pregnant by another man, and Emile decides to leave his family and travel southwards. Now that he has neither family nor community, Emile recollects his education as an autonomous, individual man and proves in a series of adventures that he can take care of himself and has no real need of being a member of a family or a political community, not to mention the signing of a social contract. If we may conclude anything from this incomplete and unedited work, it is that Rousseau thought that the first stage of his philosophy of education—the education of the self-sufficient man—has a better chance of succeeding than the second stage, the education of the citizen. Citizenship—which theoretically (perhaps even “naturally”) could advance the constitution of a new society in which private and public wills coincide and neutralize the contradictions of modernity—seems unreachable. Emile’s failure to fulfill the ideal of citizenship proves that this ideal remains unattainable. In the final analysis, then, Rousseau’s major contribution to the philosophy of education was the child-centered aspect of his doctrine, and it is that matter that won the attention of supporters and critics alike. And indeed, while many modern philosophers of education recognized Rousseau’s greatness as a reformer in the field of education, none accepted his ideas as a whole. Jean Piaget (1896–1980), for example, associated Rousseau with the idea of “modern education”—a term that for him was synonymous with “child-centered education.” Yet, according to Piaget, even though it was Rousseau who “gave the key intuitions of modern education,” his ideas were “a-priori philosophical” (i.e., impractical) and it was left to Piaget himself to ground them in a concrete, practical psychological theory of cognitive development

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(Oelkers 2000: 1–2). Similarly, John Dewey (1859–1952) acknowledged that Rousseau introduced “a much-needed reform into education” and praised Rousseau’s emphasis on the active child, but he was skeptical of the idea of natural education as well as the overall emphasis on the individual. “Merely to leave everything to nature,” wrote Dewey, “was, after all, but to negate the very idea of education.” He believed that the unconditional prominence of the individual (“the man”), at least during the first fifteen to sixteen years of education, would surely result in disregarding the essential social aspects of education (Dewey quoted in Mintz 2016: 5; Roosevelt 2011: 283). Contemporary interpretations of Rousseau’s educational philosophy are bound up with the reader’s perception of the Enlightenment and its implications for modern and postmodern society. Just as on the issue of Rousseau’s political heritage, the controversy over his educational legacy revolves around the problem of supervision and control. Rousseau scholars acknowledge the liberating message of his educational and political thought. They emphasize his positive point of departure regarding the inborn goodness of children and praise his progressive ideas of child-centered education freed from school routine as well as his insistence on awakening children’s curiosity and his emphasis upon learning from authentic situations. But at the same time, modern commentators reject Rousseau’s argument that only constant, around-the-clock supervision over every person—minor or adult—will ensure a smooth transition from the “state of nature” of the young child to the “social state” of the adult citizen. For example, Maurice Cranston, Rousseau’s distinguished biographer, does not mince words when he judges Rousseau’s educational methods to be sadistic and deceitful (Cranston 1991: 180–1). The historian Lester Crocker likewise asserts that Rousseau invented “behavioral engineering” and that Emile—the “product” of this method—is in fact “an egocentric, isolated monster” (quoted in Gill 2010: 197). Other critics argue that Emile is a radical dystopian work, designed to justify a totalitarian regime (Rosenow 1980: 212–24).26 The conclusion from such analyses of Rousseau’s philosophy of education is that it never aimed to achieve individual liberty but rather to attain—by means of a carefully controlled process of education—total obedience and subjugation to the educator-governor-legislator. From that point of view there is no significant difference between Rousseau’s perception of education and the totalitarian vision of state education expounded by Helvétius. In both cases, liberty, or free will, is merely the pupil’s sensation, not his reality. Therefore, claim these critics, those who assert that Rousseau advanced a child-centered approach to education are mistaken: it is not the child who is at the center but rather his educator, who is the pedagogical embodiment of the all-powerful state legislator. Similar arguments—this time criticizing not only Rousseau’s philosophy of education but the entire “Enlightenment project”27—have been voiced since

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the 1940s by intellectuals such as Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno of the  Frankfurt School, criticism that was taken up in the 1970s by Michel Foucault and his followers. These critics argue that Enlightenment philosophy never intended to free humanity from the absolute authority of the state but rather to enhance social and political mechanisms of control to enable close surveillance over all citizens. The Enlightenment’s claim to understand or to follow nature is interpreted as a totalitarian aspiration to control nature in order to subordinate it to the powers and interests of man (Horkeimer and Adorno 2002). Foucault described the Enlightenment not as an age of reason and intellectual openness but rather as a harsh period of “Great Confinement” (Le grand renfermement) (Foucault 1961/2006: 44–77), which in the name of rationality cruelly suppressed and placed in prisons all people who were defined as deviating from social norms—the mentally ill, vagrants, heretics, and prostitutes. The humanistic, liberating message of the Enlightenment is interpreted as a punitive system of control and surveillance. Rousseau appears in postmodern thought not as a critic of the major Enlightenment premises (e.g., the idea of progress) or as opponent of modernity but rather as the Enlightenment’s most radical supporter and as the greatest and most enthusiastic adherent to its rationalist approach. Reading Rousseau from a postmodern perspective presents his educational-political theories as extremely conservative, with a declared aim to narrow human freedom and turn all people into obedient citizens. These critics underline that Rousseau’s manipulative techniques exemplify the dark side of the Enlightenment, the liberating message of which was essentially limited to a relatively small group of men (certainly not women) who rejected and suppressed all opinions and social classes that deviated from their own. A full discussion of these attacks on Rousseau and the Enlightenment is beyond the scope of this chapter, yet even this negative evaluation of Rousseau’s philosophy identifies him as one of the key figures of the Enlightenment, a figure whose educational ideas continue to attract not only pedagogues but also historians, philosophers, and sociologists of education. All agree that Rousseau’s educational philosophy marks the dawn of our modern preoccupation with childhood. Matters such as the desired balance between a child’s right to realize his natural capacities versus the state’s demand to be provided with loyal and useful citizens, the limits of disciplinary action against children at home or at school versus the child’s right to exercise free will, the question of optimal learning environments, problems concerning the desire of the state for uniformity in education contrasted with the rights of specific communities to influence curricula—all these issues and more find answers in Rousseau’s educational philosophy. Furthermore, even if one does not accept all of Rousseau’s conclusions or even rejects them altogether, there is no doubt that studying his philosophy of education always leaves a strong and continuous

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impression and gives rise to new ideas and initiatives in the field of education, which is so vital for social well-being.

NOTES   1 The most famous of Rousseau’s rivals was Voltaire, who never missed an opportunity to ridicule Rousseau and present him as mentally unstable and an enemy of civilization. Rousseau describes many of his clashes with Voltaire in his Confessions (Rousseau 1782/1982: 369–70; see also Shklar 1985: 221).   2 The question proposed by the Academy of Dijon in 1750 was: “Has the restoration of the sciences and art tended to purify morals?” Rousseau’s Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts won first prize for its negative reply to the Academy’s question.   3 Rousseau distiguishes between the education of men and women. This part of the chapter deals with his view on the education of boys. The education of girls is discussed in another section.   4 The word “nature” appears 707 times in Emile alone.   5 Helvétius is known for his saying “l’éducation peut tout” (education can do anything).   6 For an excellent presentation and analysis of Helvétius’s educational thought, see Gill (2010: 162–80).   7 Hobbes famously describes life in the state of nature as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (1651/1981: 186).   8 For a detailed discussion of Rousseau’s concept of happiness, see Gilead (2012); this entire issue of Educational Theory is dedicated to Rousseau’s educational philosophy.   9 Rousseau sometimes uses other terms: voix intérieur, lumière intérieur, and sentiment intérieur. 10 William Wordsworth (1770–1850), an avowed follower of Rousseau, beautifully articulates this idea in his poem My Heart Leaps Up (1802): “My heart leaps up when I behold / A rainbow in the sky: / So was it when my life began; / So is it now I am a man; / So be it when I shall grow old, / Or let me die! / The Child is father of the Man; / And I could wish my days to be / Bound each to each by natural piety” (emphasis added). 11 Compare Rousseau (1750–4/1964: 142). 12 The usage of the term “will” (volonté) is typical of the political discourse in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The king’s will is often defined as a “general will” because it represents not the king’s private wishes but the general interests of the state. 13 Some scholars would see my remark here as an inaccurate interpretation of Rousseau’s work. They suggest that Rousseau did not intend Emile to be read as a realistic account of a young boy’s educational experience but rather as a fantasy or fable intended to instruct the reader about the philosophical aspects of education; see Lewis (2012). It is true that Rousseau sometimes describes Emile as a novel (especially in book 5, narrating the love story of Emile and Sophie; see, for example, Rousseau 1782/1982: 483), yet I think that in all his obviously fictional pedagogical experiments he is trying to enact realistic situations and offer realistic solutions. 14 The term “bourgeois” is Rousseau’s; see Rousseau (1762/1979: 40). See also Allan Bloom’s (1979: 4–5) introduction to his translation of Emile. Rousseau’s usage of

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the term “bourgeois” lays the foundations for socialist thought in the nineteenth century. For contemporary feminist thought about Rousseau, see Lange (2002). It is important to note that criticism of Rousseau’s attitude toward women was already voiced in the eighteenth century, when the issue of women’s rights was discussed in the context of the American and French revolutions. Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–97), Rousseau’s bitterest rival, called for providing women with the same education as men and constituting society based not on the differences between men and women but on reason, common to both. Her major works on these issues are Thoughts on the Education of Daughters (1786) and A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792). Similarly, a common reaction against reading Emile is that Rousseau, having abandoned his five children (placing them in an orphanage at their birth), has no right to give any advice about education. I have shown elsewhere that Emile can be interpreted as Rousseau’s attempt to atone for his dreadful deed; see Hofman (2009: 8–12). “Equal,” in Rousseau’s language, means “identical” or “the same as.” Compare this discussion to the Rousseau’s analysis of the relationship between men and women in Letter to d’Alembert on the Theater: female domination in the theatre results in effeminate men, who give up their power to succeed with women (Rousseau 1758/1982: 47–51). Marso (2002) suggests that the dinner party episode proposes two opposing models of citizenship: the first (represented by the man) is that of the uniform General Will, based on what is common to all; the second (represented by the woman) is a “subversive” model of an “inclusive” democracy, giving room to separate private wills as well as to various beliefs and customs. Marso’s interpretation is intriguing, but it seems to me that it would have no meaning for Rousseau. The idea of a democratic community based not on similarities but upon the inclusion of differences is a modern idea, which Rousseau, with his absolutist mindset, could not understand. On Pestalozzi, see Boyd and King (1973: 264–5) and Gill (2010: 318–23). There are several parallels between Emile and Julie, ou la nouvelle Héloïse. The plot of the latter is about the unattainable love between Julie and her educator, SaintPreux. The entire book can be interpreted as a conversation on education in which Saint-Preux lectures on his pedagogical principles. As expected, these are in line with Rousseau’s ideas in Emile. Similarly, Julie’s confession of love to Saint-Preux is closely connected to the “Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar”—a long digression about faith and religion in Emile, book 4. Emile’s Sophie is no doubt Julie’s upgraded double—less intellectual, more of “a woman”—and Jean-Jacques and Emile together are a partial reconstruction of Saint-Preux—this time successful in realizing his love and desires. “Let mothers deign to nurse their children, morals will reform themselves, nature’s sentiments will be awakened in every heart, the state will be repeopled” (Rousseau 1762/1979: 46). Darnton (1984: 235–42) describes the attempts of Jean Ranson, a merchant from La Rochelle, to educate his three children (one of them named Emile) according to Rousseau’s ideas. In Emile, Rousseau (1762/1979: 40) gives a few examples of patriotic citizens of ancient Greece and Rome so completely absorbed in the love of their country that they neglect their private interests. The most peculiar—perhaps bizarre—example is

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of a Spartan woman whose five sons were killed in battle yet she nonetheless praises the gods for making Sparta victorious. 25 The phrase “We shall be docile” in the French source is “Nous serons dociles,” which could be more accurately translated in this context as “We shall be submissive.” 26 Compare Rosenow’s discussion to Talmon’s critique of the Social Contract (Talmon 1955, pt. 1, ch. 3). 27 The expression “Enlightenment project” is Alasdair MacIntyre’s, who identifies the Enlightenment Project as the “project of an independent rational justification of morality” (1981: 38).

REFERENCES Primary sources Helvétius, Claude Adrien (1758), De l’Esprit, Paris: Durand. Hobbes, Thomas (1651/1981), Leviathan, ed. C.B. Macpherson, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Locke, John (1693/2007), Some Thoughts Concerning Education, ed. John William Adamson, Mineola, NY: Dover Publications. Montesquieu (1748/1964), De l’Esprit des lois, in Oeuvres completes, 527–795, Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1750–4/1964), The First and Second Discourses (Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts and Discourse on the Origin and Foundations of Inequality among Men), trans. Roger D. Masters, New York: St. Martin’s Press. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1758/1982a), Politics and the Arts: Letter to M. d’Alembert on the Theatre, trans. Allan Bloom, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762/1981), The Social Contract, trans. Maurice Cranston, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762/1979), Emile, or On Education, trans. Allan Bloom, New York: Basic Books. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1772/1972), The Government of Poland, trans. Willmoore Kendall, New York: Bobbs-Merrill. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1782/1982b), The Confessions, trans. J.M. Cohen, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.

Secondary sources Bloom, Allan (1979), “Introduction,” in Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile, or On Education, trans. Allan Bloom, 3–29, New York: Basic Books. Boyd, William and Edmund J. King (1973), The History of Western Education, New York: Harper & Row. Cranston, Maurice (1991), The Noble Savage: Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 1754–1762, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Darnton, Robert (1984), “Readers Respond to Rousseau: The Fabrication of Romantic Sensitivity,” in Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History, 215–56, New York: Basic Books. Foucault, Michel (1961/2006), History of Madness, trans. J. Khalfa and J. Murphy, New York: Routledge. Gilead, Tal (2012), “Rousseau, Happiness, and the Economic Approach to Education,” Educational Theory, 62 (3): 267–85.

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Gill, Natasha (2010), Educational Philosophy in the French Enlightenment: From Nature to Second Nature, Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Hofman, Amos (2009), “Introduction: Nature, Love and Politics in Rousseau’s Educational Thought,”in Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile [Hebrew translation], 1–98, Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Horkheimer, Max and Theodor W. Adorno (2002), Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. Edmund Jephcott, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Jonas, Mark E. (2016), “Rousseau on Sex Roles, Education and Happiness,” Studies in Philosophy of Education, 35: 145–61. Lange, Lynda, ed. (2002), Feminist Interpretations of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Lewis, Tyson E. (2012), “Rousseau and the Fable: Rethinking the Fabulous Nature of Educational Philosophy,” Educational Theory, 62 (3): 323–41. MacIntyre, Alasdair (1981), After Virtue, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Marso, Lori J. (2002), “Rousseau’s Suversive Women,” in Lynda Lange (ed.), Feminist Interpretations of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, University Park: Pensylvania State University Press. Mintz, Avi I. (2016), “Dewey’s Ancestry, Dewey’s Legacy, and the Aims of Education in Democracy and Education,” European Journal of Pragmatism and American Philosophy, 8 (1). https://doi.org/10.4000/ejpap.437. Oelkers, Jürgen (2000), “Rousseau and the Image of ‘Modern Education’,” Lecture given at the annual meeting of the Philosophy of Education Society of Great Britain, University of Oxford, April 15. Available online: https://www.ife.uzh.ch/dam/ jcr:ffffffff-bb47-55f9-ffff-ffffeb30e384/Rousseauandtheimage.pdf. Roosevelt, Grace (2011), “Reconsidering Dewey in a Culture of Consumerism: A Rousseauean Critique,” Philosophy of Education Yearbook: 283–91. Rosenow, Eliyahu (1980), “Rousseau’s Emile, an Anti-Utopia,” British Journal of Educational Studies, 28 (3): 212–24. Shklar, Judith (1985), Men and Citizens: A Study of Rousseau’s Social Theory, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Talmon, J.L. (1955), The Origins of Totalitarian Democracy, London: Secker & Warburg.

CHAPTER THREE

Educational Legacies of the French Enlightenment GRACE G. ROOSEVELT

INTRODUCTION Imagine a neuroimaging machine that could magically record the intensities of collective mental energy across time and space.1 Were such a machine able electronically to reproduce the historical results, the visual graphics would reveal especially intense intellectual activity flashing across western Europe and North America from 1715 to 1795. In France the impressive output of Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu, Buffon, and Diderot would show up as distinctive spikes of light. Combined with the intellectual productivity of Smith, Hume, Gibbon, and Burke in England and Scotland; the original literary works of Beccaria, Genovesi, and Vico in Italy; the creativity of von Humboldt, Herder, Kant, and Goethe in German-speaking states; and the writings of Franklin, Paine, Hamilton, Madison, and Jefferson in North America, the total intellectual productivity of eighteenth-century philosophers, scientists, economists, essayists, statesmen, and historians would fire up our screens with dazzling bursts of illumination. As the familiarity of names in the above paragraph indicates, the legacies of the historical period we call the “Enlightenment” are broad and deep. Together with the series of political revolutions following in the Enlightenment’s wake, the world that emerged after the eighteenth century was a very different world from the one that preceded it. Indeed, it can be argued that the intellectual heritage we have received from Enlightenment thinkers was responsible for

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many of the assumptions about democratic governance, free market economics, social equality, the rule of law, scientific reasoning, and the possibilities for human progress that continue to shape modern thinking today (Darnton 2003; Gay 1969; Israel 2006). Equally significant are the Enlightenment’s contributions to today’s assumptions about education, particularly our faith in the ability of education to transform personal and social life. This chapter’s focus is the educational inheritance we have received from the eighteenth-century Enlightenment in France. In all cultures, at all times, adults have passed on to their children the knowledge, skills, and dispositions deemed necessary for individual survival and social cohesion. But in France during the Enlightenment a group of thinkers known as philosophes developed a rich source of ideas we now assume to be fundamental to educational theory and practice. The eighteenth-century philosophes were often not professional philosophers in the academic sense. Rather, they were men of letters, or what we might today call public intellectuals, interested in how the world works and why people turn out the way they do. The most famous philosophe to write about education in the eighteenth century was Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who accordingly is given a separate chapter in this volume. While Rousseau’s Emile offers a provocative account of an individual’s learning and development, the book tells us little about social learning or the  purpose of schools. In this chapter, the brief overview that follows describes the educational thought of Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet—three philosophes whose writings provided a seedbed for the modern systems of public, secular, and utilitarian education that predominate in the Western world today. Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet were deeply influenced by the educational writings of the seventeenth-century philosopher John Locke (see Chapter 1, this volume), and all three sought to reform educational practice in ways that would foster both personal happiness and social progress. The three thinkers differed, however, in how they used Locke’s ideas to promote their own visions of reform. Condillac was one of the first philosophes to stress the importance of Locke’s scientific insights about sensory learning, and his writings indirectly influenced today’s assumptions about creating richly stimulating environments in which young children could learn. Helvétius took Locke’s insights further by suggesting that, given the similarity of the sense organs with which all children are born, every child has an equal endowment for learning, and therefore all differences in human beings, including their social status, are due to the inequality of educational resources to which they are exposed. Condorcet, a philosophe writing during the French Revolution, used Locke’s philosophy to argue explicitly for a system of public education that would provide enlightened schooling to all children (including girls) and working-class adults, thereby stimulating social progress for the nation as a whole. Although many other writers contributed to the French Enlightenment’s conversations

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about education (Gill 2010), I argue here that Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet best represent the era’s most lasting legacies. Because of the different ways they applied Locke’s epistemology to educational concerns, Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet also differed in their fates as writers. The relative abstractness of Condillac’s writings did not lead to any negative personal consequences, but the more controversial writings of Helvétius and Condorcet resulted in them being ostracized and, in Condorcet’s case, dying in prison (see Figure 3.1). All three of the philosophes reviewed in this chapter spent most of their lives in or near Paris. They knew of each other’s work and had met each other while attending one of Parisian high society’s salons. The French word salon means “living room,” but in the eighteenth century it referred to regularly scheduled gatherings held in socially prominent women’s homes for the purpose of intellectual stimulation. Salonières, the hostesses of these events, invited writers, mathematicians, historians, philosophers, and educators for an afternoon or evening of discussion, sometimes on a topic chosen by the hostess. Perhaps we may think of Parisian salons as a form of eighteenth-century social media.

FIGURE 3.1  Death of Condorcet, 29 March 1794. Marie-Jean-Antoine-Nicolas Caritat, Marquis de Condorcet, 1743–1794. French mathematician, philosopher and politician during the French revolution. From an engraving after E. Viollat. From “Histoire de la Revolution Francaise” by Louis Blanc. (Photo by Universal History Archive/Getty Images)

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FIGURE 3.2  Portrait of Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714–1780), French philosopher, engraving by Charles Chardon (1858–1929). (DEA Picture library/Getty Image)

In what follows, the educational legacies of Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet will be discussed along with some information about their personal lives. More general questions about the legacies of the French Enlightenment as a whole, including its shadow side, will be the focus of the final section of the chapter.

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EXPERIENTIAL LEARNING: CONDILLAC ON THE FIVE SENSES AS THE SOURCE OF KNOWLEDGE Go into any toy store today, and in the section devoted to infants and toddlers you will see a vast array of brightly colored objects. Plastic balls with bells inside, teething rattles in different shapes, stacking cups and sorting boxes, plush animals that make noises when squeezed—nearly everything on display is explicitly aimed at stimulating the child’s senses. Among the most popular first books for young children is the classic Pat the Bunny, which encourages the child to reach out and touch the bunny’s fluffy cotton back and even to smell the flowers in a bouquet made by scented padding hidden between the pages. The use of physical objects to foster learning is not limited to a child’s early years. In elementary math classes teachers use colored rods and other manipulatives to teach basic numerical concepts. In secondary school children learn science by observing natural phenomena under microscopes, and they gain an understanding of literature by watching videos of the classics. The assumption that children’s intelligence can be developed through sensory experience has become commonplace in today’s understanding of human development. It was not always so. Prior to the eighteenth century, European children were not without toys—depictions of children from ancient times up through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance show them often playing with a ball, a hoop, or a doll—but toys were seen to have a diversionary rather than a pedagogical role in children’s lives.2 Indeed, religious teachings generally stressed the need to counter the influence of the senses, which were thought to be part of the Christian burden of original sin. The idea that cognitive development actually originates with sense experience goes back to Locke in the seventeenth century and received its clearest expression in the twentieth century through the popular influence of Maria Montessori (Boyd 1914). The story of Condillac’s role in that evolution is the focus of this section. The history of the idea that learning occurs through sensory experience includes an account of Condillac’s friendship with Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the seminal ideas of an unknown eighteenth-century woman scholar, and the education of a feral child who was discovered in the south of France in 1799. But all of this must be prefaced by a brief look at the educational context within which Locke’s Enlightenment followers were writing. In eighteenth-century France, at least until the revolutionary period, most primary and secondary education was under the control of religious orders, most notably the Jesuits (Society of Jesus). Drill in Greek and Latin in the elementary years and three years studying Aristotelian philosophy were the norm. The pedagogical practices that dominated the system are evident in Condillac’s critique of the educational orthodoxies of his time.3 In an excerpt from his Dictionnaire des synonymes (Dictionary of Synonyms), which he wrote

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while working as a tutor for the young Duke of Parma, Condillac took aim at the scholasticism that still pervaded much of educational practice. “The child’s memory is burdened with things he is kept from understanding,” Condillac observes. He “learns by heart the old copy books dragged in the dust of the school” then enters the world “a dull blockhead, unless nature has been stronger than education” (Condillac quoted in Knight 1968: 198). The mere memorization of facts provided by external authorities, Condillac suggested, was not true learning. Even more problematical for the generation that came of age in France in the mid-eighteenth century than the stress on memorization was the stress that scholastic educational systems put on abstract reasoning as the starting point for inquiry. Francis Bacon and Isaac Newton in England had already called into question the rationalist thinking of Plato and René Descartes. As exemplary figures in what was later called a “scientific revolution,” Bacon and Newton held that the search for truth must start with observed facts rather than abstract propositions. Condillac was well aware of the new trends. In a chapter of his 1749 Treatise on Systems entitled “On the Uselessness of Abstract Systems” Condillac supported the new science and sharply criticized the idea that it is possible to begin any investigation with general principles “engraved” in our souls by God and then deduce from these innate principles a valid knowledge of the world. This assumption goes against common sense and our own experience, he argues. “Some of these [general] principles lead nowhere, and … others lead only to error. However, there you have the whole art of abstract systems” (Condillac 1982: 7–8). As the chapter on Locke in this volume makes clear, John Locke provided his eager Enlightenment readers with a way to get beyond “the uselessness of abstract systems” and to see possibilities for a new science of education. While Locke’s 1693 book entitled Some Thoughts Concerning Education was of interest to eighteenth-century thinkers (especially those like Condillac and Rousseau who had tutored children of the aristocracy), it was his earlier 1689 work, the Essay Concerning Human Understanding, that caused a sea change in the way that education was viewed (Boyd 1914; Cumming 1955; Gay 1969; Gill 2010; Grandière 1998; Knight 1968; Lane 1979; Williams 2004). In book 1, chapter 2, entitled “No Innate Principles in the Mind,” Locke took issue with the prevailing scholastic epistemology that human beings are born knowing certain things—that knowledge is somehow innate: “It is an established Opinion amongst some Men,” he says, “that there are in the Understanding certain innate Principles; some primary Notions, … Characters, as it were stamped upon the Mind of Man, which the Soul receives in its very first Being; and brings into the World with it.” It is this supposition that Locke aimed to challenge. The purpose of his present work, Locke asserted, was to show “how Men, barely by the Use of their natural Faculties, may attain to all the Knowledge they

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have, without the help of any innate Impressions; and may arrive at Certainty, without any such Original Notions or Principles” (1975: 48). Locke supported his case against innate ideas first by making the point that there are no universal principles, either speculative or practical, on which all men can agree. He then pointed out that “if we will attentively consider new born Children, we shall have little Reason to think that they bring many Ideas into the World with them … especially of Ideas answering the Terms which make up those universal Propositions that are esteemed innate Principles” (1975: 85). This prepared the way for his main assertion—that at birth our minds are like a blank slate, a mental tabula rasa, and that “experience” is the source of all of human understanding. Let us then suppose the Mind to be, as we say, white Paper, void of all Characters, Without any Ideas; How comes it to be furnished? Whence comes it by that vast store, which the busy and boundless fancy of Man has painted on it, with an almost endless variety? Whence has it all the materials of Reason and Knowledge? To this I answer, in one word, from Experience; In that, all our Knowledge is founded; and from that it ultimately derives it self. (1975: 10) In elaborating on what he meant by “experience” Locke suggested that the source of human understanding is first and foremost sense experience—the experience of seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling objects in the external world. Locke added, however, that a mental faculty he termed “reflection” combines the data of our sense perceptions to produce more complex and abstract ideas. “Our Observation employ’d either about external, sensible Objects; or about the internal Operations of our Minds, perceived and reflected on by our selves, is that, which supplies our Understandings with all the materials of thinking.” “These two”—sensation and reflection—he asserted, “are the Fountains of Knowledge, from whence all the Ideas we have, or can naturally have, do spring” (1975: 104). Like other gifted thinkers who came of age toward the middle of the eighteenth century, Étienne Bonnot, Abbé de Condillac (1714–80) was deeply taken with Locke’s radically new empiricist propositions about the origin of human knowledge. Condillac was a slow starter as a child and did not learn to read until the age of twelve—a fact on which Rousseau later commented in arguing that parents should not be too quick to assess their child’s intelligence at an early age (Rousseau 1978: 107n29). Condillac was conventionally educated near Grenoble by a local curé and then in Lyon by the Jesuits. He completed his formal education by studying theology at the Sorbonne, but soon thereafter he became dissatisfied with his limited learning and began reeducating himself by reading the great philosophers of the seventeenth century. As Isabel F. Knight points out in her biography of Condillac, Locke’s Essay Concerning

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Human Understanding had been translated into French in 1700, and “Condillac seized upon it eagerly, adopting Locke’s empiricism as the basis for his own philosophy” (Knight 1968: 7–8). Condillac saw immediately both the strengths and the weaknesses of Locke’s work, and by 1746 he had drafted his own Essay on the Origin of Human Knowledge. The title alone indicates the degree to which Condillac was selfconsciously following the pathway of Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding. But the slight differences in the wording of the titles suggest that, while indebted to Locke, Condillac was striking out on his own. By including “Origin” in his title, Condillac shows that his aim is to lay out more precisely than Locke how cognition develops; the word also suggests that he is positing just one source of cognition, not two, as Locke had done by allowing for both sensation and reflection.4 Condillac’s aim was thus to clarify, extend, and deepen the epistemological theory that Locke, in Condillac’s view, had pursued only “sporadically” (1987: 426). Condillac’s primary concern was to rid Locke’s theory of its suggested dualism by insisting that all knowledge comes from sense impressions, and that what Locke had called “reflection” is actually derived from those original impressions. He takes the reader through a step-by-step analysis of what philosophers would later refer to as “sensationist” (or “sensationalist”) epistemology by beginning with the sense perceptions that result from the action of external objects on the senses: “A little attention reveals that perceptions of light, color, solidity, and other sensations are more than sufficient to yield all the ideas we commonly have of objects.” At this point “it is certain that this first level of knowledge must have a range coextensive with the variety of sensations we experience” (1987: 436). Here Condillac is arguing that the only things we can know are those that we have directly experienced through our sense organs. Condillac then sets forth the argument that the mind is aware of all of its perceptions—even if some of our perceptions are pushed aside by others—and he calls the feeling that gives the mind its awareness “consciousness” (1987: 443–4). Interestingly, in his discussion of the ways that some perceptions become “forgotten” by consciousness, Condillac comes quite close to what Freud later called the “unconscious” (Gay 1989: 572). Perceptions that relate “more to our temperament, emotions, and general state” tend to “strike us with greater force” and attract our attention; if such perceptions recur, consciousness represents them as “belonging to us,” and they take the form of “reminiscence” (Condillac 1987: 447). Condillac builds upon these concepts, arguing that perceptions are preserved in the mind even in the absence of the objects that occasioned them. The “bonds” (or what would today probably be referred to as “associations”) formed between such perceptions ultimately give rise to more complex operations such as imagination, contemplation, and memory (Condillac 1987: 451–2). Here he

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emphasizes that our individual needs determine the things to which we attend, and hence our perceptions too “are like a series of fundamental ideas to which we relate everything we know.” He uses the metaphor of a “chain” to describe these cognitive linkages: Connected with a need is the idea of something that will satisfy it, and this idea is connected with the place where the thing is found; to this place is connected the idea of persons that we have seen there; to the idea of these persons, the ideas of our past pleasures or pains and several others. (1987: 453–4) As is evident from passages such as this one, the psychology of modern advertising has its roots in the associationist psychology that Condillac and others derived from Locke. In spelling out the steps in the origins of human knowledge that he believed were insufficiently developed in Locke’s Essay, Condillac gives close attention to the development of language. His theory of language cannot be examined here, but it is interesting to note that both Diderot and Rousseau produced work on the origin of languages at approximately the same time that Condillac did—Diderot published his Lettre sur les aveugles (Letter on the Blind) in 1749, and Rousseau drafted the beginning of his Essai sur l’origine des langues (Essay on the Origin of Languages) in 1753. The overlapping interests of the three philosophes are not surprising, since we know from Rousseau’s Confessions that as newcomers to Paris he and Diderot and Condillac dined regularly together at the Hôtel du Panier Fleuri near Palais-Royal. Indeed, it was Rousseau’s friendship with Diderot that led to the publication of Condillac’s Essay. Condillac was having a hard time finding a publisher (Rousseau points out that “metaphysics” at that time was “very little in fashion”), but Rousseau told Diderot about Condillac’s work, and Diderot soon found someone who would publish it, for which Condillac was grateful (Rousseau 1995: 291). Although Condillac’s Essay provides the most compelling exposition of his sensationist philosophy, it is his 1754 Treatise on Sensations that is most commonly anthologized and most significant in terms of the history of ideas. In the Treatise Condillac uses the thought experiment of a “statue man” to show systematically how the progressive awakening of each of the five sense organs— from smell to hearing, taste, sight, and touch—can eventually bring to life and full consciousness a body that was originally without any thought or ideas. With the first awakening of the sense of smell, the statue becomes preoccupied by the singular sensation of the scent of a rose; with that sensation comes attention, and subsequently sensations of pleasure and pain. Additional stimuli to the sense of smell make possible memory, then comparison of sensations, and eventually judgment and desire. Condillac proceeds to elaborate on the

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expanded consciousness that devolves from each separate sense and from its combinations with other senses. Interestingly, it is the sense of touch that eventually enables the statue man to be conscious of himself as distinct from the rest of the external world and thereby to have what Condillac identified as a human soul (Knight 1968: 97–9). The Treatise ends with Condillac’s speculations about a feral child who was discovered in the forests of Lithuania in 1694 (Condillac 1982: 153–339). As with his Essay, Condillac’s Treatise seems to have benefited from the outreach of close friends, but this time the help came not from a soonto-be well-known philosopher but from a woman friend whose identity has thus far disappeared from history. In a “Dedication to the Countess of Vasse” at the beginning of the Treatise, Condillac’s prose becomes effusive as he acknowledges the help of a mutual friend of the Countess, the deceased Mademoiselle Ferrand, whom he credits for the inspiration and the fine points of his Treatise. “Its sharpest insights are due to the soundness of her mind and to the liveliness of her imagination,” he writes. Indeed it was she who “felt the necessity of considering our senses separately, of distinguishing precisely the ideas that we owe to each, and of observing how they instruct and help each other.” But Condillac is quick to assert her modesty in this undertaking: “She did not realize she was becoming an author … If she had taken up her pen herself, this work would be a better proof of her talents. But her delicacy did not allow her even to think of it” (1987: 170–2). Condillac’s comments indicate that while eighteenth-century women were beginning to be appreciated for their intellectual gifts, they were often bound to silence by the conventional norms of “delicacy” expected of their gender. Condillac’s educational legacy Condillac’s reflections on education did not end with the publication of his Treatise on Sensations. In 1758 he was hired by the French court to become a tutor for a young Spanish Bourbon prince in Parma, Italy. Over the next several years Condillac produced an eighteen-volume Cours d’études (Course of Studies) that recorded both the content and the methodology of his teaching. As Isabel Knight points out, although he made efforts to apply his own epistemological convictions to the curriculum, overall “there were few novelties” in Condillac’s practice as a teacher (Knight 1968: 225), and the Cours d’études was seldom read. Condillac’s earlier thought experiment with the “statue man” continued to have a great influence, however, not only on Rousseau—whose Emile includes a series of sensory exercises for his imaginary pupil in book 2 (1978: 125, 133, 139–57; Knight 1968: 225)—but also on Jean-Marc Itard, whose later writings were a major inspiration for Maria Montessori, particularly her development of the didactic materials that exemplify the use of sensory education today.

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The history of that influence can be traced to the fall of 1799 when a naked and disheveled preadolescent boy was discovered in the woods of Aveyron in the south of France. “The Wild Boy of Aveyron” was captured and brought to the Institution for Deaf-Mutes in Paris, where he soon drew the attention of Itard, a physician whose own work with the deaf had drawn heavily on Condillac’s account of how one sense works in combination with another. Itard took the boy into his home and for the next five years devoted his life to trying to make him into a fully functioning adult. With Condillac’s work in mind (Itard 1962: 55), Itard created handmade drums to stimulate the child’s hearing, used shape-matching exercises to improve his sight, and fashioned wooden cut-outs of alphabet letters to enable the child to spell out the word “LAIT” (MILK) when he wanted a glass of milk. Although he never learned to speak, Victor (as the boy was named because “O” was one of the first sounds to which he responded) eventually learned to communicate his needs. Itard kept a detailed journal of his work with Victor, thus providing modern readers with a compelling 200-year-old case study of the ways that Condillac’s ideas have been put into practice. Beyond its value as a fascinating story (as evidenced by the success of François Truffaut’s classic film The Wild Child),5 Itard’s work has an important place in the history of educational thought (Boyd 1914; Lane 1979; Shattuck 1981). Itard’s student, Edouard Séguin, developed techniques for working with children with disabilities, and his work had a deep influence on Maria Montessori. She came to believe that the educational methods she learned directly from Séguin and indirectly from Itard “contained principles more rational” than those currently in use with normal children and that “similar methods applied to normal children would develop or set free their personality in a marvelous and surprising way.” “Guided by the work of these two men,” she writes, “I had manufactured a great variety of didactic material” (Montessori 1912: 31–5). As is well known, the schools that bear Montessori’s name today are famous for the range of sensory objects (i.e., “didactic material”) that are systematically used to stimulate children’s learning. Among these materials are wooden alphabet letters similar to those created by Itard to educate “The Wild Boy of Aveyron.” Further, such sensory materials are not limited to Montessori classrooms. Brightly colored plastic imitations of the Itard–Montessori alphabetletter shapes, with magnetic backing, decorate the refrigerator doors of many families with young children today. Classrooms across the industrialized world contain manipulatives and visuals, and teachers of general education and special education are trained to include a variety of sensory experiences in their lesson planning. As Harlan Lane’s work on the Wild Boy of Aveyron acknowledges, Condillac’s writings remain one of the main “tributaries” of modern education (1979: 285).

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EDUCATIONAL EQUALITY: HELVÉTIUS ON THE BELIEF THAT ALL CHILDREN CAN LEARN Isabelle Knight, in the last chapter of her book on Condillac, writes compellingly about the Abbé’s essential conservatism. Not only was his fundamental empiricism often compromised by a reluctance to challenge long-held religious beliefs, but in general he held fast to a traditional political faith that the monarchy was the best possible institution for the governance of France and that political change was a bad idea (Knight 1968: 287–9). The same cannot be said of Helvétius, to whom we now turn. Claude Adrien Helvétius (1715–71) was born into a family of prominent doctors. His grandfather discovered a cure for dysentery, and his father was the primary physician for the queen consort of France, Louis XV’s wife. As a young child Helvétius was privately tutored at home, but at age eleven or twelve he was sent to the famous Jesuit lycée, or high school, Louis-le-Grand. Founded in 1563, the school remains today one of the most prestigious secondary schools in Paris. As Helvétius’s biographer Ian Cumming suggests, however, the “omnipresence of religious influence” at the school in the early 1700s may have made the young boy “experience a revulsion against it” (1955: 16). While still at the school Helvétius read Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding and became, as Cumming notes, “a disciple of Locke … convinced that the only judges of his principles would be experience and reason” (1955: 17). Like Condillac, Helvétius was drawn to Locke’s argument in book 1 of his Essay Concerning Human Understanding that human beings can have no knowledge except that which is derived from their sensory experience of the external world. Helvétius was also deeply affected by Locke’s discussion of ethics in book 2 of the Essay (Cumming 1955: 17). There Locke argued that the distinction between good and evil is based only on the distinction between pleasure and pain. “Things then are Good or Evil, only in reference to Pleasure or Pain. That we call Good, which is apt to cause or increase Pleasure, or diminish Pain in us; … And on the contrary we name that Evil, which is apt to produce or increase any Pain” (Locke 1975: 229, emphases in original). By removing any suggestion of God from his definition of what is good, Locke opened Helvétius’s mind to thought processes that would later challenge the dominant religious thinking of his time. Locke’s analysis of mental associations also helped inform Helvétius’s later thinking. In the chapter entitled “Of the Association of Ideas,” Locke began by saying that some of our ideas have a natural correspondence with one another that can be analyzed by logical reasoning. But other associations of ideas happen only by chance or custom—a process that psychologists now call conditioning. “Ideas that in themselves are not at all [alike], come to be so united in some Men’s Minds, that ’tis very hard to separate them.” These combinations of

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ideas come to different people according to their “different Inclinations, Educations, Interests, etc.” Such conditioning “settles habits of Thinking in the Understanding, as well as of Determining in the Will, and of Motions in the Body” (Locke 1975: 395–6). As an example, Locke describes the possible consequences of punishing young children for their mistakes when they are learning to read. Many Children, imputing the Pain they endured at School to their Books they were corrected for, so joyn those Ideas together, that a Book becomes their Aversion, and they are never reconciled to the study and use of them all their Lives after; and thus Reading becomes a torment to them, which otherwise possibly they might have made the great Pleasure of their Lives. (1975: 399) Helvétius later expanded Locke’s ideas about associationism to argue that all of human behavior can be traced back to the environments that shape our educational experiences, and he argued specifically for making productive learning enjoyable for children. In the years immediately following Helvétius’s graduation from Louis-leGrand, he served as an apprentice to an uncle who was a financier in Caen. But by the time he was twenty-three, his family connections at the court of Louis XV enabled him to get a job as a tax collector that provided him with a steady and ample income. He soon grew rich, attended some of Paris’ most stimulating salons (Cumming 1955: 35–8), and became known both for his pleasure-seeking and for his generosity—sometimes risking his job to protest against specific taxes that he thought were unfair (p. 34). Even while indulging in the pleasures of the flesh, however, Helvétius was attracted to the life of the mind. So in 1751 he resigned from his job, married the beautiful and brilliant Anne-Catherine de Ligniville, and retired to his country estate to pursue his philosophical and literary interests. During the winter months he and his wife hosted their own salon in Paris where philosophes such as Diderot, Turgot, and d’Alembert were frequent guests (Cumming 1955: 57).6 In 1758, at the age of forty-three, he published a series of essays entitled De L’Esprit that set forth provocative new ideas about the purposes and methods of education. In French the word esprit has a wide range of meanings, from “spirit” to “mind,” “understanding,” and “wit.” An early English translation of Helvétius’s De L’Esprit carries the subtitle Essays on the Mind and Its Several Faculties. The book includes four substantial essays, each of which consists of many chapters. Helvétius’s discussion begins with a description of the mind “considered in itself” and then proceeds to consider the mind relative to social norms, the question of whether “genius” is a natural gift or an effect of education, and finally the different faculties of the mind.

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FIGURE 3.3  Claude Adrien Helvétius (1715–1771), French philosopher.

Many of Helvétius’s chapters are padded with examples from history and contemporary events to support his points. But along the way he makes assertions that soon drew him into a dangerous conflict with the political and religious authorities governing France in the mid-eighteenth century.

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Helvétius begins De L’Esprit with an affirmation of the Lockean sensationist philosophy that had so impressed Condillac. Unlike Condillac, however, right on the first page, Helvétius leaves no room for the possible existence of a human soul—one of the essential components of religious teaching. He asserts that the mind of man consists of two passive faculties—one for “receiving the different impressions caused by external objects” through the sense organs and the other, our memory, a faculty for “preserving” those impressions. These statements are followed by another, which surely raised the eyebrows of eighteenth-century readers: these human faculties, which are the “causes of our thoughts,” are attributes we have “in common with beasts.” The only difference between human beings and animals, Helvétius says, is “certain external organizations” (Helvétius 2015: 1), that is, their physical structure. Reiterating his extreme sensationist epistemology toward the end of the chapter, Helvétius states, “All our thoughts and wills must then be either the immediate effects, or necessary consequences, of the impressions we have received” from the external world (p.  21). It is clear from the outset that with all of our thinking grounded in material objects, neither spiritual forces nor free will have a role in Helvétius’s account of the human mind—a stance that set him distinctly apart from Condillac.7 Helvétius’s extreme philosophical materialism continues in the book’s second essay, where he introduces the concept of self-interest. Here he makes the claim that the only basis individuals or communities have for judging actions or people is their own self-interest. “Every individual judges of things and persons by the agreeable or disagreeable impressions he receives from them,” he asserts, “and the public is no more than an assemblage of all the individuals; therefore it cannot fail of making its interest the rule of its decisions … There is no other method [other than self-interest] of valuing” our ideas (Helvétius 2015: 24). As Natasha Gill has pointed out, the implications here are that, in Helvétius’s view, since humans are merely material beings, “people are always in search of immediate physical pleasure. They possess no moral sense separate from their desire” (2010: 171). The third essay comprising De L’Esprit is entitled “Whether Genius Ought to Be Considered as a Natural Gift, or As an Effect of Education,” and it is here that Helvétius’s radical egalitarianism comes to the fore. He goes to great lengths to suggest that “all men who are well organized [i.e., who have sound bodies and minds] have … in themselves the natural powers of acquiring the most lofty ideas” (Helvétius 2015: ix). In chapters that range from the skills of memory and attention to topics such as pride, despotic power, and the history of slavery, Helvétius argues that it is their environment that causes some people to succeed and others to fail; even the chance occurrences that an individual happens to encounter in the course of life can determine one’s long-term fate. As Gill points out, Helvétius was “the first thinker who dares

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to bring the principles of sensationism to their logical conclusions in the matter of malleability, and the first courageously to apply to all individuals without reservation the notion of universal reason” (2010: 175). Helvétius’s basic argument, she concludes, is “that all difference is illusory and that individuals are all, simply, fully equal” (p. 175)—a revolutionary idea in mid-eighteenthcentury France. Given that Condillac’s Treatise on the Sensations had been so successful just four years earlier, Helvétius assumed that his book would also be well received. But the timing of the publication of De L’Esprit was unfortunate. By 1758 France was engaged in the Seven Years’ War against England and was losing badly. On the home front Jesuits and Jansenists were quarreling over religious orthodoxy (the Jansenists believing in predestination and a more austere morality than the Jesuits), and there were growing tensions between the king and the parlements—the French legislative bodies. As a result of these pressures and others, the authorities who controlled what could and could not be published in France were now more hostile to new ideas than they had been just a few years earlier. When De L’Esprit came out in July 1758, the official reaction was swift and severe. In August, the Attorney General of the parlement of Paris wrote to the royal censor that the book was part of a plot to promote “materialism” and foment “moral corruption.” In response, Helvétius wrote four letters of recantation and sought help from the King’s mistress, Mme. de Pompadour, even offering to “throw himself at the King’s feet” (Cumming 1955: 83) if necessary. But to no avail. By November, the archbishop of Paris added his censure of the book, and by January, 1759, it had been proclaimed “dangerous” by the pope in Rome. On February 6, 1759, De L’Esprit, along with a poem by Voltaire, was torn and publicly burned; a few weeks later, the Faculty of Theology at the Sorbonne declared the book “the essence of poisons” (pp. 84–5). For the next two years Helvétius was forced into exile at his country house. Like other banned books, however, De L’Esprit was read widely. It was quickly translated into English and went through several editions in the first year. Among his most influential readers in England was the philosopher Jeremy Bentham, who used points Helvétius made about happiness and public utility benefiting “the greatest number of men” as the basis for his own work on utilitarian philosophy (Cumming 1955: 80–1). Other avid readers in England included the political philosopher William Godwin and the socialist economist Karl Marx. The book was also well received in Sweden, Russia, and Germany (p. 85). Helvétius’s educational legacy While Helvétius’s sensationist philosophy has clear pedagogical implications for anyone interested in education, only the final chapter of De L’Esprit explores

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educational policy in any detail. There Helvétius comments that, for the sake of a nation’s well-being, the learning environments to which children are exposed should rely less on chance and much more on deliberate planning. We ought, for example, to “consecrate some part of our time to the rational study of the national language. What can be more absurd than to lose eight or ten years in the study of a dead language, which we immediately forget after leaving the colleges, because it is almost of no use in the course of life?” (2015: 325). Throughout the chapter he stresses the utilitarian function of education—its use value—in creating a more vigorous and virtuous citizenry, and the final sentence of the book emphasizes this point: a country’s legislature must focus on how best to use the time that children spend in school, so that “by leaving it less in the power of chance, an excellent education may infinitely multiply the abilities and virtues of the citizens” (p. 331). Helvétius elaborates more fully on the public purposes of schools in a work that he completed later in life and that, given the painful persecution he suffered from publishing De L’Esprit, he chose to have published posthumously. Entitled De L’Homme (On Man), the book appeared in 1772, and it takes up the ideas about the utility of education he had broached at the end of De L’Esprit. “If I can demonstrate that man is truly only the product of his education, I shall doubtless reveal an important truth to mankind,” he asserts near the beginning of De L’Homme. For nations will then “have in their own hands the instrument of their greatness and their felicity, and that to be happy and powerful, nothing more is requisite than to perfect the science of education” (Helvétius 1969: 3–4). With these words Helvétius sets in motion the relatively modern idea that a country’s educational resources contribute to its overall prosperity, and that without vigilantly attending to those resources, a nation is “at risk” (National Commission of Excellence in Education 1983). After reviewing what he had laid out in De L’Esprit, including a chapter title that reaffirms unequivocally his egalitarian view that “All men commonly well organized have an equal aptitude to understanding” (1969: 90), Helvétius turns to educational policy. He argues that statesmen and politicians should study human motivation so as to be able to frame the most useful laws for their communities. With a nation’s own specific set of national goals in mind, the next task is for professional educators to devise educational experiences for children that will promote the public good. The system of national instruction Helvétius proposes in De L’Homme is quite didactic and includes a “moral catechism” that all children would be required to memorize (Helvétius 1810: 423). The more problematic aspects of this proposal will be touched on at the end of this chapter. But in Helvétius’s view, his overall purpose was to raise the collective consciousness of citizens and to promote their long-term happiness.8

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“Education can do all” (l’education peut tout) (1776: 523),9 Helvétius proclaims in a chapter heading in the last section of his book—a phrase that Geraint Parry calls “one of the most celebrated phrases in the history of educational thought” (2000: 25). Those words serve to summarize Helvétius’s and the Enlightenment’s belief that human beings come into the world with equal natural endowments for learning, that their lives are determined by what they encounter in the environments they grow up in, and that education is thus a crucial force for personal and social well-being. As the historian Harvey Chisick has noted, “the assumption that one’s mind is constituted by the sensations that are presented to it … tends to endow education with considerable power to form its subject.” Many of the philosophes, he continues, “did not fail to draw this conclusion” (Chisick 2014: 40).

PUBLIC SCHOOLING AND SOCIAL PROGRESS: CONDORCET ON FREE, SECULAR, AND UNIVERSAL EDUCATION The statement “Education can do all” signifies a new emphasis on the role of the French state in education starting in 1762. Owing to complex forces ranging from foreign affairs to the criticisms of secular philosophes such as Helvétius, in that year the Jesuits—who had founded and taught in many of the most prestigious collèges (high schools)—were expelled from France by the Parlement of Paris. Accompanying the upheaval was a new wave of proposals by lesser-known French educational reformers (including but not limited to writers such as Crevier, Daragon, Guyton de Morveau, and La Chalotais) to establish a secular system of education that would be state-regulated and stateprovided and would promote human progress and happiness on a national scale. As Marcel Grandière asserts, the expulsion of the Jesuits “represents a pivotal moment in the history of the century—one in which the forces of the innovative spirit [of the Enlightenment] is carried to the political structures of the State” (1998: 113; see also Chisick 2014: 42–3; Gill 2010: 229–54). It is within the context of new thinking about the relationships between education and the state that Condorcet’s writings on education must be read. Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis of Condorcet (1743–94) once referred to himself as “the last of the philosophes” (Albertone 1984: 131). Writing under “the shadow of the guillotine,” a recent biographer comments, Condorcet worked tirelessly “to ensure the demise of the arbitrary powers of autocratic despotism, of the authority of the priestly caste, and of the inequities of the civil order as they affected the daily lives of ordinary men and women” (Williams 2004: 2). Born in the north of France a generation after both Condillac and Helvétius, Condorcet was even more inclined than they were to question openly the political and religious orthodoxies of his time.

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Condorcet’s father, a military man, was killed a few weeks after the future philosophe’s birth, and so in his early years Condorcet was under the care of his devoted and pious mother. When he turned thirteen, an uncle arranged for the shy young boy to enter a Jesuit high school in Reims and then go on to the elite Collège de Navarre in Paris. There Condorcet developed an extraordinary talent for mathematics. His work on integral calculus brought him to the attention of influential people in Parisian salons, and he quickly became known as one of the stellar young intellects of his age (Williams 2004: 10–17). Condorcet in many ways represents the cutting edge of late Enlightenment reform. He was a mathematician who placed faith in a calculus of probabilities to make voting more rational, a social scientist who believed that freedom of trade would alleviate poverty, and a public servant who pushed for the civic equality of women and for an end to slavery.10 He was close friends with the mathematician d’Alembert, the philosophe Voltaire, and the economist Turgot; and Condorcet’s wife, Sophie de Grouchy, was an early feminist who later translated writings by Adam Smith and Thomas Paine into French (Condorcet 1976: vii–xxxvii). Today most of the scholarly interest in Condorcet focuses on his work in probability theory (there is a method of run-off voting named after him), but the focus here is on his contributions to education. Although, as Harvey Chisick (2014) has pointed out, actual change in educational institutions was rare in late eighteenth-century France, few periods of modern history have been as rich in speculation about education (Gay 1969: ii, 512). Condorcet’s writings effectively bring together both the essence of Enlightenment optimism and one important educational theme of the time, popular education, that is, the precursor to modern efforts to make primary and secondary schooling free and compulsory for all children.11 To appreciate fully the connection between this democratic egalitarian ideal and the educational legacies of the Enlightenment, we must preface our examination of Condorcet’s educational proposals with a brief look at his Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind—a work he drafted toward the end of his life while he was hiding from the Jacobins at the height of the French Revolution. The Sketch traces the progress of the human mind by means of a hypothetical “intellectual history” of the human race from its primitive origins, up through the invention of printing, to the French Revolution and beyond. The purpose of Condorcet’s outline is to show that the human mind is in fact perfectible. His starting point for such a claim is the epistemological assumption originated by Locke in the seventeenth century that human knowledge is grounded in sense perceptions of the physical world. “Man is born with the ability to receive sensations, to perceive them and to distinguish between the various simple sensations of which they are composed; to remember, recognize and combine

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them” (Condorcet 1976: 210). Following Locke, Condillac, and Helvétius, Condorcet goes on to state that these sensations “are attended by pleasure and pain” and that as a consequence of this capacity and the ability to form and combine ideas, there arise between human beings “ties of interest and duty” (p. 210). Condorcet then asserts that the progress of a whole society “is subject to the same general laws that can be observed in the development of the faculties of the individual” (1976: 210). By the ninth stage of his ten-stage historical Sketch, Condorcet’s political vision has leaped well beyond that of Condillac or Helvétius: Locke’s empirical method, Condorcet claims, enables humankind to discover “the origin of our moral ideas, the foundation of those general truths which, resulting from these ideas, determine the necessary and immutable laws of justice and injustice” (p. 216). Like his predecessors earlier in the century, Condorcet understood that if the individual mind is seen as a tabula rasa, free from all innate ideas and original sins (Gay 1969: 511), there is but a short step to the view that, given the proper circumstances, the human mind can, by a mere process of accumulation, become infinitely developed and “enlightened.” Education need no longer concern itself with counteracting the evil in children: it may henceforth focus on knowledge of the physical world and the concomitant development of the ability to understand one’s own true self-interest. Furthermore, if society, like the individual, is considered to be free of all transcendent qualities and is therefore merely an aggregate of the individual minds that comprise it, then the education of more and more individuals will automatically bring about the development of society as a whole. From Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet to nineteenth-century English educators and Horace Mann in the United States, hopes for public education were stimulated by notions such as these. Indeed, for most thinkers in the progressist tradition, the word “perfectibility” was synonymous with “educability,” and “enlightenment” meant “education.” It is in Condorcet’s proposals for education that the democratic egalitarian implications of such notions took their most definitive form. Condorcet began writing about education as soon as it became evident that the upheavals caused by the French Revolution—particularly the breach with the church—were creating the need to prepare the French people for active citizenship. In a series of five articles or “memoirs” on “Public Instruction” published in a journal called the Bibliothèque de l’homme public (The Library of Public Man), Condorcet spelled out educational views that would later be presented in a formal proposal to the revolutionary government. Salient among the ideas that he drafted in these articles were that education is a right, not a privilege; that without education a person is doomed to dependency on others and thus cannot be truly free or equal; and that it is the duty of society to offer to “each and every man the means of acquiring an education commensurate with

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his mental capacities and the time he can devote to his instruction” (Condorcet 1976: 108). In these articles Condorcet also stressed the necessary link between democratic politics and an educated citizenry: “A constitution which is really free, in which all social classes enjoy the same rights, cannot exist if the ignorance of some citizens prevents them from understanding its nature and limitations” (Williams 2004: 101). As Manuela Albertone has pointed out, Condorcet’s educational proposals amounted to “the transformation of the … ancient régime … and its replacement by a political, social, and economic structure based on the body politic as the sum of free and unhampered energies” (1984: 132). Condorcet’s firm belief in the right of women to be educated alongside men is particularly striking, especially given eighteenth-century assumptions about gender differentiation. Although he includes utilitarian reasons for the education of women (so that they can better foster the education of children, and so that men “can share with their wives in the reading necessary to keep up their [i.e., men’s] knowledge” [Condorcet 1976: 136]), he also maintains that women have an absolute right, as free and equal human beings, to become educated for the sake of their own self-development. Embedded in his arguments is the example of women in Italy who have “fulfilled with distinction the duties of professors in the most elevated sciences” (p. 137)—an example that might be worth inserting into current debates about the role of women in the science departments of competitive universities today. The Report on the General Organization of Public Instruction, which Condorcet proposed to the French Revolutionary Legislative Assembly in April 1792, strikes one even now as providing an extremely liberal view of the extension of education. At each level of Condorcet’s five-tier system, there is the insistence that the instruction should be free of charge, secular, and open to all those desiring self-improvement. Condorcet’s belief that “education should be universal … That is to say that it should be within the reach of all classes of citizens” (De la Fontainerie, 1932: 326) led him well beyond the proposals of Thomas Jefferson, another Enlightenment optimist. For while Jefferson’s proposed educational system represented a strict hierarchy of increasingly demanding educational standards whereby only a select number of free-tuition children could move on to the next level (Jefferson 2001: 87–8), Condorcet’s proposal encouraged infinite expansion of even the higher echelons of the system. Furthermore, there is the proposal in Condorcet’s report that at each grade the educational opportunities be open to nonstudents. At the lower levels there is the provision that the village schoolmaster should deliver a lecture on Sundays for citizens of all ages, and at the higher levels seats are to be reserved in each classroom for those who “while not being regular students, and consequently, not subject to the questions or the work demanded of the class, might wish to

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follow a course of instruction or be present at a few lessons” (De la Fontainerie 1932: 345). The purpose of these proposals was to counter all tendencies toward elitism or inequality. Condorcet believed, as Helvétius had suggested before him, that “the natural order creates in society no other inequalities than those of wealth and education, and by extending education the effects of both of these causes of inequality will be lessened” (p. 353). On the day that Condorcet’s Report was to be acted upon by the French Legislative Assembly, war with Austria was declared, and the Report was set aside. Mounting tensions soon led to the dissolution of the Assembly and the ascendancy of the more radical Jacobin party. Condorcet’s sympathies had been with the liberal Girondists, so by the summer of 1793 his life was in danger. He was taken in by a close friend who tried to protect him, but, not wanting her to be implicated, he left his hiding place and was discovered by a hostile band of anti-aristocrats. He was later found dead in the prison in which they had left him; to this day it is unclear whether his death was from a fatal illness, murder, or suicide. Condorcet’s educational legacy Condorcet’s writings on education survived, however, and by the end of the nineteenth century free public instruction for male and female children would be the norm in most of Europe and the United States. As Albertone makes clear in the first sentence of her chapter on the evolution of his educational thinking, “Condorcet’s proposals on education lie at the very heart of the political and intellectual process from which the modern French school originates” (1984: 141). When the Third Republic produced the first free, public, compulsory, and secular primary schools in France in the 1880s, she points out, Jules Ferry, the Minister of Public Education and his associates “looked above all to the political teachings of Condorcet” (p. 141). Moreover Condorcet’s legacy has extended well beyond France. From Horace Mann’s Reports to the Massachusetts Board of Education in the 1840s (Cremin 1957) to the Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka Act of 1954, the Individuals With Disabilities Education Act of 1990, the No Child Left Behind Act of 2002, and the “Race to the Top” legislation in 2009, public policy makers in the United States have recognized that individual enlightenment and democratic progress depend on a system of schooling that is open to all.12 As Albertone concludes, although Condorcet’s educational proposals were controversial during the French Revolution, “the value of his basic educational ideas has survived intact” (1984: 141), up to and including our own time. “The principles of a national, multi-leveled educational system, free and available to everyone without distinction of class, sex, race, or religion, were to remain down to the present the highest goals of an authentically democratic school” (p. 141).

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FIGURE 3.4  War and Conflict, Illustration, pic: 4 August 1789, The French Revolution, The famous meeting of the National Assembly when it was decreed the abolition of privileges. (Photo by Popperfoto via Getty Images/Getty Images)

CONCLUSION The foregoing overview of contributions by Condillac, Helvétius, and Condorcet to contemporary educational thought enables us to recognize that ideas common to today’s educational discourse are embedded in deep roots of intellectual history that go back to the eighteenth-century French Enlightenment. The ideas that children gain knowledge from sensory experience, especially in their early years; that they come into the world with relatively equal potentials for learning; and that elementary schooling should be free, empowering, and open to all have become commonplace assumptions throughout the modern world. The foregoing overview can also prompt questions that we did not have before. Today we hear concern about the overstimulation of children’s sensory faculties, particularly in an age when electronic devices provide even two year olds with a universe of stimuli available at the touch of their fingertips (Carr 2011; Dunckley 2015; Guttmann and Guttmann 2017). Might the contemporary fixation on learning materials and manipulatives as well as the empiricist model in which it is rooted unwittingly foster habits of gratification and consumption that lead to unhappiness in the long run? (Schor 2004).

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Regarding the writings of Helvétius, can we unequivocally accept his claim that all behavior can be explained by the cumulative impact of one’s environment over time? Is the fate of individuals and groups determined solely by external forces? Can, in fact, education “do it all” when it comes to personal development and social progress? And is there no role for “nature” in the “nature/nurture” controversy? As for Condorcet, does not the recent popularity of charter schools in the United States and religious schools elsewhere raise questions about Condorcet’s ideal of fusing comprehensive secular public schooling with democratic politics? Does the extension of educational opportunity necessarily lead to more democratic political outcomes? Or is there something in our human natures that causes us to resist the well-meaning forces of reform that surround us? At this point, the shadow side of the eighteenth-century French Enlightenment must be acknowledged. At the end of the twentieth century, the entire Enlightenment project was called into question by those critical of its perceived cultural domination. As is well known, much of the “critical” edge of postmodern critical theory has been directed at the rationalist, programmatic, and controlling energies of the Enlightenment, including its visions of educational mastery and progress (Foucault 1995; Horkheimer and Adorno 1976). Some scholars have also pointed to the mainstream Enlightenment’s biases regarding issues of gender, race, and class (Bouie 2018; Goldberg 1993; Harding 1986). More recently, another more subtle threat to Enlightenment ideals has come not from the academic political left but from the populist right. This challenge takes the form of resentment against the perceived imposition of “political correctness” by educationally privileged elites. The charge is not new: at the height of the French Revolution some of Condorcet’s opponents feared that the expansion of schooling would lead to the establishment of an educated class that could monopolize the country’s culture. “The privilege of the enlightened [les lumières] is the most dangerous of all privileges,” one member of the Legislative Assembly angrily asserted (Albertone 1984: 139), probably not aware that Condorcet himself had included in his Sketch the belief that his model would help individuals to be free of “subordination even to the authority of enlightenment” (Rothschild 2001: 185). In the face of such charges, the heterodox and liberating aspects of the Enlightenment have their strong defenders, particularly among educators (Chafy 1997; Darnton 2003: 12–19; Gill 2010: 11–13; McClintock 1999; Parry 2000: 25–49; Postman 1999), and it is those perspectives that are favored in this chapter. Yet whether the legacies of the French Enlightenment continue to serve the interests of children, parents, and teachers in ways that foster the eighteenth-century ideals of liberty, equality, and community remains an open question that only educators themselves can answer.13

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  NOTES   1 I am deeply indebted to Deidre Flowers, Dana Gathers, Frank Roosevelt, Avi Mintz, Tal Gilead, Max McClintock, and Robbie McClintock for their careful reading of earlier drafts of this chapter. Each of them spotted redundancies, suggested better word choices, and helped rid the text of embarrassing lapses. I alone remain responsible for any remaining errors in the exposition.   2 In The Great Didactic the seventeenth-century educational philosopher Jan Amos Comenius (1592–1670) acknowledged that the senses are one of the three sources of knowledge, the other two being reason and the Bible (Palmer 2001: 43).   3 Some scholars (e.g., Palmer 1985: 6, 8–36; Chisick 2014: 38) have suggested that Enlightenment reformers often tended to exaggerate the rigidity and narrowness of schooling under the ancien regime. However, Marcel Grandière (1998: 3, 113–14) supports the view that the period 1715–46 was still dominated by Christian doctrines and rigid pedagogical methodologies and that educational changes appeared only after the publication of Condillac’s Essai in 1746. See also Gill (2010: 69).   4 Condillac’s aim to posit only one source of cognition instead of two may also have been motivated by his desire to get past the “Abstract System” of Cartesian dualism. In chapter 2, “Metaphysics en géometre” of The Geometric Spirit: The Abbé de Condillac and the French Enlightenment, Isabel F. Knight (1968) discusses the complexity of Condillac’s intellectual relationship with Descartes. She concludes that “Condillac the empiricist, whose first project was to replace the rationalist metaphysics of the seventeenth century with the empirical philosophy of Locke, was himself committed to a view of the universe as rationalistic as anything Descartes or Spinoza or Leibnitz could have imagined” (p. 16).   5 As both Lane (1979) and Shattuck (1981) suggest, one of the many questions surrounding Victor’s story is whether he became autistic as a result of being abandoned or whether he was abandoned because he was autistic.   6 Mme. Helvétius continued her role as a charming salonnière even after her husband’s death and entertained a range of guests that included Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and Napoleon. It was rumored that Benjamin Franklin once proposed to her. See Wikipedia (2020).   7 Unlike Rousseau’s encouragement of Condillac’s philosophy, Helvétius’s radical materialism made Rousseau uncomfortable, as is clear from margin notes on his copy of De L’Esprit (Gill 2010: 166–8).   8 For a discussion of Helvétius’s contributions to individualistic trends in modern education, see Gilead (2005: 427–39).   9 Translation mine. Hooper translates this phrase as “Education is capable of effecting everything” (Helvétius 1810: 523), but I have chosen a more concise translation. 10 Robert Darnton (2003: 135) points out that Condorcet was the director of an Abolitionist group, the Society of the Friends of the Blacks, just prior to the French Revolution. 11 Albertone (1984: 134) suggests that Condorcet was originally disinclined to emphasize the need to make primary schooling compulsory but was pushed in that direction when the French Revolution moved into its more radical phase.

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12 An article in the French journal Revue Économique (Le Chapelain 2010: 281–98) credits Condorcet with introducing the notion of human capital and of linking public instruction to economic progress. 13 To avoid gender bias I have substituted “community” for the literal translation of fraternité here.

REFERENCES Primary sources Condillac, Etienne Bonnot Abbé de (1930), Treatise on the Sensations, trans. Geraldine Carr, Los Angeles: School of Philosophy, University of Southern California. Condillac, Etienne Bonnot Abbé de (1982), Philosophical Writings of Etienne Bonnot, Abbé de Condillac, Vol. 1, ed. and trans. Franklin Philip and Harlan Lane, Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Condillac, Etienne Bonnot Abbé de (1987), Philosophical Writings of Etienne Bonnot, Abbé de Condillac, Vol. 2, ed. and trans. Franklin Philip, Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Condorcet, Antoine-Nicolas de (1955), Sketch for a Historical Picture of The Progress of the Human Mind, trans. June Barraclough, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Condorcet, Antoine-Nicolas de (1976), Condorcet: Selected Writings, ed. Keith Michael Baker, Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Marrill. Condorcet, Antoine-Nicolas de (2004), Cinq Mémoires sur l’instruction publique III: 80, cited and translated by David Williams, Condorcet and Modernity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Helvétius, Claude Adrien (1776), De l’homme, de ses facultés intellectuelles et de son education, London. Available online: https://archive.org/stream/ delhommedesesfa03helvgoog#page/n33. Helvétius, Claude Adrien (1810), A Treatise on Man; His Intellectual Faculties and His Education: A Posthumous Work of M. Helvetius, trans. W. Hooper, Vol. 2, London: Albion Press. Available online: https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.$b810353 ;view=1up;seq=426 Helvétius, Claude Adrien (1969), A Treatise on Man; His Intellectual Faculties and His Education: A Posthumous Work of M. Helvetius, trans. W. Hooper, Vol. 1, New York: Burt Franklin. Helvétius, Claude Adrien (2015), De L’Esprit: Or Essays on the Mind, and Its Several Faculties, London: Forgotten Books, FB&C. Itard, Jean-Marc-Gaspard (1962), The Wild Boy of Aveyron, trans. George and Muriel Humphrey, New York: Meredith Press. Jefferson, Thomas (2001), “A Bill for the More General Diffusion of Knowledge,” in G.L. Gutek (ed.), Historical and Philosophical Foundations of Education: Selected Readings, 87–9, Upper Saddle River, NJ: Merrill/Prentice Hall. Locke, John (1975), An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter H. Nidditch, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Montessori, Maria (1912), The Montessori Method, trans. Anne Everett George, New York: Frederick A Stokes Company. Available online: http://digital.library.upenn. edu/women/montessori/method/method.html. National Commission on Excellence in Education (1983), “A Nation At Risk.” Available online: https://www2.ed.gov/pubs/NatAtRisk/risk.html.

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Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1978), Emile or On Education, ed. and trans. Allan Bloom, New York: Basic Books. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1995), The Confessions, trans. Christopher Kelly, ed. Christopher Kelly, Roger D. Masters, and Peter G. Stillman, The Collected Writings of Rousseau, 7 vols, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England.

Secondary sources Albertone, Manuela (1984), “Enlightenment and Revolution: The Evolution of Condorcet’s Ideas on Education,” in Leonora Cohen Rosenfield (ed.), Condorcet Studies I, Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press. Bouie, Jamelle (2018), “Taking the Enlightenment Seriously Requires Talking about Race,” Slate Magazine, June 5. Available online: https://slate.com/news-andpolitics/2018/06/taking-the-enlightenment-seriously-requires-talking-about-race. html Boyd, William (1914), From Locke to Montessori, New York: Henry Holt. Carr, Nicholas (2011), The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing To Our Brains, New York: W.W. Norton. Chafy, Randy (1997), “Exploring the Intellectual Foundation of Technology Education: From Condorcet to Dewey,” Journal of Technology Education, 9 (1): 6–19. Chisick, Harvey (2014), The Limits of Reform in the Enlightenment: Attitudes toward the Education of the Lower Classes in Eighteenth-Century France, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cremin, Lawrence A. (1957), The Republic and the School: Horace Mann on the Education of Free Man, New York: Teachers College Press. Cumming, Ian (1955), Helvetius: His Life and Place in the History of Educational Thought, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Darnton, Robert (2003), George Washington’s False Teeth: An Unconventional Guide to the Eighteenth Century, New York: W.W. Norton & Company. De la Fontainerie, François (1932), “Condorcet and his Report on Public Instruction,” in French Liberalism and Education in the Eighteenth Century: The Writings of La Chalotais, Turgot, Diderot, and Condorcet on National Education, 311–78, New York: McGraw-Hill. Dunckley, Victoria L. (2015), A Four-week Plan to Reset Your Child’s Brain: End Meltdowns, Raise Grades, and Boost Social Skills by Reversing the Effects of Electronic Screen-Time, Novato, CA: New World Library. Foucault, Michel (1995), Discipline and Punish, New York: Vintage. Gay, Peter (1969), The Enlightenment: An Interpretation, Vol 2: The Science of Freedom, New York: W.W. Norton. Gay, Peter (1989), The Freud Reader, New York: W.W. Norton. Gilead, Tal (2005), “Reconsidering the Roots of Current Perceptions: Saint Pierre, Helvétius and Rousseau on Education and the Individual,” History of Education, 34 (4): 427–39. Gill, Natasha (2010), Educational Philosophy in the French Enlightenment: From Nature to Second Nature, Farnham: Ashgate. Goldberg, David Theo (1993), Racist Culture: Philosophy and the Politics of Meaning, Malden, MA: Blackwell. Grandière, Marcel (1998), L’idéal pédagogique en France au dix-huitième siècle, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation.

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Guttmann, Amy and Evelyn Guttmann (2017), “What Screen Time and Screen Media Do to Your Child’s Brain and Sensory Processing Ability,” HandsOn OT Rehab, March 28. Available online: https://handsonotrehab.com/screen-time-brain-sensoryprocessing/. Harding, Sandra (1986), The Science Question in Feminism, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Horkheimer, Max and Theodore Adorno (1976), Dialectic of Enlightenment, New York: Continuum. Israel, Jonathan (2006), Enlightenment Contested: Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man, 1670–1752, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knight, Isabel F. (1968), The Geometric Spirit: The Abbé de Condillac and the French Enlightenment, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Lane, Harlan (1979), The Wild Boy of Aveyron, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Le Chapelain, Charlotte (2010), “L’instruction publique de Condorcet,” Revue Économique, 61: 281–98. McClintock, Robert (1999), “Extending the Enlightenment Vision,” in The Educators’ Manifesto: Renewing the Progressive Bond with Posterity through the Social Construction of Digital Learning Communities. Available online: https://www.ime. usp.br/~robetock/renewing1table.htm. Palmer, Joy A., ed. (2001), Fifty Major Thinkers on Education: From Confucius to Dewey, London: Routledge. Palmer, Robert R. (1985), The Improvement of Humanity: Education and the French Revolution, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Parry, Geraint (2000), “Education Can Do All,” in Norman Geras and Robert Wokler (eds.), The Enlightenment and Modernity, 25–49, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Postman, Neil (1999), Building a Bridge to the 18th Century: How the Past Can Improve Our Future, New York: Knopf. Rothschild, Emma (2001), Economic Sentiments: Adam Smith, Condorcet, and the Enlightenment, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schor, Juliet B. (2004), Born to Buy: The Commercialized Child and the New Consumer Culture, New York: Scribner. Shattuck, Roger (1981), The Forbidden Experiment: The Story of the Wild Boy of Aveyron, New York: Pocket Books. Wikipedia (2020), “Anne-Catherine de Ligniville, Mme. Helvétius,” Febraury 24. Available online: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne-Catherine_de_Ligniville,_ Madame_Helvétius. Williams, David (2004), Condorcet and Modernity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER FOUR

German Educational Thought: Religion, Rationalism, Philanthropinism, and Bildung REBEKKA HORLACHER

INTRODUCTION Within the German context, the age of Enlightenment has long been referred to as the “educational century.” It has received this name because at the time various publications, organizations, and practices had emerged discussing the topics of childhood, learning, and morality in a way that partly emancipated these topics from their close connection and dependency on religion and philosophy (Herrmann 1981). As a result, education received unprecedented importance as a social practice, a political means, and a moral science. Philosophers, lawyers, theologians, and representatives of the “fine arts,” a collective term for artistic products for edification, aesthetics, and beauty, took part in these discussions and debated topics ranging from sociopolitical questions, such as the “right” way to deal with child murder by unwed mothers,1 to questions about the relationship between ethics and aesthetics,2 and questions concerning

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the economic and moral significance of luxury.3 In 1778, the first, or rather the first named-as-such, professorship for education was established at the University of Halle (Schmitt 2007),4 although ten years later the denomination was changed and the chair holder was released from his teaching duties in education (Brachmann 2008: 14).5 In addition, individual and eye-catching school experiments such as the Philanthropinum in Dessau and Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi’s (1746–1827) teacher training seminar in Burgdorf and later on in Yverdon (Tröhler 2013) were observed by an interested public. Together all these occurrences reinforced the later historiographical conviction that in this period intellectuals had indeed dedicated themselves to education and schooling (Garber 2008) and by that strengthening the conviction of Germany “as the land of poets and thinkers” (Schäfer-Hartmann 2009: 133–5). The strict distinction in historiography between Bildung on one side and Erziehung (education) and Unterricht (instruction) on the other, in which Bildung is being regarded as a theoretically most important and intellectually demanding concept, and education and instruction are standing for concepts of upbringing and socialization, encouraged this self-conception of national sublimeness and magnificence. Reinforcing the above conviction and strengthening the narrative of an all-encompassing dedication of German intellectuals to education, schooling, and Bildung was also Moses Mendelssohn’s (1729–86) answer to the question What is Enlightenment? (Mendelssohn 1784). This question had been raised by the Berlin pastor Johann Friedrich Zöllner (1753–1804) in a footnote of an article entitled Ist es rathsam, das Ehebündniss nicht ferner durch die Religion zu sanciren (Is It Advisable to No Longer Sanctify the Marriage Alliance by Religion) (1783). With his provocative question, Zöllner sought to clarify the term “enlightenment,” but Zöllner’s text itself was a contribution to the discussion about the role and responsibility of the church in marriage, published in the Berlinische Monatsschrift (the Berlin Monthly), one of the most prominent journals of the German Enlightenment (Horlacher 2016: 7–9). Thus, the (German) debate about what “enlightenment” means has to be placed in the wider context of the demarcation between ecclesiastical and stately spheres of authority. The German Enlightenment was never a countermovement to religion, as it was in France, but rather a reform project of the Lutheran if not Pietist clergy (Horlacher 2016: 29; Melton 1988/2001). To conceptualize German educational thought during the age of Enlightenment as a process of secularization is therefore misleading,6 as religious ideas remained crucial to such thought, albeit partly transformed into aesthetic ideas (Tröhler 2011: 33– 6) and Bildung. The description of the eighteenth century as an “educational” and an “enlightened” century is not misleading and quite attractive, but it conceals the fact that the emergence of education, Bildung, and schooling owes

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itself to a comprehensive cultural process that can best be described as “educationalization” (Smeyers and Depaepe 2008; Tröhler 2017) and is by no means limited to the eighteenth century, nor to the German context. In contrast to the description of the eighteenth century as the “educational” century, the keyword “educationalization” points to a wider historical phenomenon manifested in an exponential increase in educational concerns, writings, and activities that took place during the middle of the seventeenth century and onward in different parts of Europe (Tröhler 2020). What this helped to bring about was the creation of a distinct field of education, at least by attesting its “problem-solving competence.” Most significantly, the growth of educational reform rhetoric, which became visible in various publications, paved the way for subsequent institutional and professional implementation of such reforms. The educational and pedagogical reforms and innovations, however, were generally realized very slowly, despite all the promises made. For example, the replacement of catechism by secular, “usable” knowledge (a recurring theme in the various debates on school reform) began to be continually discussed in the last third of the eighteenth century but was only implemented on a large scale in the first half of the nineteenth century (see De Vincenti 2015; Horlacher 2021). The concrete school experiments remained experiments, and as private institutions they could only have limited effects. However, in the long run, they provided models and functioned as laboratories of sorts for subsequent institutionalized forms of organizations—perhaps precisely because of their experimental character and their private sponsorship. Moreover, even educational writings propagating a new image of the child, new educational methods, new punitive practices, or new ideas of the child’s soul were slow in affecting practice. Significantly, however, in Germany the eighteenth century was not only the “educational” century in general but in particular the century in which the key notion of Bildung came into being. The term Bildung refers to a particular German understanding of education that distinguishes it from the cultural, political, scientific, and ultimately educational aspirations of neighboring countries such as France or England. Bildung refers to the cultural epitome of the German nationbuilding process that took place during the long nineteenth century (Horlacher 2016: 45–57). By using the term Bildung, the educational theories dealing “simply” with the upbringing of “rational” or utile citizens were criticized. Bildung contrasted mainly with the broad variety of educational guidebooks, often written by medical doctors and dealing with physical education, sanitary questions, and health issues, placing them as the “pre-concepts” of education (see Brouzet 1754; Neumann 1995: 268–9). It also contrasted with conduct books or advisory books that provided guidance for the living of a good lifestyle. One example is Christian Thomasius’s (1655–1728) Welcher Gestalt man denen Frantzosen in gemeinem Leben und Wandel nachahmen solle (What Figure of

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the French Should Be Imitated in Common Life) (1687), an adaption of Baltasar Gracián’s (1601–58) Oraculo manual (The Art of Worldly Wisdom) (1646). Adherents to the concept of Bildung criticized these quite popular writings for focusing on training, behavior, and appearance through the drilling and disciplining of the child’s will. Instead, they called for the development of the inward individual forces of every human being, which was for them the true site of a genuine educational theory (e.g., Zirfas 2018: 81). In contrast to the historiographical tradition just described that argues for a dualism of educational concepts (Bildung versus education), this chapter presents a broad range of educational philosophies that, unlike those of JeanJacques Rousseau (1712–78) and Pestalozzi, are not always in the forefront of educational theory (see, e.g., Oksenberg Rorty 1998; Palmer Cooper 2016). However, it should be noted that these “second-row” theories have received more and more attention in recent decades. This shift in attention has been due to a general shift in the history of ideas, which has moved from a history dealing with historiographically sanctified authors and fundamental ideas that transcend time and space to a history of ideas in context, arguing historically and no longer merely philosophically, thereby challenging the idealistic parameters of traditional historiography (see Skinner 1969; Tröhler and Horlacher 2020). This shift within the history of ideas opened the way not only to the (re)discovery of authors and texts deemed for a long time to be less important but also to cultural phenomena such as “educationalization.” The remainder of this chapter addresses this wide variety of educational thought in four sections. The ideas and concepts selected mirror, on the one hand, the existing research in the history and philosophy of education and, on the other hand, attempt to provide a full picture of the topic of this chapter— German educational thought. The reference of “German” to the publication language has an impact on the notion of the “German” educational thought, since the majority of educational publications in the first decades of the age of Enlightenment were still in Latin (Martus 2015: 123–4; Tütken 1987: 20–1). These Latin publications, which decreased after 1700, are not normally investigated as part of the Enlightenment, and this is also the (majority) case in this chapter. The chapter proceeds as follows. The first section deals with August Hermann Francke’s (1663–1727) educational concept, which is rooted in the Pietism from Halle and its orphanage. The second section discusses Johann Georg Sulzer’s (1720–79) notion of education, which is embedded in his concept of rationalism. The third section is dedicated to the so-called Popular Enlightenment. It includes the writings of Isaak Iselin (1728–82), Johann Bernhard Basedow (1724–90), and the educational endeavors of the philanthropinists, a group of school reformers that followed more or less Basedow’s ideas. The fourth section concentrates on thoughts that became the breeding ground for Bildung, such as

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the writings of Johann Matthias Gesner (1691–1761) and Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729–1812). It focuses on the concept of beauty, arguing for the impact of ancient Greece on concepts of formation of the soul and the character. The chapter concludes with remarks on the process of “educationalization,” on the changes in the notion of education, and on the increasing importance of schooling.

EDUCATION AND PIETISM The ideas of the Protestant Reform movement known as Pietism undoubtedly played a significant role in initiating eighteenth-century educational reform projects (Melton 1988/2002: 23; Oberschelp 2006: 41–2). In general, Pietism emerged out of a late seventeenth-century feeling of a lack of piety, inadequate Christian living, and an emphasis on the importance of verifying one’s personal faith (Shantz 2013: 15–41). It was assumed that the lack of belief in rebirth leads to greed and mercilessness, while the belief in rebirth leads to social engagement and work directed toward the relief of poverty (Kuhn 2003: 29). One of the flagship projects of the German Pietism was the orphanage in Halle with its associated printing house and worldwide (India, North America) missionary activities.7 The orphanage was founded by Francke in the middle of the 1690s and soon became the “headquarter of an educational, charitable and scientific community comprising an elite school” (Whitmer 2015: 1). Francke ran the growing institution until his death in 1727. He developed it into a “school city,” where up to 2,500 people lived and worked for a Christian-inspired social reform. While, at first, the orphanage was in need of donations to fulfill its tasks, Francke’s literary activities, together with the printing house, the pharmacy, and ducal financial privileges, reduced the dependence on charitable giving, and the orphanage and the associated enterprises financed themselves independently for the most part (see Obst 2002: 57–74). Understanding Francke’s philosophy and activities in Halle requires placing them within a political context. To counter some contemporary negative economic developments following the French Abolition of the Edict of Nantes, in 1685 Frederick William, Elector of Brandenburg (1620–88), offered Halle as a new residence to numerous Huguenot refugees. Within a few years, these immigrants introduced new trades and created solid economic wealth, which the German residents of Halle observed with suspicion. While, however, the Berlin government sought to gain local influence by supporting Pietism in Halle, the polemics of the orthodox Lutheran clergy fed the economic and social tensions. Eventually, Francke emerged victorious from these power plays, which enabled him to implement his social reform plans (Kuhn 2003: 14–17). One of the most important ambitions of Francke’s educational endeavor was to educate the children to “true godliness” and “Christian wisdom,” as the

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title of one of his essays on education indicates (Francke 1702/1748). Another emphasis was on physical education, and he indeed included institutional medical treatments in his orphanage (Neumann 1995: 270). The most pertinent essay devoted to the explanation of these ideas, in which Francke addressed parents and private tutors, is divided into two parts. The first part deals with the aims of education, namely the “education of the youth towards true godliness and wisdom.” The second part deals with the means to reach these goals. For Francke, God’s glory was the overall aim of any form of education, and he held that any action based on the love for God’s glory supported this educational goal. This, he maintained, applied for both children and educators. For Francke, it was essential to pursue this goal early and diligently by regular repetition, even though he knew success was uncertain. For him, the educator could only ensure that the children were educated in a “godly and intelligent way” and in “useful sciences,” but the success of education remained in the hands of God (Francke 1702/1748: 1–2). Francke attributed the notion of the “will” special importance in his educational philosophy. One of the main tasks of Francke’s notion of education was to “break the natural self-will” of the child, which he saw as a consequence of original sin. Doing so, he thought, was necessary to not overestimate one’s individuality and to subordinate oneself to God’s will (Francke 1702/1748: 5). Education, for him, therefore did not aim at the liberation of the individual or self-realization, as would later be the case in Bildung, but rather to the subordination to godly authority and leadership. He viewed this subordination, however, as “real” liberation. Given the historiographical strict distinction between Bildung as envisaged form of education, and education as upbringing and socialization, this, in turn, was the reason why Francke’s educational theory was later on only partly classified as “educational theory.” At the practical level, a large part of education was conducted by learning from role models and by avoiding misleading examples. This was particularly emphasized in the child’s contact with servants, as they were identified as potential dangers because servants were believed to make “useless speeches” or show “unchristian behavior” (Francke 1702/1748: 6–7). Parents were encouraged not to spoil their children or to hand over the education to governors and private tutors. Francke conceptualized education as a regular practice, focused on educational routines, external actions, and the implementation of habits, leading to a “love of virtuous actions” (p. 8). The most helpful means to implement true godliness was the catechism, and, as a result, the teaching of the catechism could not start too early. Children were to be introduced from the very beginning to the Holy Bible, because they were “to get used to godliness and to good” from early childhood on (p. 10). Given these assumptions, it is of no surprise that Jesus was seen as the perfect educational example and the gospel with its stories as the most effective educational resource (p. 19).

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Three virtues were at the core of Francke’s theory of education: first, love for  truth; second, obedience and diligence; and third, the avoidance of lies, idleness, self-will, and egotism (Francke 1702/1748: 36). Lying was characterized as a “cruel sin and Satan’s noblest characteristic,” and fairy tales, novels, and comedies were seen as supporting the child’s tendency to lie. Overall, education was viewed as part of spiritual awakening and the preparation for the effects of  the divine grace (p.  33). Education, it was held, couldn’t succeed without divine support. The above educational theory was integrated into a universal concept of social reform, articulated in Grosser Aufsatz (Big Essay) (1704), which was a compilation of some earlier publications (Podczeck 1962: 9). Grosser Aufsatz was based on a Protestant tradition, originating from the thought of two Pietist theologians Johann Arndt (1555–1621) and Philipp Jakob Spener (1635– 1705) (see Oberschelp 2006: 19–26). Grosser Aufsatz, a three-part essay, dealt with the importance of the endeavors being undertaken in Halle, analyzed the real meaning of its attempts, including the opportunities offered by the newly founded local university, and gave some hints on how the educational enterprises in Halle could be supported ideally and materially. In this essay, Francke painted a gloomy picture of contemporary society and assumed that in “so-called Christianity and also in the Protestant churches everything is in a corrupt state and in a terrible decline” (Francke 1704/1962: 70). The governing class was said to be corrupt and just interested in its own pleasure, the broader population devoured by greed and envy and other deadly sins, and even the teachers were seen as contributing to this devastating situation, although Francke recognized some exceptions among them (pp. 71–2). In fact, he assumed that the teachers have a special role to play in the salvation of the people,8 because he identified—and here the notion of educationalization becomes visible—the “evil education of the youth” as the main source of all disaster (p.  76). For him, counting on the support of the parents to improve education was not a promising option. Even if they tried to educate their children according to the divine order, they would not have enough support from their environment, mainly from their servants, and they would not find appropriate teachers, which was why the “fabrication” of the new teacher as an educator was of utmost importance. The combination of the University in Halle and Francke’s own institution was, therefore, an extraordinary stroke of luck, which had to be elaborated as a nucleus for a better world (p. 90).

EDUCATION AND RATIONALISM Francke’s philosophy of education was challenged by Christian Wolff (1679– 1754), who was a member of the Royal Society and appointed professor for mathematics and philosophy at the University of Halle in 1706. In contrast

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to Francke, he argued in 1721 in a lecture titled Rede über die praktische Philosophie der Chinesen (On the Practical Philosophy of the Chinese), for an ethic independent of Christian faith, emphasizing the power of human reason to reach moral truth. This led Wolff’s pietistic opponents to accuse him of atheism, and as a result in 1723 Wolff was ordered by the Prussian king Frederick William I (1688–1740) to leave Halle within 48 hours. Wolff’s ideas, which relied on those of Thomas Aquinas (1225–74), Francisco Suárez (1548–1617), René Descartes (1595–1650), Samuel von Pufendorf (1632–94), and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), inspired a “rational” educational theory that was developed, for example, by the Swiss theologian Johann Georg Sulzer, known for his Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste (General Theory of the Fine Arts) (1773–5). In this book, which was the first German-language encyclopedia on all areas of aesthetics, Sulzer assumed that the relationship between human beings and objects of art was of particular use for understanding how the human soul works and therefore for educating human sensibility (Décultot 2018: 10). Sulzer had also already dealt with educational questions as early as 1745 in a treatise titled Versuch einiger vernünftiger Gedancken von der Auferziehung und Unterweisung der Kinder (Attempt of Some Reasonable Thoughts on Education and Instruction of Children). In mid-eighteenth-century Germany, educational concepts like Francke’s, dealing with education toward true godliness, were dominant, and Sulzer’s thoughts, which focused on education of the mind and controlling the passions through reason, fitted just partially into the contemporary debates (Roth 2011: 247). This contrasted with the situation in France, where materialist and rationalist philosophers such as Julien Offray de La Mettrie (1709–51) and Denis Diderot (1713–84) were dominating the scene. It is, therefore, not surprising that the French ideas were received in Germany only selectively and adapted to major local concerns (Osterwalder 2006). The main goal of Sulzer’s Attempt was to educate the child toward becoming a rational, virtuous, and decent person. This education was not based on one’s social background and did not aim at one’s future vocation, but rather was oriented to what was “beautiful and useful for all people” (Sulzer 1745: 34). Given this threefold goal, Sulzer’s educational theory dealt with reason, will, and behavior, which were discussed in the three parts of his treatise. Sulzer assumed that every human being has a certain amount of reason, independent of any education. Nevertheless, good order and structure of the mind, namely a reasonable mind, demanded an appropriate education (p. 35) that provided the fundamentals of thinking correctly. He wrote, “A clear concept is such an idea of a thing in the mind, which is sufficient to distinguish this thing from all others, and in such a way that one can indicate the reason of the difference” (p. 36). However, for him, having a clear concept was not yet sufficient. Being able to make judgments based on knowledge, conceptualized as a strict intellectual capability, was also needed (p. 42). He held that, beyond the teaching of clear

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concepts, the teacher or governor should be guided by four rules: to care and take into account the different temperaments of children; not to be fixated on determined hours of teaching; to escort the child the whole day while being able to tie his instruction to “natural” teaching opportunities; and, finally, to serve as a (good) example and encourage the child’s own capability (pp. 53–60). Similar to the instruction to make children reasonable, Sulzer presented an instruction on how virtue could be achieved by education. This he believed was what in sum guarantees educational success by “fabricating” his envisaged human being. Virtue was equated with reason, and in clear contrast to Francke’s concept, defined as an intellectual force, as a capability to be known and a conscious attitude. To achieve virtue, five human qualities were seen as important: knowledge of the law; the conviction that laws must be obeyed; the will to act according to these beliefs; the capability to overcome obstacles; and a constant awareness of the reasons of one’s own actions (Sulzer 1745: 62). The submission of one’s own will was equally important and not to be equated with obedience (p. 68). What was to be achieved was more a denial of self, and this was a constant educational task that lasted the whole lifetime. Children were to submit their will to that of their parents, and adults were to submit their will to that of God (pp. 68–9). Equally important was dealing with the passions, as they had to be suppressed and given the right direction. Evil actions were to be avoided, and good actions to be promoted. An important means for steering the passions were histories and examples since they better supported right behavior than moral demands (pp. 78–9). Sulzer also discussed the question of sociability or the question of to what extent children had to deal with adults, other children, and servants, and what should be taken into account in these relations. He argued for an education aligning the children to existing structures, habits, and customs (pp. 98–100). Contacts and friendships to persons of lower social status were particularly encouraged as they teach the equality of every human being and prevent arrogance. Sulzer’s treatise did not only promise to make education feasible and successfully implementable. It also assumed that the education of children “is not the task of an ordinary teacher” or an “ordinary human being,” but rather the task of a “philosopher,” as Sulzer stated in the foreword to the second and enlarged edition of his Attempt in 1748 (Sulzer 1748: viii). This led him to the demand that public schools be funded by the government and not by the church and be stuffed with reasonable and well-trained educators or teachers (p. ix). In setting out this demand, Sulzer’s treatise made an important contribution to the process of the “educationalization of social problems,” since he conceptualized education as a rational and manageable task, guided by a person specially trained for this purpose, the teacher or the educator. Sulzer’s claim that the teacher must be a philosopher stems from the philosophical orientations of his educational considerations, particularly

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from Wolff’s Vernünfftige Gedancken von der Menschen Thun und Lassen, zu Beförderung ihrer Glückseligkeit (=Deutsche Ethik) (Reasonable Thought on the Human Actions to Promote Their Happiness [=German Ethics]) (1720) that discussed the relationship between knowledge and virtue. Sulzer, in line with Wolff’s rational philosophy, argued that it is all the more important that the educator or the teacher be intellectually capable to educate and teach the child according to his rational principles, since this was the only guarantee of a successful education (Tröhler 2001: 130–1). However, in Sulzer’s consideration, one question remained unanswered, the question of how to deal with the evil residing in every human being or, to put it otherwise, why the passions have to be disciplined and the will subordinated even when a rational education starts from the very beginning. This question was, later in the century, also in the forefront of Basedow’s considerations; Basedow referred again—and in contrast to Sulzer’s reflections—to a religious concept, specifically to the notion of a final judgment (135). The question, however, of how rational knowledge could be transformed into virtue and moral actions—a perennial problem of educational theories—was also at the heart of the Popular Enlightenment, which was primarily concerned with popularizing new, “modern” abilities and skills and new, “enlightened” knowledge.

EDUCATION, POPULAR ENLIGHTENMENT, AND PHILANTHROPINISM The term “Popular Enlightenment” engulfs a wide variety of actors, projects, and writings that dealt with the dissemination of knowledge and of how people’s economic living conditions and morality could be improved. Popular Enlightenment was first spread by cameralists,9 natural scientists, and landowners as well as by economic and nonprofit societies. Since the 1770s, members of the clergy, medical doctors, writers, and publicists were its main supporters. Although encouraged by government authorities, Popular Enlightenment remained mainly a private initiative (Böning 2004), whereby the efforts associated with these various attempts—in contrast to similar efforts, for example in France, where the physiocrat Jacques Turgot (1727–81) was minister of finance—were always aimed directly at educational effects. Because of the broad variety of involved actors, it is not easy to choose specific persons or writings to exemplify what Popular Enlightenment meant. The secretary of the Basel council Isaak Iselin, mainly famous for composing the first philosophy of history ever written and who also dealt in various writings with educational questions (Im Hof 1967: 147; Naas 2014a: xiv), can nevertheless serve as an example. He dealt with a wide variety of topics in his writings, from advice to parents to general considerations on education,

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schooling, and school reforms. Iselin was also a member of various societies and associations and the founder of the important reform society called Helvetische Gesellschaft (Helvetic Society). This society, it should be noted, was the only nationwide society in eighteenth-century Switzerland that was recognized across national borders. In addition, he was the editor of the Ephemeriden der Menschheit (Ephemerides of Humanity) (1776–86), one of the most widespread eighteenth-century journals. In his educational writings, Iselin drew on Sulzer (Roth 2011: 276) but also on Rousseau and Basedow and was an early promoter and supporter of Pestalozzi (see Naas 2014b: 77–81). Iselin’s views were in line with most of the ideas of the Popular Enlightenment and did not necessarily stand out in their originality or coherence of content. They are also not synthesized into a theory in the strict sense of the word. They do, however, show how educational topics were intensively discussed and adapted to changing circumstances since the middle of the eighteenth century. Of Iselin’s numerous publications, two more general texts are the focus of this investigation: the essays Über die Erziehung (On Education) (1770) and Über die Erziehungs-Anstalten (On Educational Institutions) (1770).10 In On Education, Iselin defined education as having the greatest benefit for every human being and linked it to the pursuit of happiness and dignity. Like Sulzer, Iselin argued for teaching “the right and complete concepts of good and honesty” (Iselin 1770/2014a: 93), but he proposed different means to achieve this goal. He emphasized the importance of tendencies and habits in acting according to moral principles and thought they had to be practiced and developed through education. Equally essential for him were the students’ physical conditions, as they could support or hinder the envisaged goal. “Nutrition, exercise, cleanliness, and other physical needs have an immense influence on our happiness at all times and especially in the first years of life” (p. 93). The right physical education was, therefore, the basis of any moral education and of utmost importance, although it had been—at least in Iselin’s eyes—a rather neglected topic thus far. Iselin’s considerations regarding the senses and the external impressions were much in line with English sensualist theories, like John Locke’s (1632–1704) in Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693). Since empiricism assumes that all impressions reach the human mind through the senses, it was for Iselin all the more important to control external impressions. This was particularly true during early childhood, because the child’s capabilities were still limited, and there was a danger that incorrect and wrong concepts would confuse the senses (Iselin 1770/2014a: 95). “Negative education” was a key term indicating the need to prevent the child from being exposed to false influences.11 The educator had mainly to take care that only positive impressions and good examples were presented to the children. Since Iselin placed the development of the child’s will

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before the development of the mind, obedience was the first duty and patience the first virtue of children (97). Regardless of the question of how to deal with the passions and similar educational problems, Iselin was convinced that education should always be oriented toward the child’s future profession and position in society. Keeping an eye on this issue was first and foremost the task of the parents, but the state was also held responsible for it. Iselin argued in On Educational Institutions (Iselin 1770/2014b: 113) that the existing schools were generally not yet sufficiently organized for this task. To educate also meant, therefore, to offer every human being a way to make a decent living according to their social status. Special attention was paid to girl’s education, as women were particularly suitable to educate and teach (p. 125). Iselin meant to see his ideas put into practice in Basedow’s Philanthropinum in Dessau, namely in a corresponding curriculum and the educational setting (see Im Hof 1967: 171–4), whereby he probably drew his knowledge largely from Basedow’s famous Vorstellung an Menschenfreunde und vermögende Männer über Schulen, Studien und ihren Einfluß in die öffentliche Wohlfahrt (Presentation to Philanthropists and Wealthy Men About Schools, Studies and Their Influence on Public Welfare) (1768) (Naas 2014b: 79). In this threepart essay, consisting of fifty-seven paragraphs, Basedow dealt with the state supervision of education and schooling, detailing how suitable schools were to be set up and providing a short description of his own elementary book of human knowledge. Basedow assumed that “public happiness” would continually decline if governments and political leaders did not soon improve schooling and education (Basedow 1768/1893: 29). However, he also held that schooling and education not only had the potential to improve individual happiness but also could serve the state as well as general welfare (p. 47). It was, therefore, all the more important for him that public schooling fitted the needs of the people. This meant that the curriculum had to be oriented to the acquisition of “useful” knowledge such as mathematics, foreign languages, or bookkeeping, and not Latin. He also argued that legal studies and the theatre supported the educational goals of schooling, if these topics were discussed in the context of promoting the “national character” (pp.  104–5), a concept that arose in the second half of the eighteenth century and became a tool to distinguish political and cultural entities and a key concept for the making of the future citizen through education and schooling (Harp 1998; Tröhler, Popkewitz, and Labaree 2011). Similar educational tasks are also discussed in Basedow’s Methodenbuch (Book of Method) (1770), perhaps the most famous of Basedow’s publications. Therein, it becomes particularly evident that Basedow coupled education tightly with schooling and that the latter was, in fact, the main focus in the discussion of educational questions. Basedow saw happiness and the morality of human beings in danger, while he pointed to scholars and universities as the

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source of the problem (Basedow 1770: 5). However, he was not concerned with reforming the universities but wanted instead to tackle the problem at its roots, that is, at the level of elementary education, because he recognized a big difference between what was taught in these schools and the “insights, needs and possible advantages of our times” (p. 6). Basedow’s main concerns were focused on the curriculum and teaching material, because for him it was “not adapted to the natural growth of the children’s mind” (p. 7). Furthermore, he held that it did not present “the necessary and useful … easy and pleasantly, just as it also does not teach in the most useful way what is naturally pleasant to the child’s age” (p. 7). Quite the contrary. Schools, he maintained, taught mainly “useless word knowledge,” which cannot be learned without “great unwillingness and means of coercion” and this “humiliates the people’s souls throughout their lives” (p. 7). In contrast, Basedow’s Book of Method promised to start with the “very first perceptions of the child,” not containing “any untrue sentence,” and presenting every subject in the right time. He wrote that the material should be taught “not too early and not too late for the education of the mind and the heart of the children,” since the content follows the “order of nature” (p. 13). He promised a smooth implementation of what is found in his book, so “every reasonable mother” could teach her children in the first years on her own.12 The children, in turn, he promised will love the book and the elementary knowledge of French, Latin, reading, and arithmetic could be learned without effort (p. 14). In December 1774, Basedow opened his Philanthropinum in Dessau but resigned as early as 1776 because he felt that he could not achieve his goals. His short-term successor Joachim Heinrich Campe (1746–1818) was also part of the so-called philanthropinists movement and became famous as editor of the sixteen-volume Allgemeine Revision des gesamten Schul- und Erziehungswesens von einer Gesellschaft praktischer Erzieher (General Revision of the Entire School and Education System by a Society of Practical Educators) (1785–92). In this edited book series, he tried to revise and renew the existing knowledge about education and present the results for the benefit of teachers and educators (Kersting 1992: 88–9). He was, however, famous first and foremost for authoring the youth novel Robinson der Jüngere (Robinson the Younger) (1779/80). The first volume of the General Revision started with an entry describing the overall aim of education. Karl Friedrich Bahrdt (1740–92), the author of this essay, conceptualized education as a theory of happiness based on an emotive exchange (Bahrdt 1785: 43–7). In his eyes, education was mainly imitation, and its end was happiness. Education, he wrote, should “guide the child quicker and easier to its purpose” (p. 5). Happiness, meant not just positive feelings but “pleasure from activity,” which was why education also included learning the use of one’s capabilities (p. 17). Similar considerations were formulated by Johann Stuve (1752–93) in the same volume. For him, education, by strengthening the

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pleasant sensations, aimed at a state of a “relative formation and perfection of the faculties and powers of our nature, and the congruent satisfaction of our natural instincts” (Stuve 1785: 257). In this way, education contributed to every human being becoming happy and added to the happiness and perfection of society as a whole (p. 261). Significantly, therefore, the educational theory of the philanthropinists started not from nature but from social interaction, in which social or moral virtue could be formed (Oelkers and Tröhler 2014: 774). A “comprehensive” theory of education was then formulated by Ernst Christian Trapp, also a temporary teacher at the Philanthropinum in Dessau and short-term professor for education in Halle.13 He too assumed that education was “the formation of the human being to happiness” (Trapp 1780: 25) and conceptualized education as an empirical science, based on observations that could be recorded and analyzed (p. 74). In the long term, however, this “empirical” theory of education did not prevail. It was devalued because of its (alleged) social utilitarian orientation and, after the French Revolution, its cosmopolitan intent. The fact that it was also linked to the failure of the Philanthropinum in Dessau did not help matters (Oelkers and Tröhler 2014: 777). In contrast, “new humanist” ideas of education, based on aesthetics and primarily conceptualized as inner education or Bildung, were able to assert themselves in a context of an increasing intellectual nationalism that was formulated in opposition to scientific, social, and political developments in “the West.” As a rule, the origins of this Germanism were seen in ancient Greece to which Germany was viewed as having a special relationship. Not surprisingly, Trapp’s chair in Halle was reassigned to the ancient philologist and archaeologist Friedrich August Wolf, who saw in ancient languages the means to a harmonious education of the human being.

GERMANY’S “NEW HUMANISM” AND BILDUNG A different or perhaps even opposed concept of education to the one advocated by philanthropinism was rooted in the writings of the so-called German new humanism, which originated in the first half of the eighteenth century. The term “new humanism,” a historiographical invention of the late nineteenth century by the school historian Friedrich Paulsen (1846–1908), assembled rather different strands of traditions and determined a clear distinction between what was called “new humanism” on the one hand and “philanthropinism” or “enlightened education” on the other.14 However, this dichotomous distinction is due more to a certain historiographical ideology and less to an actual historical “reality.” This is so since numerous parallels and mutual references can be reestablished between these two traditions. The differences lie more in the educational justifications of the ancient languages and the associated educational goals than in the taught curriculum (Kuhlmann 2014: 136). In fact, “new humanism” was

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for a long time known for its important contribution to “secular” education and schooling (Kurig 2019: 67). One of the centers of “new humanism” and classical philologists dealing with educational topics was at the University of Göttingen, where educational lectures were held in different faculties (theology, medicine, philosophy). Here, the writings of the two professors of poetry and rhetoric, Gesner and his successor Heyne, stand at the focus of this investigation. In his Latin textbook Institutiones rei scholasticae (Guidelines to Schooling) (1715), Gesner discussed in six chapters the requirements put on the teachers, the necessary teaching methods, and the general educational goals, while focusing his considerations on higher education and universities. Although these authors focused on a somewhat different target group than the authors discussed so far, their thought also had consequences for schooling. Gesner conceptualized the teacher as requiring developed intellectual capacities but also as having good health and character. He argued strictly within the context of higher education and the transfer of knowledge. Unlike for Francke or Sulzer, for Gesner the “educational” part that dealt with changing inner attitudes, the subordination of the will, or the implementation of a reasonable mind, stood in the second place of importance. “The teacher,” he wrote, “needs theoretical power of judgment to distinguish wrong from right in order to advance to the perception of things” (Gesner 1715/2013: 129). The question of the role of the ancient languages was of particular interest for Gesner because he believed “scholarship and wisdom” were embedded in the classical texts and “spoke” better directly than through translations. This was especially true for the Greek language, which was seen as the direct and genuine voice of art and philosophy (p. 157). Thus, with Gesner, the ancient languages shifted from a means for scientific communication to a means for aesthetic education (Vielberg 2013: 70–2). The argument of the importance of the ancient world also became evident in Heyne’s inaugural lecture half a century later at the University of Göttingen. In this lecture, he denied the traditional task of his professorship, which was “to teach regulations and examples of rhetoric and poetry” (Heyne 1763/1785: 3). Instead, he maintained that the literary and artistic legacies of antique rhetoric and poetry were their own object of knowledge. In this way, he made language education into education in literature and poetry (Kurig 2019: 72), and the classical languages became a vital tool for accessing history, art education, and aesthetics. Moreover, for Heyne, aesthetics “prepared the anthropology of the ‘whole person’ by the revaluation of the sensual cognition, which implied an educational project” (p. 75). In this understanding, ethics and aesthetics were combined, and the stylistically exemplary testimonies of antiquity offered the means to shape attitudes, to improve character and virtue, and to direct will.

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This claim to carry out education through exposure to the sublime world of the Greeks became particularly obvious in Heyne’s Nachricht von der gegenwärtigen Einrichtung des Königlichen Pädagogii zu Ilfeld (News About the Actual Establishment of the Grammar School in Ilfeld) (1780), which was an assessment report on a famous governmental grammar school near Göttingen. Heyne had been assigned by the Hanoverian government to reform this institution, a convent school founded in 1546 and, since 1737, the founding year of the University of Göttingen, closely tied to the university as a sort of a preparatory school. Heyne deplored the fact that the contemporary educational recommendations had so far only partially been implemented in schools (Heyne 1780: 8). The reasons for this, he held, were “individual, local, internal and external” and included the lack of governmental supervision and planning, the inexistence of a corresponding teacher training, and a mismatch between schools for higher education and schools for vocational education.15 In the Ilfeld School, the situation was somewhat different, Heyne argued. As it was under direct governmental supervision, the impact of the new educational theories were much more visible, and the lessons in Latin, for example, were no longer just the teaching of grammar but “a tool and preparation for scientific knowledge; a strong guidance for the formation of taste, the awakening of wit and presentation of the own thoughts” (Heyne 1780: 15). According to Heyne, Latin was important for everybody because of its potency to “enlighten the mind, to present terms and concepts about the world and ongoing events, educate the heart, the moral sentiment and the character” (p. 40), and all this regardless of the social status of the student. The classical languages, comprising their history, architecture, art, and literature, were in sum an educational means, a subject to develop one’s mind, heart, and taste. The notion of developing one’s taste with educational intent through the classical arts was similarly the topic of Johann Joachim Winckelmann’s (1717– 68) Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerey und Bildhauerkunst (Reflections on the Painting and Sculpture of the Greeks) (1755), which in an exemplary manner formulated the aesthetic-educational meaning of antiquity. According to Winckelmann, who popularized ancient art within the context of a broader public, it was “to the Greek climate we owe the production of Taste” (Winckelmann 1755/1765: 1), and this productive capacity was still visible in its artworks. He argued that these ancient works of art embodied the ultimate ideal of beauty, and it was precisely this attribution that destined them to become ideal objects for education. Winckelmann underscored the educational potential of these objects by calling upon the fact that the Greeks attributed great importance to physical training and that physical training produced beautiful figures that then became models for art. The Greeks, as compared to the moderns, had also been keen to revere rather than subjugate nature, as evinced in their praise of nature and simplicity (p. 8).

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Winckelmann further justified Greece as a role model with an address on the philosophy of history. He held that since Greek society was not yet far advanced and relatively pure and free of corruption, natural beauty shined unveiled through its art (p. 12), where their perception of ideality of form inspired the Greeks to develop universal concepts of beauty. For Winckelmann, all Greek art partook of a single “great soul” lying “sedate beneath the strife of passions in Greek figures” (Winckelmann 1755/1765: 30). To replicate this model, the artist was now called upon to do more than simply reflect the beauty inherent in nature: he must be able to feel the strength of the spirit itself. To form a unity, the soul needed to be reflected in physical form. Just as for the Greeks, art required time and reflection before it could break free of gimmick or gesture and develop into true mastery. An educational mission followed from these theoretical considerations: art should not only entertain but also educate. The painter was requested to paint reasonably and to offer to the spectator an opportunity for inspiration and facilitate his detection of the ideal of beauty. In this way, the artist became an immensely influential figure, and not only for Winckelmann. The artist took over the role of mediator between the ideal and the spectator, imbuing the work of art with an educational function and thereby enabling a process of inner formation or Bildung. It was precisely this argument, the inner formation through the confrontation with the ideal ancient outer world, that was picked up by the “classical theory of Bildung” as represented by Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835). Humboldt worked these thoughts out in fragmentary writings, later on titled Bildungstheorie (Theory on Bildung) (1793/4). There, he presented a theory of forces, according to which each person was compelled to “strengthen and heighten the powers of his nature and secure value and permanence for his being” (Humboldt 1793/4/2000: 58). The basic question of Humboldt’s writing was how each human could assign meaning to existence and free their being from insignificance. In the respective answers laid the foundation for why Humboldt’s Theory on Bildung became the role model of the ideal of completeness. According to these perceptions of the exemplarity of ancient art and language, Humboldt believed that the Gymnasium and university course of study should focus on the objects of the ancient world. He thought that the potential of each individual could best be realized only by confronting the ideal that these objects represented. Under its guidance, our observation would take refuge from the infinity of objects in the narrower circle of our faculties and their diverse combinations; as though in a simultaneously brightening and mustering mirror, the image of our activity, which we otherwise glimpse in fragmented form and through external successes only would be revealed to us in direct relation to our inner Bildung. (Humboldt 1793/9/2000: 60)

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By focusing on the ideal represented in the ancient world, a distinction with far-reaching social consequences could be made between a more general and a more specialized kind of education. The goal of the latter was vocational or professional training, which had also been the primary goal of eighteenthcentury German philanthropists and “enlightened” educators and was further polarized by placing perfection or self-realization on one side and usefulness on the other.

“EDUCATIONALIZATION” AND THE IMPORTANCE OF SCHOOLING This chapter has revealed a disparate set of educational theories that emerged during the Enlightenment period within the German context. These theories dealt with different levels of education and were based on various assumptions regarding questions of upbringing, education, and schooling. First, religious concepts grounded in the context of Pietism, which argued for a strict subordination under the divine will, a subordination to be achieved by education, were introduced. Second, the chapter addressed rational conceptions of education embedded in a “mechanical” understanding of education and grounded in a rational anthropology on which knowledge leads to the desired action. In both these concepts, the teacher was a prominent figure, viewed as the personalization of the educational aspirations and the means to implement and to spread the educational goals (Horlacher 2020). The institutional aspects of these two first educational theories were picked up and strengthened by the philanthropinists. They integrated the teacher into a concept of schooling and advanced a supporting curriculum, which was also linked to economic, social, and vocational conditions. In the Popular Enlightenment, however, the educational task concentrated on the spread of “modern,” “enlightened” knowledge and the pursuit of improved living conditions. All these attempts were embedded in a concrete historical and political society. Yet the aim was not to revolutionize but to reform the existing society through knowledge and education. In Pietism, as well as in rationalism and among philanthropinists, the education of the people was the main concern, even when on the concrete level education could differ according to social status, gender, or vocation. The claim that education was required for all people was also reflected in the educational concepts of “new humanism,” even though, in this case, the concrete context was rooted in academic schooling. Given the importance of the ancient languages and the familiarity with Greek art, paintings, poetry, and literature for the formation of an aesthetic and ethic sense as a prerequisite for inner formation as Bildung, an elitist notion of education became evident, which in the long term became institutionally, historiographically, and theoretically dominant. Furthermore, the notion of inner formation tied to

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religious concepts reformulated the process of education as inwardness. With time this became the dominant “language of education,” and not only in the German-speaking context (Tröhler 2011: 2). The fact that both contemporary German educational theory and the German tradition of Didaktik (pedagogy or didactics) still fundamentally refer to this notion of Bildung is thus somewhat surprising or even amazing. In doing so, these movements continue to exhibit German exceptionalism, stressing the importance of inner formation or even the transformation of the self-and-world relationship (Koller 2012; Stieger 2020). Educational theories stressing social relations or the strengthening of the function of knowledge for coping with everyday challenges or vocational requirements were secondary. Two developments have thus become apparent in German educational thought during the age of Enlightenment: a transformation from an explicit religious orientation toward aesthetics and inner formation and a shift toward viewing schooling as a governmental task and policy project. In addition, educational writings were not only growing in number but were also thematically diversifying. Scholarly journals were published as well as educational treatises on agriculture, right behavior, health issues, guidebooks for teachers, and novels for female or young readers. The thematic broadening of educational writings was accompanied by efforts to support the content of these diverse writings by educational means, with the aim of not only presenting “knowledge” but also implementing the new knowledge into a kind of instruction manual, also known as “method.” All these developments testify to what is known as “educationalization,” the belief that education is no longer just the habituation of certain behavior patterns or the teaching of specific concepts and knowledge that lead “automatically” to the according actions but rather a complex amalgam of sensations, habits, and reasons as well as moral and religious feelings. All together, these lead to the desired personality, which in the German context was then defined as Bildung. Even if the complexity of the educational process became more and more obvious during the age of Enlightenment, hope remained for detecting something like a “sure path” to the envisaged educational goal, be it a “method” or a “guidebook,” and the school became the organization to secure the educational hope in perpetuity.

NOTES   1 The debate was triggered by Cesare Beccaria’s (1764) writings on the death penalty, which were published six times in the first two years after its first publication. They were also translated into various European languages (French, English, German, Spanish) in the following years (see Rother 2014).   2 See, for example, Friedrich Schiller’s Über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen (On the Aesthetic Education of Man) (1795), which presents aesthetics not as an end in itself but as a means of ethics and enlightenment, or Anthony Ashley Cooper,

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  5   6   7   8   9 10

11

12

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third Earl of Shaftesbury’s Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times (1711), a compilation of his ethical and aesthetic writings conceived by the author, which altogether devotes itself to the question of “good life” as politeness (see Klein 1994). The main topic of the various debates on luxury was the question of to what extent luxury was legitimate in spite of its morally detrimental connotations, as it contributes to income and thus economic wealth (see Guzzi-Heeb 2009). The chair was taken over by Ernst Christian Trapp (1745–1818) for five years. Trapp argued in his writings for an “empirical” pedagogy and education (Trapp 1779) and also trained teachers in an institute affiliated to the theological faculty (Trapp 1782). After disputes in Halle, he first moved to Hamburg as head of a private educational institution and was appointed in 1786 to the Duchy’s school board by the Duke Karl Wilhelm Ferdinand von Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel (1735–1806) with the task of reforming the school. Four years later the committee was dissolved and Trapp retired (Herrmann 1981). After Trapp’s resignation in Halle, the chair was taken over by Friedrich August Wolf (1759–1824), who argued “to strengthen the profile of the philology of the ancient languages into a systematic and methodical-didactic reference discipline for future teachers” (see Brachmann 2008: 15) whereby this connection was to become particularly important for the training of teachers for the German Gymnasium (see also the section “Germany’s ‘new humanism’ and Bildung”). Lectures with educational content were already held before, a large part in Latin. It is important to note that “German” does not signify here a political entity but rather the language in which the educational theories were published. The orphanage also became a role model for the Charity Schools of the London Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (Jacobi 2013: 221) and relied on Dutch orphanages (Spaans 2003). Following Matthew 10:13 Francke called the teachers “salt of the earth” (Francke 1704/1962: 75). Cameralism was the German science of administration prevalent in the early modern period. It aimed at the promotion of agriculture and the growth of the population, which were viewed as the basis of economic wealth. Many of the ideas expressed in these two writings are discussed more concretely and in greater detail in Versuch eines Bürgers, über die Verbesserung der öffentlichen Erziehung in einer republicanischen Handelsstadt (Attempt of a Citizen About the Improvement of Public Education in a Republic Trading Town) (1779). Iselin’s understanding of “negative education” differs fundamentally from Rousseau’s understanding. While Rousseau sees his concept of negative or natural education as the only possibility of education in a corrupt society, which is why the child to be educated is transferred from society into nature, the only place not affected by the corrupt society and what is to be understood as a conceptual gimmick, Iselin lacks this decisive conceptual precondition. The implicit promise that the “method” would be easy to use and guarantee success proved to be a very convincing argument. Not only Pestalozzi argued for the notion of “method” for the quality of his educational concepts, but the whole pedagogical tradition argues with notions such as “easy to learn,” “playful learning,” “natural learning,” or “from the easy to the complex” (Osterwalder 2004). See also Note 4.

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14 The historiographical construction of “new humanism” combines at least four different strands of thought. The first strand deals with classical philologists publishing innovative findings and new interpretations on the science of antiquity, which led to a reformation of the classical education at the gymnasium. Second, ancient art history and archaeology were newly inspired by idealistic views of Greek art, and third, the idea of “humanity” became a central topos of the German educational discourse. Forth, and especially powerful, was the “invention” of Bildung, inspired by the philosophy of politeness (Klein 1994) and namely by Anthony Ashley Cooper, third earl of Shaftesbury (1671–1712) (Horlacher 2016: 32–44), which became a tool for the social emancipation of the German bourgeoisie and for the demarcation from the surrounding societies, mainly the French (Horlacher 2016: 45–71; Walther 2015). 15 This argument was later on taken up by Abraham von Zedlitz (1731–93) in his Vorschläge über das Schulwesen in den königlichen Landen (Suggestions About Schools in the Royal Lands) (1787), one of the starting points for the Prussian school reform in the beginning of the nineteenth century.

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Stieger, Sophie Pia (2020), “Transformatorische Bildungstheorie: A New Chapter in the German Tale of Bildung,” Bildungsgeschichte: International Journal for the Historiography of Education, 10 (1): 64–80. Tröhler, Daniel (2001), “Christian Wolff und Johann Georg Sulzer: Eigenart und Problem rationaler Ethik und Pädagogik,” in Dieter Jedan and Christoph Lüth (eds.), Moral Philosophy and Education in the Enlightenment, 118–42, Bochum: Winkler. Tröhler, Daniel (2011), Languages of Education: Protestant Legacies, National Identities, and Global Aspirations, New York: Routledge. Tröhler, Daniel (2013), Pestalozzi and the Educationalization of the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Tröhler, Daniel (2017), “Educationalization of Social Problems and the Educationalization of the Modern World,” in Michael A. Peters (ed.), Encyclopedia of Educational Philosophy and Theory, 698–703, Singapore: Springer. Tröhler, Daniel (2020), “Learning, Progress, and the Taming of Change: The Educational Aspirations of the Age of Enlightenment,” in Daniel Tröhler (ed.), A Cultural History of Education in the Age of Enlightenment, Vol. 4, 1–23, London: Bloomsbury. Tröhler, Daniel and Rebekka Horlacher (2020), “Histories of Ideas and Ideas in Context,” in Tanya Fitzgerald (ed.), Handbook of Historical Studies in Education: Debates, Tensions, and Directions, 29–45, Singapore: Springer. Tröhler, Daniel, Thomas S. Popkewitz, and David F. Labaree, eds. (2011), Schooling and the Making of Citizens in the Long Nineteenth Century: Comparative Visions, New York: Routledge. Tütken, Johannes (1987), “Die Anfänge der Pädagogik im 18. Jahrhundert,” in Dietrich Hoffmann (ed.), Pädagogik an der Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, 13–49, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Vielberg, Meinolf (2013), “Einleitung,” in Johann Matthias Gesner, Institutiones rei scholasticae—Leitfaden für das Unterrichtswesen, 1–85, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Walther, Gerrit (2015), “German New Humanism,” in Graeme Dunphy, and Andrew Gow (eds.), Encyclopedia of Early Modern History Online, Leiden: Brill. http://doi.org/10.1163/2352-0272_emho_COM_024746. Whitmer, Kelly Joan (2015), The Halle Orphanage as Scientific Community: Observation, Eclecticism, and Pietism in the Early Enlightenment, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Zirfas, Jörg (2018), Einführung in die Erziehungswissenschaft, Paderborn: Schöningh.

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Philosophies of Education “in Action”: Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, Johann Friedrich Herbart, and Friedrich Fröbel JÜRGEN OELKERS

INTRODUCTION Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746–1827), Johann Friedrich Herbart (1776– 1841), and Friedrich Fröbel (1782–1852) hold a central place in the history of educational philosophy. They are undoubtedly the most renowned educational philosophers of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. This chapter, which discusses their contribution to the theory, practice, and history of education, will begin with an examination of the similarities and differences between them. It will then move on to discuss the work of each of the three thinkers in separate sections. Each section will start by describing the thinkers’ biographies as these relate to their theories of education. Their personal biographies are significant because their lives and theories are closely intertwined. Each of the three sections devoted to the authors will also comprise a detailed discussion of their educational philosophies. The final section of this chapter will comment on the educational legacies of Pestalozzi, Herbart, and Fröbel.

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GENERAL ASSESSMENT There are various similarities and some major differences between these three German-speaking pedagogues. Noticeably, they share a connection to Switzerland. The eldest among them, Pestalozzi, was a resident of Zurich; the other two lived in Switzerland for long periods, where they also worked as teachers. Another point in common is that they had personal connections between them. Pestalozzi and Herbart spent time together, as did Fröbel and Pestalozzi. Moreover, Herbart developed his educational theory in direct response to Pestalozzi’s. An additional similarity between them is that their impact was amplified after their death, leading to international recognition and the creation of many loyal followers. Finally, they were all firm critics of the state elementary school system that was emerging at the beginning of the nineteenth century, arguing that education and teaching should not be left to the state but should take place at home. Pestalozzi spoke of “home education,” Fröbel of “nursery schools,” and Herbart of “home tutors.” In this context, Pestalozzi and Fröbel had in mind mothers and Herbart privately hired male instructors. At the same time, there are notable differences between these three thinkers. Herbart was a qualified philosopher, whereas Pestalozzi and Fröbel were autodidacts, not having formally studied or obtained a university degree. While Herbart’s educational theory was part of his highly influential system of philosophy, Pestalozzi and Fröbel were not systematic thinkers. Instead, their teachings are eclectic, and, unlike Herbart, their legacies rely heavily on their personal biographies. Relatedly, Herbart never became an educational role model, whereas Fröbel and especially Pestalozzi became precisely that. Moreover, both Pestalozzi and Fröbel have been celebrated over many decades. For example, in 1890, the heroic “Fröbel Tower” was inaugurated at Fröbel’s place of birth, while at the same time memorials and streets named for Pestalozzi were emerging in Germany and Switzerland. In England and, later, in the German Democratic Republic (East Germany), Fröbel was particularly honored. In their personal lives, in contrast, Herbart had an impressive academic career, whereas the lives of Pestalozzi and Fröbel were marked by disruptions and disappointments. They were all married, Fröbel twice, but only Pestalozzi had a child, a son.1

JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZI Up until the mid-twentieth century Pestalozzi was regarded by many as one of the greatest educators in history. Three elements of his work earned him this reputation and made him seem unique. The first was his concern with the education of the people—the weak and the poor—and not only with that

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of the higher social classes. The second was his method of teaching and the new organization of schooling that he proposed. The third was his perceived personality. Pestalozzi was considered to be a role model for all educators because of the image he projected. More recently, however, this somewhat idealistic vision of Pestalozzi, especially with respect to his personality, has been challenged by critical research that provides quite a different picture (Osterwalder 1996; Tröhler 2013). Let us examine his life and work, then, from an informed rather than idealized perspective. Pestalozzi was born in Zurich in 1746, where he also attended school from 1751 to 1765. After leaving school, he studied theology and law in Zurich until he discontinued his studies. From 1767 to 1768, he served in an agricultural apprenticeship at the Kleehof estate, a model farm of the agronomist Johann Rudolf Tschiffeli (1716–80) near the city of Berne. There he formed a desire to become a farmer and build an agricultural business. In 1769, Pestalozzi married a merchant’s daughter, Anna Schulthess (1738–1815), despite the bitter resistance of her wealthy parents. Their son Johann Jakob (1770–1801), named after Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78),2 who was admired by Pestalozzi, was supposed to be brought up “naturally” in the country farm. However, the experiment failed since Pestalozzi, having already lost himself in educational projects, neglected his own son. From 1773 to 1779, the couple lived on their own Neuhof farm at the southern edge of Birr. This is where the legend of the “home education” (Wohnstubenerziehung), developed by Pestalozzi himself in his “Neuhof writings” (K.A. 1:137–90),3 was born. At the farm, thirty-seven neglected children lived, learned, and worked together. Anna assumed the role of matron and cared for the children, as she continued to do in all her husband’s later educational endeavors (Schifferli 1998). Interestingly, in his writings Pestalozzi does not acknowledge her contribution until a speech made in her memory in 1816 (Correspondence 24B:79–83).4 Historically, the home education that took place in the farm was represented as successful. In reality, however, the Neuhof experiment was a dismal failure. Pestalozzi incurred large debts, leading to the closure of his reform school in 1780. In contrast to Pestalozzi’s expectations, the school could not be funded by the sale of products made by the children—in what, by today’s standards, resembles child labor. In addition, it is also unknown what became of the children. After 1780, for a period of twenty years Pestalozzi worked exclusively as a writer in Zurich (Korte 2003). In particular, it was the popular novel Lienhard und Gertrud, published in four volumes from 1781 to 1787, which made him known beyond the boundaries of the German language. The novel was translated into French, and Eva Channing’s adaptation of Leonard and Gertrude (1889) provided an abridged version in English. This book describes a village community on the brink of ruin brought about through corruption and

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drunkenness. The man, Lienhard, is vulnerable and weak; the woman, Gertrud, is strong and clever. She brings up their children to behave morally, and she also contributes to the resistance against the corrupt bailiff, who is responsible for the disintegration of the village’s moral standards. Through her pedagogic energy and exemplary behavior, Gertrud, the local woman, convinces an esteemed Count to liberate the village community and, in so doing, restores morality. The most important message of the book is that women can and should take a leading role in education. In his writing, Pestalozzi touched upon issues other than education. In politics, Pestalozzi supported republicanism. His sociocritical writings were aimed, for instance, against the common practice of abandoning and killing newborn children (Über Gesetzgebung und Kindermord, 1783). In 1793, he also wrote a commentary on the French Revolution after becoming a French citizen the previous year. He criticized the Jacobin regime, which in his eyes devalued the revolution. Around the same period, Pestalozzi also published numerous political manifestos, which reacted to the revolutionary change of the old confederation. Beside these various writings, Pestalozzi published his main philosophical work in 1797 under the title Meine Nachforschungen über den Gang der Natur in der Entwicklung des Menschengeschlechts (My Research on the Course of Nature in the Development of the Human Race). By today’s standards, the Nachforschungen is a work of evolutionary anthropology. In it, Pestalozzi poses the question of how nature, society, and morality have developed since God’s creation. Religiously, it is important to note that, unlike Rousseau, Pestalozzi was never a deist but a reformed Christian, although never in an orthodox sense. He did not accept the dogmatism of the church. The aim of his philosophical work was to explain how our initially good nature developed into an aggressive one and led to the corruption of society. According to Pestalozzi, the development of humanity takes place in three stages, which mirror the development of the individual. At the beginning humanity is found in the state of nature. At first people are benevolent and simple, but they become corrupted when they start to reflect on their desires. Humanity then moves to the second stage, in which people form a social organization aiming to meet their desires. This second stage is characterized by fierce competition. Eventually humanity moves into a third and moral stage, in which people return to benevolence but this time within social settings. Pestalozzi’s distinction between the “state of nature” and the “state of society” stems from the natural law of the seventeenth century and from Rousseau’s ideas, which gave this distinction a momentous twist. Unlike his predecessors, Rousseau opposed good nature to corrupt society and demanded that the education of children be in accordance with nature. Pestalozzi did the same. Rousseau also offered a corresponding educational design in his Emile, ou de l’éducation (Emile, or On Education) (1762).5 Pestalozzi, like many other

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readers of Emile, was influenced by Rousseau’s book and saw it as a manual for practical implementation. Nevertheless, in Pestalozzi’s Nachforschungen, education is not handed over to nature nor to society but to a third “state,” that of morality. The basis for Pestalozzi’s anthropology is therefore not dualism (nature versus society) but a triad (nature–society–morality). For him, however, the development of morality is to be understood as strictly an individual matter. He writes, “[I]t [morality] does not exist between two,” adding, “we must live in society, without any belief in mutual morality”; it is in everyone’s own hands to make oneself a “noble creature” (edles Geschöpf) and so a better man (K.A. 12:106). Moreover, Pestalozzi held that there are no two persons with the same morality. Thus, for him morals are not transferrable and have to be newly acquired by each person. As a result, he considered the moralization of society to be as impossible as the collectivization of education.6 Although the Nachforschungen is Pestalozzi’s main philosophical work, it should not be read as educational science or as a theory of education in a wider disciplinary sense. Pestalozzi believed in neither scientific nor philosophic educational science. He chose instead to focus on developing high standards for the methods and practices of education. In an age in which policy-makers constantly turn to science to improve education, Pestalozzi’s approach might offer an interesting old–new direction. At the age of fifty-three, Pestalozzi again became a teacher, both in public and in private institutions. It was only at this time that the image of Pestalozzi as a “great” or even the “greatest” pedagogue evolved. This image, which is responsible for much of his reputation, was based on sympathetic interpretations of his writings and occasional visits to his schools. His earlier writings were also reinterpreted retrospectively through the image of him as a great pedagogue. In September 1798, when French troops invaded the small Catholic canton of Nidwalden, Pestalozzi was commissioned by the new central government in Berne to establish an orphanage in Stans, Nidwalden. It only operated for six months, in 1799. Looking back at this period, Pestalozzi wrote to an unknown addressee “about his stay and his effectiveness in Stans.”7 In this letter, Pestalozzi describes how he taught not in the manner of a stiff schoolmaster but rather as one seeking to bond with the children and to awaken their inner powers. In reality, however, he used physical corporal punishment and justified it on the grounds of his affection for the children being punished (K.A. 13:18–19). With self-promotion in mind, he wrote, “I did not know any order, no method, no skill, that should not rest on the simple consequences of the conviction of my love for my children” (p. 25). On this basis, learning is supposed to be combined with working, the learning methods are supposed to be simplified, and the distance between teacher and pupil should no longer be important. “I learned with them myself” (p. 29). Historically, what really happened in the orphanage was forgotten, and the ideals and self-image projected by Pestalozzi

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survived. These ideals stood at the core of Pestalozzi’s renowned version of “home education” for which he became famous. Pestalozzi’s “home education” comprised two basic beliefs: children grow better in family-like relations and schools must be organized like families. Although these ideas rarely found their way into formal schooling, they have a central place in educational philosophy, especially among critics of schooling. For example, Dewey, in School and Society (1899), argued that schools should operate like small communities. More recently, Nel Noddings (2002, 2003) has emphasized the educational importance of caring, interpersonal relationships, and community support. But again, it is important to remember that there was a gap between the image and reality, and not all of the eighty or so children appreciated this upbringing. More than a few ran away, and Pestalozzi commented that they were not worthy anyway. This fact, however, did not harm his glory. He appeared to embody his theory and practice of education. In 1799, after the dissolution of the orphanage, Pestalozzi became a teacher at Burgdorf (see Figure 5.1). He taught the children of residents that had no civil rights. The young tutor Johann Friedrich Herbart visited Pestalozzi at the end of 1799 and again in 1802. Following his visits, Herbart provided

FIGURE 5.1  Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi saying goodbye to the orphans (Photo by ullstein bild/ullstein bild via Getty Images)

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a comprehensive critique of Pestalozzi’s teaching method (Herbart 1802b). This critique will be discussed in the next section. Pestalozzi’s long-awaited methodological writings were published a year earlier in 1801 under the title Wie Gertrud ihre Kinder lehrt (How Gertrude Teaches Her Children). These writings were also supposed to be supplemented by individual books on the application of the method in specific elementary areas, but only a few were actually published. At this stage, Pestalozzi was convinced that he had found a “safe thread” from which a general psychological teaching method could be derived, based on the unshakeable laws of human nature (K.A. 13:246). He did not have in mind what we mean by “psychology” or “physiology” but instead a skillful art of developing human powers. The art consisted of a process of concentration on objects and “regular sequences” of learning. He held that the untrained mind of the child sees the world as confused sense impressions so that the child needs to learn to differentiate and organize these elements. Pestalozzi maintained that, by learning to concentrate on a specific object or sequences, didactic “relations” and ideas are formed. Guided by elementary books, which “facilitate” the powers of recall and activate the “five senses” through which we perceive the world, humans can learn to “imagine the world’s objects in higher numbers, on a more permanent basis and more accurately” (p. 245). He held that the “entirety of all lessons” can be traced back to “three elementary resources” (p. 305), namely the number for the art of computing, the form for the arts of measuring, drawing, and writing, and sound or acoustics for wording and linguistics (pp. 259–304). Together these form his famous “ABC of perception,” which is supposed to be the basis of all we learn and know about the world (p. 303). In Pestalozzi’s theory, children acquire the various skills by learning the elements (i.e., simple numbers, simple forms, and the sound of the tones) as a starting point. The method, he wrote, should lead to “making the foundations of a subject so clear to children that, at every stage of their learning, they must make all they can on their own until completion, so that, in every case, to the extent they have progressed, they can absolutely be regarded as teachers of their younger siblings” (p. 314). Pestalozzi believed that, with the right method, actual elementary school teachers would become superfluous. Education could remain at home, in the “living room,” and the lessons could be handed over to mothers or older siblings. With the aid of the methodology books, the children should be able to apply the “physical-mechanical laws” of nature and also imitate the “mechanism of nature” (pp. 103–5). Here we find an early version of the idea that the teacher can be replaced, at least partly, by methods or technology, as is the case with today’s computer-based learning. History, however, teaches that the argument that the teacher can be made superfluous by the right methods or technology has never succeeded. Schooling, as we know it, depends on teachers and on human relationships.

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The assertion that a teaching method can produce a complete step-by-step sequence that enables the complete development of the mind and feelings, moving a person from a first acquisition of knowledge to its actual full perfection (pp. 348–9), was mainly endorsed because of its potential contribution to morality. In this, the method suggested contradicts the philosophy of “Nachforschungen” that placed individualization at the center of education. In the “Nachforschungen,” because individuation is seen as key, the idea of a general method is not even developed or mentioned. Moreover, Pestalozzi, in a letter to the government, dated August 7, 1802, presented the method he developed as the “way to restore domestic education.” He assumed that “[e]very child educated according to this method is absolutely capable of being the teacher of its siblings, and every mother is able to follow the thread of the method to a high degree of human culture.” For this reason, he believed, his method is also “the method for the poor” (Correspondence 4:113). In practice, however, the method never took on a truly operative form. It only existed in differently elaborated designs and single, more or less successful experiments. The mere existence of a general method, however, enabled us to imagine that the world could be shaped by such an education (Tröhler 2013). In October 1800, Pestalozzi announced the establishment of a schoolteachers’ seminar. It was attached to a boarding school in the town of Burgdorf before moving to Iferten in the new Canton of Vaud in 1804. A third of the pupils did not pay school fees, and the school ran at a loss; the teachers did not receive wages, but they were provided with food and accommodation. The school day was filled with lessons and housework. Pestalozzi sought to control the teachers and ignored their conflicts regarding teaching methods and the way the school should run. In 1807, Pestalozzi’s Views and Experiences Concerning the Idea of Elementary Education was published in the only issue of his Journal für die Erziehung (Journal of Education). It was a collection of essays with autobiographical references, in which the merits and successes of the boarding school and seminar were also described (Pestalozzi 1823: 133– 92). In these writings, Pestalozzi speaks of the harmonious unity of a “large domestic association” in which a “paternal and fraternal sense comes through everywhere.” He maintains that the children there “are cheerful and happy, their innocence is safeguarded, their religious belief is nurtured, their spirit is formed, their knowledge is increased, their heart is lifted” (p. 138). He has in mind one large domestic community, where the children can be free and happy. Nevertheless, Karl von Raumer (1783–1865), a geologist who lived in the seminar and boarding school, which were often referred to as “Pestalozzi’s Institute,” has demonstrated that the ideas of a “harmonious development of all forces of the pupils” existed only in theory (Karl von Raumer 1866: 107). In this period, hundreds visited Pestalozzi’s institute. However, what some observers saw as the way to the “centre of European pedagogical culture”

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(Pestalozzi 1826a: 43) only took place in their minds. After many conflicts regarding the financing of the institute, Pestalozzi had to finally close it in 1825, at which point he returned to Neuhof. In the meantime, the publisher Johann Friedrich Cotta published the first complete edition of Pestalozzi’s works (Pestalozzi’s Sämmtliche Schriften, 15 vols, 1819–26). Pestalozzi even edited the last volume at Neuhof. One year later Pestalozzi died, a writer and educator who at the end of his life had turned to Christian mysticism. Among Pestalozzi’s later writings, An die Unschuld (Dedicated to Innocence) (1815) and the Schwanengesang (Swan Song) (1826) should be mentioned. In the An die Unschuld, the “education of man” (Menschenbildung) is set to prevent the ruin of the world, where education is seen as “not only the most necessary” and “most urgent” but also “the rarest and most difficult art” (K.A. 24A:24). In this piece, the education of man is placed against organized popular education and the national culture of the state (p. 34). It aims at the preservation of the “holy innocence” of the child in the “original ground” of the home and family (p. 42). At the end of Schwanengesang, the “idea of elementary education” is presented as the lasting element of Pestalozzi’s work. He describes elementary education as essential for the development of the talents and strength of the human race (p. 42). Finally, Pestalozzi explains his methodological writings and extends a plea for an education for each rank of society. He argues that the peasants require a different elementary education from that of the craftsmen or urban middle class. For him, therefore, there can be no unified, general popular education. This is precisely the direction the elementary school in Switzerland took. Although he is not the founder of the Swiss “Volksschule,” history has honored him for it.8 The Schwanengesang is also Pestalozzi’s legacy in other respects. In the last part, he describes his life as marked by experiences of failure but resists the “prejudice” that he was unable to succeed practically. With regard to the elementary method, “futility and failure” are said not to have existed. On the contrary, the “high idea of elementary education” would never have come to fruition “without the tribulations and misfortunes” of his life (Pestalozzi 1826b: 345). The admiration for Pestalozzi, however, stems much more from his personality and his self-descriptions than his elementary method. This was clear to his critics, such as the East Prussian superintendent Friedrich Wilhelm Lange (1788–1839), who wrote that Pestalozzi is one of the few people loved for “all their weaknesses, faults and mistakes.” Without this peculiarity, his “pedagogical reputation” would not have been raised to the level “on which he saw himself placed” (Lange 1826: col. 855).

JOHANN FRIEDRICH HERBART Johann Friedrich Herbart was a prominent post-idealistic German philosopher who, unlike his contemporaries, gave pedagogy a central place within his

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system of philosophy. He held that pedagogy is not an application of practical philosophy, as maintained by Immanuel Kant, and that it should not merge into a general theory of the human mind and culture, as held by Hegel. Instead, Herbart founded a scientific pedagogy, which is a philosophical theory of education that was followed and developed in universities for several decades. However, unlike John Dewey (1929), who lived a century later, Herbart did not view the “science of education” as a multidisciplinary research area. For Herbart, scientific pedagogy was a philosophically founded system with practical intentions. This section will first describe Herbart’s life and then turn to his pedagogical, philosophical, and psychological ideas. Herbart was born on May 4, 1776, in the city of Oldenburg (see Figure 5.2). He received home tutoring and later attended a ducal gymnasium. As the best student of his year, Herbart began to study law at the University of Jena in 1794. After meeting the philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814), Herbart switched his studies to philosophy. In his exciting lectures, the Jacobin Fichte represented a radical philosophy of the “I” and an equally radical theory of science. Eventually, to develop his own philosophical perspective, Herbart distanced himself from Fichte’s influence by withdrawing from his studies and becoming a home tutor in Switzerland. From 1797 to 1800, Herbart instructed the seven children of Karl Friedrich Steiger (1755–1832), the Bernese landowner and temporary bailiff of Interlaken. Although Herbart did not have any teaching experience, he was given a free hand with respect to the children’s education. His employer demanded bimonthly reports that documented the progress of Herbart’s educational work. These reports, which were based on his experience as a tutor, already included some basic categories of his later pedagogy (Herbart 1851: 1–44). His philosophy, which was developed later, was informed by these early educational ideas. From this point on, Herbart’s interest in education never faded, and it is no coincidence that one of his last publications was a reworking of his education theory. Herbart stayed in Switzerland until January 1800. Before his departure, he visited Pestalozzi in Burgdorf and observed him teaching. The examination of Pestalozzi’s method led Herbart to write his first book, Pestalozzis Idee eines ABC der Anschauung (Pestalozzi’s Idea of an ABC of Perception) (1802). Herbart then became a teacher in Bremen and gave his first lectures on pedagogy. In May 1802, he enrolled at the University of Göttingen. After one semester, he earned his doctorate in philosophy and almost immediately became a professor. Considered a promising young philosopher, Herbart developed early a philosophical profile that would distance him from German idealism. In October 1808, Herbart was appointed to the Immanuel Kant Chair at the University of Königsberg. He accepted the professorship because it included philosophy and pedagogy—the first of its kind in the German-speaking world. In Königsberg, Herbart participated in Prussia’s educational reforms, but unlike

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FIGURE 5.2  German philosopher Johann Friedrich Herbart (1776–1841), circa 1810. (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

other German authors he did not view pedagogy as part of political science (Staatswissenschaft). Herbart’s educational philosophy does not presuppose a relationship between state and school; rather, it focuses on the home tutor, much like Pestalozzi’s home education. Herbart’s theory is also dedicated to fostering the individuality of the child (Herbart 1875: 44–5). In fact, throughout

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his life, Herbart rejected any idea of a pedagogy that provided for or served the state. He rejected state schooling on the grounds that it would inevitably lead to standardized education. He argued that the education of the individual must be informed by the moral framework of society, where “society” is understood as social interactions or “mutual sharing” (Herbart 1808: 312). In 1833, Herbart returned to the University of Göttingen, having published his major work, the Allgemeine Metaphysik (1828–9). His later works concerned the expansion of theoretical psychology and the reworking of his lectures on education. Herbert was highly respected when he died on August 14, 1841, and his teachings proved influential for decades to come. Herbart authored numerous pedagogical writings, but only two have been perceived as supporting scientific pedagogy: the Allgemeine Pädagogik (General Pedagogy) (1806) and the Umriss pädagogischer Vorlesungen (Outlines of Educational Doctrine) (1835–41). During his lifetime, General Pedagogy received scant attention and was severely criticized (Jachmann 1811). For a long time, it was not even considered one of Herbart’s major works. As will be discussed in the final section, however, this changed with the establishment of Herbart’s pedagogy in teacher training and universities. Herbart’s General Pedagogy has widely been read and received as standing on its own, without necessitating reference to Herbart’s psychology or practical philosophy. In fact, Herbart’s psychology and philosophy emerged in their finalized form only after his General Pedagogy was developed. This was possible because Herbart’s pedagogy was derived not directly from psychology but from the cultivation of morality, which was for him the most important purpose of education. He argued that educators must distinguish between the possible and necessary aims of education and that the only ones that are necessary are the aims relating to morality (Herbart 1806: 82). For Herbart, then, morality stands at the center of all teaching and learning. Herbart resembles Pestalozzi here, but, unlike Pestalozzi, Herbart’s general principles of education are deduced directly from the aim of education and not from a method. Although Herbert identifies the aim of education as “sittlichkeit” (morality) and his ideas about morality are developed in his Practical Philosophy (1808), he never incorporated his practical moral ideas into his theory of general education. Accompanying this emphasis on morality was Herbart’s idea that the most significant point for the educator to bear in mind is the “individuality of the pupil” (1806: 90). He maintained that it is important to leave “the individuality as intact as possible” (p.  92). Individuality, nevertheless, was for him “subconscious”; only the will and the capacity for “deciding” are conscious activities. For Herbart, then, “character” is demonstrated in the decision to do something (p. 101). Connecting individuality and morality, he believed that orienting character toward morality is the supreme objective of education. Moreover, he argued that all forms of teaching must also have moral

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ends. Herbart coined the expression “erziehender Unterricht” (education by instruction), which has occupied German and international pedagogues for a long time. According to Herbart, the key to good teaching is what he termed the “manysided interest,” which must be formed “equally tempered” (1806: 95). “Interest” here means the involvement and self-activity of the learner with the object of studies. Herbart viewed the existence of interest as essential for learning, but interest for him was not, as in the case of later psychology, a single feeling but a multifaceted disposition. Interest, he held, has to have different aspects and directions, and so too does teaching. The means of education, he maintained, are the dual concepts of concentration (Vertiefung) and reflection (Besinnung). First, the student has to concentrate on the object of learning. Then he has to reflect on it and compare it to things he has previously learned, locating the novel object in relation to them. Herbart thought that this is essential not only to form a many-sided interest but to later unify the interests into a whole so that they become different aspects of the same person. For him, this process of learning was essential for the development of virtue. Dwelling on the connections between concentration and reflection, Herbart also developed what later came to be called the “formal steps theory” of teaching in didactics. In Herbart’s writing, these steps described four stages of a cognitive process that was not directly related to teaching. According to Herbart, learning starts with clearness, which means focusing concentration until the individual aspects of a topic is clearly perceived. Then progress is made to association, where what has been learned is compared to other learned ideas. The third and fourth steps, called system and reflection, are stages of deep reflection. Herbart writes that method “runs through the system, produces new links of the system and watches also over the consequence in its application” (1806: 127). Herbart’s ideas on pedagogy were further developed in his Outlines. In the second edition of the Outlines, published in 1841 immediately before his death, Herbart provided his definition of the concept of “pedagogy” as a scientific discipline. He held that pedagogy as a science depends on practical philosophy and psychology: “The one shows the objective of education, and the other the way, the means and the obstacles” (Herbart 1841: 1). Herbart, however, like Kant and Fichte, criticized sensationism, which was the dominant psychological theory of the day and whose modern version goes back to John Locke.9 Herbart maintained that sensationism could not provide an adequate basis for pedagogy and established a psychological theory that was demarcated from both sensationism and Kant’s transcendental cognitivism. What Herbart wanted was to establish a pedagogy based on his own philosophy and psychology in a new and definitive way. For Herbart, scientific pedagogy is placed between practical philosophy and psychology because, as he writes, “The relationship involves the dependence of

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pedagogy on experience [psychology], inasmuch as practical philosophy includes application to experience” (1841: 1). What he was looking for in education is a general theory or a system that is self-contained but interacts with the two formative parts of philosophy and psychology. He aspired to create a theory that is able to make pedagogy independent of everyday opinions and erroneous views of human nature. In the Outlines, the central categories for pedagogy are, therefore, to be found neither in his metaphysics nor in his psychology and practical philosophy. They are “native” terms (einheimische Begriffe), that is, they are used in this manner only in pedagogy. Herbart tried in this way to provide a safe ground for education, seeking to advance nothing less than a universally applicable theory of education, which he expected to be solid and withstand the test of time. But, not least because of this aspiration, Herbart’s philosophy in general and his theory of education in particular became a target of heavy criticism at the end of the nineteenth century, as I will discuss in the final section. To better understand the uniqueness of Herbart’s scientific pedagogy, it is useful to compare it to the ideas of Pestalozzi. Herbart took from Pestalozzi the doctrine that teaching has to be based on a concept of perception, but he criticized Pestalozzi’s psychology of mental forces. Herbart, in effect, rejected Pestalozzi’s didactic “ABC” of perception. Herbart maintained that the fundamental unit in psychology is ideas (Vorstellungen) and not Pestalozzi’s inner forces or Kant’s internal faculties (Herbart 1887: 15). For Herbart, there were no faculties in the mind, just ideas, and since ideas are mobile, psychology must pay attention to “changing conditions” (p.  7, emphasis in original). Moreover, he believed that the movement of ideas follows mechanical laws and can be calculated using mathematical formulas. As a result, Herbart held that the formation of perception falls into the area of mathematics (Herbart 1802a: 10–42) and thus developed his own “ABC” for elementary learning (p.  52). This led him to exclude from pedagogy psychological experiments and methods of self-observation (pp.  8–9). This had consequences: Herbart’s psychology was made obsolete by experimental psychology, which was developed only a few decades later. In addition, self-observation also proved to be stronger as it became the basis of modern psychotherapy. Holding such a theory of perception, Herbart (1802a: 11) believed that all spiritual life is a temporal occurrence and must be understood as constant change. Unlike Locke, he had no systematic understanding of learning; what he calls “mind” (Geist) acts as a balance or inhibition for the movement of ideas. Children are not the subject of psychology since the theory of the mind and soul can only relate to the “educated human being” (p. 39). Moreover, like all psychologists before Darwin, Herbart had no real idea of “development” and thus no psychology of the child apart from models of life stages. The psychology of the development of the child appeared only at the end of the nineteenth

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century. Consequently, for Herbart, it was difficult to see how psychology could show pedagogy the “ways and dangers” of education. Indeed, Herbart argues, in direct contrast to what is commonly held today, that the effects of psychology on education should be limited. He writes, “To ensure that teaching has an impact on the pupil’s existing thoughts and attitudes, all doors must be open to him. Lack of balance during school lessons is already harmful alone because it is not possible to ascertain with certainty what would have the greatest effect on the pupil” (p. 198). As a result of these views, the central concept in Herbart’s pedagogy is plasticity (Bildsamkeit) or “the “transition from the indeterminate to the determinate” in the soul and mind of the child. For Herbart, “plasticity” is the mechanism of all organic life. What was important in education for him was the existence of the “plasticity of will in the direction of moral conduct” (Herbart 1802a: 1). As a result, the “plasticity” of the child was the main requirement for forming character, but for it to work the child must believe in the good intentions and the beneficial power of the educator (Herbart 1806: 391). In addition, in Herbart’s approach the means of education are supposed to correspond to the objectives, and teaching should be assessed according to “whether it makes people better or not” (1841: 36). This result, though, is not guaranteed because successful education can only be an art and not a technology. The science of education refers to interaction (Umgang) between tutor and student and does not use psychological laws, even though Herbart’s general psychology embraced a mathematical theory of mind. But none of his formulas ever appeared in his educational writings. For Herbart, pedagogy did not require “unlimited plasticity,” and, as he writes, “it is for psychology to guard against this error” (1841: 3). This also marks a boundary: “The child’s plasticity is limited by his individuality. The ability to determine education is furthermore limited by the circumstances of the situation and the time.” And, lastly, Herbart believed that “the established character of the adult develops by an inner process which in time passes beyond the reach of the educator” (p. 3). For Herbart, the true aim of education was to make the pupil find himself, “choosing the good” and “rejecting the evil: [and] only this is character formation” (1804: 250). He wrote that this “elevation to a self-conscious personality” can “undoubtedly take place in the mind of the pupil himself,” but the educator must put the existing tendencies of the pupil in such a “position” that the elevation can take place “infallibly and reliably certain” (p. 250). History has not been kind to Herbart’s ideas. Home tutoring, which he supported, was replaced by state education, to which he objected. Morality and learning are now often seen as distinct and not as inherently connected, as he once imagined. Also, the idea that education is an independent discipline did not gain currency; the study of education continues to be fragmented into

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subdisciplines such as brain research, developmental psychology, curriculum and teaching, and the economics of education. Herbart’s ideas, nevertheless, had an important impact on the development of education, as will be discussed in the final section. Moreover, they provide us with an alternative perspective that can serve to challenge the way in which education is viewed today.

FRIEDRICH FRÖBEL Friedrich Fröbel is regarded as the founder of the “Kindergarten,” or nursery school, and its unique supporting pedagogy. Although various types of children’s homes and infant schools existed before Fröbel’s kindergarten, most of them were schools of work and teaching, such as those of Pestalozzi. Fröbel’s kindergarten, in contrast, was based on a concept of playful learning. His idea spread worldwide after his death, especially in England, Japan, and the United States. As in the sections on Pestalozzi and Herbart, I begin by reviewing Fröbel’s formative years and his professional experience before turning to his philosophy of education and his efforts to create a new organization for preschool learning. Fröbel was the youngest of six children of a pastor’s family in Oberweissbach in Thuringia. His mother died a year after his birth. He attended elementary school and then completed an apprenticeship as a forest surveyor. From 1799 to 1801, he studied natural sciences as a guest student at the University of Jena, and from 1801 to 1805 he worked as an assistant in forestry and agriculture. His educational career began only after these formative years. In 1805, at age twenty-three and without special training, Fröbel became, for a year, a teacher at the private “Musterschule” (model school) in Frankfurt, which followed some of Pestalozzi’s principles. At the end of August 1806, he visited Pestalozzi in Yverdon for several weeks, and from 1806 to 1811 he worked as a home tutor for the wealthy von Holzhausen family in Frankfurt. During this period, he spent more time with Pestalozzi in Yverdon together with three sons of the von Holzhausen family. He left the institute in the care of the three sons of the von Holzhausen family due to continuing conflicts between Pestalozzi’s teaching assistants regarding the right educational method to pursue, which negatively influenced him and his pupils. During the years 1811 to 1813, Fröbel undertook further studies in Göttingen and Berlin, but he did not graduate. From 1813 to 1814, he became a soldier in the wars of liberation. Afterwards, from 1814 to 1816, he was an assistant at the Mineralogical Institute of the University of Berlin and researched the laws of crystal metrics—this research would strongly influence his geometric ideas. In November 1816, together with friends, Fröbel founded and directed a private school, the Allgemeine Deutsche Erziehungsanstalt in Thuringia. In 1818, Fröbel married his first wife, Wilhelmine Henriette Hoffmeister (1780– 1839) in Berlin. After a difficult beginning, the school he directed became

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more successful partly because the educational philosophy advanced in it was attractive. In the second public letter of invitation of 1820, Fröbel promised a practical, life-related education: “Our pupil learns only in order to use it, to apply it, to present it. He only works, is only active, in order to progress in learning in the growing certainty of knowledge and insight” (1826: 32). This led to some success, but the school eventually closed, which was not unusual. In Germany, like in the United States, many of the private secondary schools that were founded did not survive. Fröbel left the Erziehungsanstalt in 1831 and accepted an invitation to teach in Switzerland. His third stay in Switzerland lasted until 1836, and while there his interests turned to early childhood. From 1831 to 1838, Fröbel opened two private institutes, became head of the orphanage of Burgdorf, held courses in teacher training, and published a magazine. In 1839, he founded an “institute for care, play and activities” for young children in the Thuringian community of Blankenburg, and this institute was renamed “kindergarten” in 1840. Fröbel had already developed his first play materials in Burgdorf, and the name “garden for children” was meant to indicate that the institute offered a new program of studies that was different from the occupation-based education for children that existed at the time. On June 28, 1840, the founding act for the “General German Kindergarten” was signed in the town hall of Blankenburg. Although the term “kindergarten” was in use previously, Fröbel was the first to associate the term with an elaborate theory of early education and a unique organizational form. From 1842, many private kindergartens were founded, and Fröbel became a key figure in the educational reform movements in Germany. Unlike Pestalozzi or Herbart, he founded lasting and successful institutions (see Figure 5.3). The original kindergarten was financed by “shares,” which women were to acquire (Entwurf eines Planes 1840: 10), and by private donations. The idea was to form a “general institution for the all-round care of children up to schooling age with a German mind” (deutsches Gemüt) (p. 7). A draft of the plan for the kindergarten stated that only by effectively mediating between the external female professional transactions, the civic-social duties, and the demands of childhood “can the original unification of the female, the women’s and mother’s life with childhood be regained” (p. 6). This statement presupposes that, for all social classes, professions that occupy a space between mothers and children are needed. In other words, childcare workers (later, kindergarten teachers) are “to reach and give” the children what the mothers, “even with the best will in the world,” cannot be or do (p. 6). This, Fröbel held, requires the establishment of a professionally managed kindergarten and special training for the staff (pp. 6–7). In May 1850, the first training school for kindergarten teachers was established in Marienthal Castle. On August 23, 1851, Fröbel married his former pupil, Louise Levin (1815–1900). On the same day, a public prohibition on kindergartens was made in Prussia and subsequently in other German states.

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FIGURE 5.3  Free Kindergarten School Scene, 1879, New York. Frobel’s popular system of tuition for children—the grand march of boy’s and girl’s in the free kindergarten founded by the sociey of ethical culture. (Bettmann via Getty Images)

The prohibition, which only ended in 1860, was justified on the grounds that the kindergartens were teaching atheism. Another, less formal, reason for the prohibition could be that Fröbel had welcomed the German revolution of 1848–9, which resulted in his pedagogy being considered too democratic. By the end of his life, Fröbel had become a politically controversial figure (Baader 1998). Friedrich Fröbel died on June 21, 1852. Like Herbart, Fröbel also derived his educational ideas from what he considered to be the general purpose of education. Yet, unlike Herbart, his view was not grounded in philosophy but in religion and practical interests. In his Education of Man (Menschenerziehung) (1826), which is his most systematic educational treatise, Fröbel wrote, “The aim of education is to represent life, pure, inviolable, true to its vocation, and therefore holy.” He added that, through this education, “the wisdom of life” and, even more, “wisdom itself” will be formed (Fröbel 1826: 4). In and with education, “the divine … in man” can be developed (p. 5) while at the same time assuming the innocence of children. For Fröbel, the divine is good by necessity, and thus also the “young, so to say the developing man, even if unconsciously … definitely and surely wants the best in him/herself and for him/herself” (p. 10). Because of this, he maintained that education has only one authority: the child. “Therefore, education, teaching and doctrine should originally and in their first basic features be inevitably empathetic, following the child (only guarding, protecting), not prescribing,

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determining, intervening” (pp. 9–10). It is important to note here that “following the child” later became the main slogan for progressive education in England and the United States. We find in Fröbel two key conceptions that might seem contradictory— individuality and unity—but Fröbel did not perceive them to be so. Education, according to him, should develop the individuality of the child and at the same time make them into a part of greater wholes such as the family, the world, and God. Fröbel’s education of the (hu)man, then, is a type of pantheistic pedagogy. Fröbel owes his philosophical basis to the German philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling (1775–1854) and his doctrine of the world soul (Von der Weltseele, 1806), which provided a principle of formation (Bildungsprinzip) for the child and the world alike (Teutenberg 2019: 93–4). For Fröbel, the family is the intermittent place of experience. He believed that “as the destiny of the child as a member of a family is to develop and represent the nature of the family, the talent and powers of the family … so the destiny and profession of man as a member of humanity is to develop, cultivate, and represent the nature, the powers and talents of all humanity” (Fröbel 1826: 29, emphases in original). This is to be achieved through the development of children according to their divine nature and through the use of all their powers (pp. 29–31). At this stage of Fröbel’s theory formation, there was no mention yet of “kindergarten” and the organization of early education. The theory, however, was already concentrating on the first years of the child’s life. According to Fröbel, human development takes place in natural stages, as suggested by Rousseau, and the child should be at each stage entirely “what this stage requires” (Fröbel 1826: 47). Natura non facit saltus—“Nature does not make jumps,” he declared. But education is not for the child alone. The “activity of the baby’s senses and limbs” is the “first germ, the first bodily activity, the bud, the first impulse to formation; play, building, forming, are the first tender blossoms of youth,” and this is the time when the human must be “fructified for future industry, diligence and work” (p. 54). Fröbel’s plea for “early education” applies equally to work and religion (pp.  56–7). For him, childhood is the “seed” for the “whole future effectiveness of man” (p. 57). Stressing the importance of activity, Fröbel maintained that playing and play are the “highest stage” in the development of children during their early years (p.  69). According to him, natural upbringing dispenses with leading strings and other crutches (p. 84) that were common in early education at that time. Further, it is only when the child is seen and understood in its development from birth onwards that the prejudice that children have no value until the beginning of school is eliminated (p. 88). For Fröbel, the mental development of children is stimulated by their questions, and the quality of this development is determined by the responses, provided that they do not exceed the strength and experience of the child (p. 106).

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The speculative elements of the Menschenerziehung do not, however, explain Fröbel’s fame. They are difficult to understand, and the book was not widely read. On the one hand, Josephine Jarvins’s English translation (1885) is more readable than the German original but, of course, could not avoid the philosophical complexity of Fröbel’s thinking that he never properly explained. On the other hand, Fröbel’s more concrete essays on kindergarten education, the training of staff, and the toy gifts, as well as the Mutter- und Koselieder (mother-plan and nursery-songs), were accessible. These, together with his practical experience, made Fröbel popular. In addition, the motto he coined for the kindergarten—“Come, let us live with our children!”—added to his popularity. He had already mentioned this motto in The Education of Man in connection with the idea that education should start with the life of the children instead of placing them too early in the adult world. His ideas on the subject also went beyond it. He writes, “Let us live with our children: so shall the lives of our children bring peace and joy to us; so shall we begin to be and to become wise” (Fröbel 1826: 109–10). This alludes to the Gospel of Matthew. The call “change and become like little children” (Matt. 18:3) was proverbial in Christian pedagogy long before Fröbel. The formula “to us and our children” comes from Martin Luther and was often used in German preaching literature. Fröbel extensively used the rhetoric of preaching, which was part of his success. Another important contributor to Fröbel’s success was his gifts, which embody his educational philosophy. He developed a line of toys that were designed as purposeful tools to support the child’s development and to guide learning. They were not toys in the usual sense of the word. Fröbel initially mentioned toy gifts in 1836, which at that time were still called “tools for learning” (Beschäftigungsmittel) but the toys were already designed as part of a sales strategy. Selling products was common in private educational institutions of that time. Four of the five “gifts,” with materials and explanations, were produced in 1843 by the author himself. The gifts consisted first of a ball, then spheres and cubes, and then various divided cubes, which could be put together by following instructions. The aim of the toys was to exhibit simple to complex objects, keeping in mind the stages of development of small children. The individual gifts were placed in small boxes and could be purchased by anyone. The assumptions behind the toy gifts were as fantastic as they were illusory and owed much to Fröbel’s pantheistic notions of child and creation. He believed that “in play,” first the child sees the general and in many respects indefinites of the world, then he sees the more what is fixed in the spectrum of experience, and, finally, he sees the structured “and already demonstrating expression of life” as well as finally man himself (Fröbel 1982: 29). One can see in this that “development” for Fröbel meant the child’s increasing ability to differentiate. The child’s innate “activity drive” develops through guided

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practice and cognitive achievements of learning. The child is not simply playing with a ball. They are learning the first grounds of God’s creation. By playing with the ball each child receives “so to speak, the very general” of the universe, which as a ball can be moved easily and effortlessly or can be designed many times over (pp. 29–30). Playing with a ball is supposed to be the one activity that enables “thinking in many different ways,” “making many things out of it,” and “transforming things in many ways” (Fröbel 1982: 30). Sphere and cube, on the other hand, appear to the child to be more “firm” and “of fixed shape,” with which the child can create their own world while playing with them; as a result, they belong together in every room of childhood (p. 30). What is then actually presented by Fröbel is a didactic of instructed play, where children learn to arrange prescribed forms; they are not free to create their own design, as in the Lego system. A similar idea is used in Maria Montessori’s (1870–1952) materials, which were developed half a century later.10 Moreover, of particular significance in Fröbel’s system is the use of the separated cubes, which can be reassembled differently. The children can make shapes such as houses, water pipes, or market squares from the parts of the cubes (Fröbel 1982: 109–12, 137–46). The shapes themselves represent specified arrangements, which accommodate the small child. The toy gifts were each offered individually as “play and entertainment boxes” (Nachricht und Rechenschaft 1843: appendix). Building sets for children already existed, but not in the combination of ball, sphere, and cube. The graduated didactics for small children was also new and was essentially responsible for the success of the kindergarten, which was able to use standardized material for learning groups. The Mutter- und Koselieder (mother-plan and nursery-songs) were initially published in 1844 with illustrations by Friedrich Unger (1811–59). The motherplay and nursery-songs were, by today’s standards, a multimedia teaching aid, which initially sold poorly and yet always managed to be reissued. The songs were published as a “family book” and thus were associated with a popular genre of literature. They include seven songs for mothers and their newborn infants as well as fifty “play songs,” which were intended for the illustration and guidance of games for children in rural areas. In the illustrations one can see children playing with their mothers and with other children. They are exploring their natural and social neighborhood, watching the works of craftsmen and learning about animals. They are also learning to protect themselves from strange “riders” and to find faith in the church. Therefore, they fit perfectly into the ideal middle-class image of sheltered education during the nineteenth century. Unger’s drawings are explained by Fröbel with short texts located in the upper corner of each picture so that children, when learning with the book, could look at the pictures and be taught by their mothers at the same time.

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One of the pictures is that of the “young gardener,” a girl watering flowers in a protected garden with a gardener who teaches gardening to a younger girl in the background. In a way, this image represents the world of kindergarten and its educational movement (Strasky 2006). The pictures portrayed idyllic settings that make up a perfect world vividly tangible for children and their mothers and therefore could also appeal to the emotions. Neither Pestalozzi nor Herbart developed practical toy gifts or illustrated their teachings in house books, causing them to miss out on being read by a larger audience. House books were also guides for the dissemination of pedagogical beliefs that were in high demand among bourgeois families.11 After Fröbel’s death, the kindergarten movement quickly spread internationally and contributed to changes in how children were viewed and treated. It was in the kindergarten movement that child-centered education had its origins. As will be discussed in the next section, women played a key role in the kindergarten movement, establishing the first female profession in modern education (Taylor Allen 2017).

LEGACY Modern research on Pestalozzi shows how and why his following developed (Osterwalder 1996). His personality undoubtedly played a significant role. Many of his ideas, however, also proved to be influential. In England, Pestalozzi’s teaching methods and psychological theories were incorporated into the monitorial system. This system was prevalent in the early nineteenth century and relied on the stronger students in the class teaching the weaker ones. It enabled governments to provide education at a low cost to its citizens since one teacher could have more than 200 students in the same class. In the United states, Pestalozzi’s name and some of his concepts were used for school reforms, such as the beginning of “object lessons” (Carter 2018: 5–6). In addition, Pestalozzi’s ideas were popularized by the Horace Mann Report (1848), which praised his views. Furthermore, among his American followers, was the educational reformer Henry Barnard (1811–1900), the first US Commissioner of Education. In 1859, Barnard introduced “Pestalozzi and his school” to the educational public in the United States in an extensive script that was full of admiration for the Swiss educator (Barnard 1859). Although Pestalozzi’s influence was felt in many countries, his ideas had the strongest impact in Germany. Influencing both Herbart and Fröbel, they were also enthusiastically embraced by other German thinkers, such as Fichte. As a result, some of Pestalozzi’s principles were incorporated into the German public primary school system. This was somewhat ironic because Pestalozzi defended an education of “man” against that of a “citizen,” having argued against state school throughout his life.

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Pestalozzi’s legacy, however, extends well beyond the direct influence of his ideas. He has played a central role in advancing the notions that education should be provided to everyone, that education should center around children and their interests, that the teacher–student relationship is a crucial aspect of education, and that psychological theories should inform teaching and learning. Moreover, Pestalozzi is a key figure for the homeschooling movement, which further developed through Herbart and Fröbel. Herbart’s school of thought was influential in a variety of topics, from basic philosophy to aesthetical theory. At the beginning of the twentieth century, however, his ideas were deemed vanquished in philosophy and psychology. After his death, though, Herbart’s “scientific pedagogy” became a national and international university discipline that was taught in many countries all over the world. The educators within the Herbart School formed the first international paradigm for the study of education. The reception of this paradigm was facilitated by teacher training (schools), teacher seminars (normal schools), and university programs that relied on “scientific pedagogy.” This pedagogy was observed in the Anglo-Saxon world, in France, and even in eastern Europe, Tsarist Russia, and Japan until the First World War. Herbart himself had even founded a pedagogical seminar in 1810, which was to serve the pedagogicaldidactic training of future teachers for the East Prussian grammar schools. His commitment to teacher training also distinguished him from all other contemporary philosophers and, more specifically, philosophers of education. Nevertheless, Herbart’s philosophy of education, which was designed to withstand the change of time, became a target of heavy criticism at the end of the nineteenth century, when it was in doubt that general theories and especially those of education could survive historical change and prove to be “universally applicable.” Even earlier, Herbart was criticized by the German neo-Kantian philosopher Paul Natorp (1854–1924) for not having a social outlook on education and by the founder of modern hermeneutics, Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–1911), for being ahistorical. In addition, John Dewey in Democracy and Education criticized Herbart for the lack of democracy and child psychology in his education. Perhaps most significantly, Herbart’s followers in philosophy and psychology could not react to Darwin’s theory of evolution and had nothing to counter nineteenth-century philosophy of life, neo-Kantianism, American pragmatism, experimental physiology, and the psychology of learning. While Herbart’s pedagogy is no longer a paradigm for scientific education, it is still read and discussed today for essentially three reasons. First, Herbart’s theory of education is difficult, smart, and challenges readers interested in philosophy. Second, the focus of Herbart on individuality is still an attractive philosophical weapon against all sorts of collectivism. Finally, his concept of educational science stimulates the desire to think philosophically about the relationship between morality and education.

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Of the three educational philosophers considered in this chapter, Fröbel undoubtedly had the most profound and long-lasting effect on education. The concept of kindergarten and its supporting philosophy quickly spread around the world and resulted in the enduring philosophical and psychological interest in early childhood education. For example, in the United States, Fröbel’s ideas were first presented in the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia (1876). There the kindergarten received its own pavilion, which was called “Kindergarten Cottage.” The visitors were able to see, on a platform in front of them, how boys and girls sitting together in a circle were taught by two trained kindergarten teachers. Following this presentation and a growing exposure to Fröbel’s thought, the idea of kindergarten gained currency in the United States, and child-centered education started to form. Responsible for this were women, who, through their involvement in the kindergarten and its management, were building up the first female profession in modern education (Taylor Allen 2017; see also Chapter 6, this volume). In 1893, Angeline Brooks (1832–1931), Director of the Nursery School in the College for the Training of Teachers in New York, wrote, “The true kindergarten regards not only the intellect, but aims to cultivate the heart and to train the hand” (Brooks 1893). This holistic language, based freely on Pestalozzi’s “head, heart and hand,” has since determined the rhetoric of the kindergarten pedagogy. Women such as Angeline Brooks and Alice Putnam (1841–1919), who were also early advocates of the approach to primary school, ensured that this concept was disseminated (Four Active Workers 1886). They helped advance Fröbel’s (1944: 28) ideas that children between the age of three and seven should learn in an environment that has been arranged specifically for them; that learning is not occasional but is based on a didactic principle; and that the child is moving and evolving by themselves during play. In the United States, the kindergarten was also developed to be a stimulating social learning environment outside the family. Elizabeth Peabody (1804–94) wrote that the children experience a “social republic,” which is preparation for a democratic society (Peabody and Mann 1877: 14). Peabody further described how the children experienced the beauties of nature in her kindergarten in Boston and how they were able to move around freely (p. 32). Unlike at school at that time, they did not have to sit still and were not forced to take a specific place. They also were not actually taught but instead discovered the world by playing and being active (p.  34). The “kindergarten teacher” only had to promote the “natural activity of childhood” (p. 35) “according to the laws of creative order,” which is manifested in children’s play (pp. 35–6). By the end of the nineteenth century, the willingness to change education in accordance with ideas laid out by Fröbel, even on part of the authorities, was unmistakable. The progressive pedagogy of the twentieth century has Fröbel’s thought as one of its roots. The criticism of Fröbel’s pantheistic “principles”

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of education and his organological conception of “development” (Kilpatrick 1916) did not prevent the success of his ideas in practice. Where critics such as fellow progressivist William Kilpatrick (1871–1965) stated “absurdities” (1916: 38) and argued that cosmic “laws” were only fantasy products that would not stand up to any test (p. 57), Fröbel set up an organization that has withstood the test of time. Even in the twenty-first century, the kindergarten and its supporting philosophy keep flourishing as more and more children in the world get to experience it firsthand.

CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have introduced readers to the educational philosophies of three German thinkers who are still influential today. In the nineteenth century, the first of them, Pestalozzi, was regarded as the world’s first educator. His main work in philosophy of education, the Nachforschungen, is still of interest today because of the ideas of self-organization and moral education advanced in it. In addition, the idea of home education/family education has not vanished and is discussed especially by those who are skeptical of formal state schooling. Moreover, today’s educational technology has revived Pestalozzi’s idea of learning without teachers. The other two thinkers, Herbart and Fröbel, developed very different philosophical traditions. Herbart is the founder of “education as a science,” while Fröbel founded a progressive philosophy of the child that led to the establishment of the kindergarten. Today Herbart’s system of philosophy is known only to specialists, while his philosophy of education is still of interest to scholars.12 Fröbel’s ideas of the natural development of the child, learning by playing, and the gifts of play are still a basic orientation for today’s philosophy of early childhood education.

NOTES   1 Pestalozzi, Herbart, and Fröbel were all prolific writers and their works are open to public scrutiny, although to very different degrees. The complete works and letters of Pestalozzi are available in a commendable critical edition. Also, Herbart’s works and some of his letters can be found in two comprehensive, but not critical, editions. On the other hand, so far Fröbel’s works can only be found in partial editions, although internet editions are under construction. Works from all three pedagogues have been translated to other languages, but the complete editions of their works have not yet been translated.   2 See Chapter 2, this volume.   3 References to Pestalozzi (1927–96) are quoted throughout as “K.A.” with volume and page numbers. K.A. stands for Kirtische Ausgabe (Critial Works), which were published between 1927 and 1996.   4 References to Pestalozzi (1951) are quoted throughout as“Correspondence” with volume and page numbers.

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  5 For a discussion of Rousseau’s Emile, ou de l’éducation (1762), see Chapter 2, this volume.   6 Somewhat disappointingly, Pestalozzi makes some anti-Semitic statements at the beginning of Nachforschungen (K.A. 12:24–5) and at other places in this and other works, such as in the tale “Mauschelhofen” (K.A. 11:181), in the teaching materials, and also in Lienhard und Gertrud. This side of his work has been given little attention, and it raises this question: to what extent are these contemporary stereotypes that served as a means of demarcation manifest racism by today’s standards? (Strasky 2006).   7 The letter was initially published in 1807 in the “Wochenschrift für Menschenbildung” issued by Pestalozzi and a teacher at the orphanage Johannes Niederer (1779–1843). From 1822 onward, the letter was included in all of Pestalozzi’s compendia, and he especially justifies his glory as a selfless, yet genuine educator of the poor. In fact, the “letter from Stans” might be his most famous work or at least that which was most frequently read.   8 The “Volksschule” or “the school for the people” was and still is the name given in Switzerland to the schools for all children of all classes. At present, it covers children from ages four to twelve.   9 For a discussion of John Locke’s philosophy of education, refer to Chapter 1, this volume. 10 For a discussion of Montessori, please see Burdick-Shepherd, Chapter 6, Volume 4 of this series. 11 It should be noted that there are also anti-Semitic passages in Fröbel’s texts and in various unreleased letters, and here again the question arises to what extent this was purely due to contemporary rhetoric (Gebel 1999). Until recently this feature did not harm the reputation and success of Fröbel’s teachings. 12 See, for example, English (2013) for philosophical relations between Dewey and Herbart.

REFERENCES Primary sources Barnard, Henry (1859), Pestalozzi and Pestalozzianism: Life, Educational Principles, and Methods of John Henry Pestalozzi; with Biographical Sketches of his Assistants and Disciples, New York: F.C. Brownell. Brooks, Angeline (1893), “The Possibilities of the Kindergarten,” The Century Magazine, 45 (3): 476. Dewey, John (1929), The Sources of a Science of Education, New York: Horace Liveright. Entwurf eines Planes (1840), Entwurf eines Planes zur Begründung und Ausführung eines Kinder-Gartens, einer allgemeinen Anstalt zur Verbreitung allseitiger Beachtung des Lebens der Kinder, besonders durch Pflege ihres Thätigkeitstriebes, Ilmenau: Druck von C.F. Crommsdorff. Fröbel, Friedrich (1826), Die Menschenerziehung, die Erziehungs-, Unterrichts- und Lehrkunst, angestrebt in der allgemeinen deutschen Erziehungsanstalt zu Keilhau; dargestellt von dem Stifter, Begründer und Vorsteher derselben, Vol. 1. Bis zum begonnenen Knabenalter, Keilhau: Verlag der allgemeinen deutschen Erziehungsanstalt. Fröbel, Friedrich (1944), Friedrich Fröbel an Gräfin Therese Brunszvik: Aus der Werdezeit des Kindergartens, ed. Erika Hoffmann, Berlin: Alfred Metzner Verlag.

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Fröbel, Friedrich (1982), Ausgewählte Schriften Vierter Band. Die Spielgaben, ed. Erika Hoffmann, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Four Active Workers (1886), The Kindergarten and the School, Springfield, MA: Milton Bradley Co. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1802a), Pestalozzi’s Idee eines ABC der Anschauung als ein Cyklus von Vorübungen im Aufsassen der Gestalten wissenschaftlich ausgeführt, Göttingen: Bey Johann Friedrich Röwer. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1802b), “Über Pestalozzis neueste Schrift: Wie Gertrud ihre Kinder lehrt,” Irene, 1: 15–51. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1804), Pestalozzi’s Idee eines ABC der Anschauung untersucht und wissenschaftlich ausgeführt, Zweyte, durch eine allgemeinpädagogische Anhandlung vermehrte Ausgabe, Göttingen: Bey Johann Friedrich Röwer. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1806), Allgemeine Pädagogik aus dem Zweck der Erziehung abgeleitet, Göttingen: Bey Johann Friedrich Röwer. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1808), Allgemeine practische Philosophie, Göttingen: Bei Justus Friedrich Danckwerts. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1841), Umriss pädagogischer Vorlesungen, 2nd revised edn., Göttingen: Druck und Verlag der Dieterichschen Buchhandlung. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1851), Sämmtliche Werke, Vol. 11/Part 2, herausgegeben von Gustav Hartenstein, Leipzig: Verlag von Leopold Voss. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1875), “Ueber Erziehung unter öffentlicher Mitwirkung,” in Johann Friedrich Herbarts Pädagogische Schriften in chronologischer Reihenfolge herausgegeben von Otto Willmann, 37–58, Leipzig: Verlag von Otto Voss. Herbart, Johann Friedrich (1887), Lehrbuch zur Psychologie, 3rd edn., ed. GustavHartenstein, Hamburg: Verlag von Leopold Voss. Jachmann, Reinhold Bernhard (1811), “Recension der Herbart’schen ‘Allgemeinen Pädagogik’,” Jenaische Allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung, 234–7: 81–110. Karl von Raumer (1866), Karl von Raumer’s Leben von ihm selbst erzählt, Stuttgart: Verlag von S.G. Liesching. Kommt, lasst uns unsern Kindern leben. Friedrich Fröbels Mutter- und Koselieder (1982), with two articles about Friedrich Fröbel and a source appendix edited by Hermann Fröbel and Dietrich Pfaehler, and a contribution to understanding Froebel’s ‘Mutter- und Koseliedern’ by Karl Renner, Kultur und Geschichte Thüringens, Zweites Beiheft, Bad Neustadt an der Saale: Mitteldeutsche Verlagsgesellschaft. Kraus-Boelte, Maria and John Kraus (1877), The Kindergarten-Guide: An Illustrated Hand-Book Designed für the Self-Instruction of Kindergartners, Mothers, and Nurses, New York: E. Steiger. Lange, Friedrich Wilhelm (1826), “Pestalozziana,” in Allgemeine Litteratur-Zeitung, Vol. 3, 854–65, Halle: C.A. Schwetschke und Sohn. Nachricht und Rechenschaft von dem Deutschen Kindergarten (1843), Blankenburg bei Rudolstadt: Auf Kosten des Deutschen Kindergartens. Parsons Hopkins, Louisa (1892), The Spirit of the New Education, Boston: Lee and Shepard Publishers. Peabody, Elizabeth P. and Mary Mann (1877), Guide to the Kindergarten and Intermediate Class, Moral Culture of Infancy, New York: E. Steiger.

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Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1927–96), Sämtliche Werke Kritische Ausgabe, ed. Artur Buchenau, Eduard Spranger, and Hans Stettbacher, Vols 1–29. Zurich: Orell Füssli/ Walter de Gruyter. (Quoted as “K.A.” with volume and pages.) Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1951), Sämtliche Briefe, ed. Pestalozzianum und der Zentralbibliothek in Zurich, Vol. 4: Letters 1798 until Mid of 1805 (Briefe Nr. 760–1065), Zurich: Orell Füssli Verlag. Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1823), Pestalozzi’s sämmtliche Schriften, Vol. 11, Stuttgart: In der J.G. Cotta’schen Buchhandlung. Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1826), Meine Lebensschicksale als Vorsteher meiner Erziehungsinstitute in Burgdorf und Iferten, Leipzig: Bei Gerhard Fleischer. Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1826a), Pestalozzi’s sämmtliche Schriften, Vol. 13, Stuttgart: In der J.G. Cotta’schen Buchhandlung. Ramsauer, Johannes (1838), Kurze Skizze meines pädagogischen Lebens, Mit besonderer Berücksichtigung auf Pestalozzi und seine Anstalten, Oldenburg: Verlag der Schulzeschen Buchhandlung. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1969), Oeuvres Complètes, Vol. 4: Émile: Education— Morale—Botanique, ed. Bernard Gagnebin and Marcel Raymond, Paris: Gallimard. Türk, Wilhelm von (1806), Briefe aus München-Buchsee über Pestalozzi und seine Elementarbildungsmethode, Ein Handbuch für alle die, welche dieselben anwenden und Pestalozzi’s Elementarbücher gebrauchen lernen wollen, vorzüglich für Mütter und Lehrer bestimmt, Vol. 1, with Four Engravings, Vol. 2, Leipzig: Bey Heinrich Gräff. Williams, Talcott (1893), “The Kindergarten Movement,” The Century Magazine, 45 (3): 369–79.

Secondary sources Baader, Meike (1998), “‘Alle wahren Demokraten tun es’: Die Fröbelschen Kindergärten und der Zusammenhang von Erziehung, Religion und Revolution,” in Christian Jansen and Thomas Mergel (eds.), Die Revolution von 1848/49: Erfahrung, Verarbeitung, Deutung, 205–24, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht. Carter, Sarah Anne (2018), Object Lessons: How Nineteenth Century Americans Make Sense of the Material World, New York: Oxford University Press. English, Andrea (2013), Discontinuity in Learning: Dewey, Herbart and Education As Transformation, New York: Cambridge University Press. Gebel, Michael (1999), Friedrich Fröbel und die Juden, contributions to Froebel research, ed. Helmut Heiland, Vol. 6, Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag. Kilpatrick, William H. (1916), Froebel’s Kindergarten Principles Critically Examined, New York: The Macmillan Company. Korte, Petra (2003), Pädagogisches Schreiben um 1800, Der Status von Schriftlichkeit, Rhetorik und Poetik bei Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, Neue Pestalozzi-Studien, Vol. 8, Bern: Paul Haupt Verlag. Noddings, Nel (2002), Educating Moral People: A Caring Alternative to Character Education, New York: Teachers College Press. Noddings, Nel (2003), Happiness and Education, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Osterwalder, Fritz (1996), Pestalozzi—Ein pädagogischer Kult, Pestalozzis Wirkungsgeschichte in der Herausbildung der modernen Pädagogik, Weinheim: Beltz Verlag.

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Schifferli, Dagmar (1998), Anna Pestalozzi-Schulthess 1738–1815, Ihr Leben mit Heinrich Pestalozzi, Zurich: Pendo Verlag. Strasky, Severin (2006), Das Sittliche und das Andere, Johann Heinrich Pestalozzis Bild der Juden und “Zigeuner,” Neue Pestalozzi-Studien, Vol. 9, Bern: Paul Haupt Verlag. Taylor Allen, Ann (2017), The Transatlantic Kindergarten: Education and Women’s Movement in Germany and the United States, New York: Oxford University Press. Teutenberg, Tobias (2019), Die Unterweisung des Blicks: Visuelle Kultur und visuelle Erziehung im langen 19, Jahrhundert, Bielefeld: transcript Verlag. Tröhler, Daniel (2013), Pestalozzi and the Educationalization of the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Mary Wollstonecraft and Harriet Taylor Mill on Women, Education, and Gender Socialization KATY DINEEN

INTRODUCTION Dating as far back as Plato, philosophers have opined on the education of women: whether women are suited to education and, if so, what sort of education is fitting for them (Calvert 1975). Although these were, in many respects, ongoing philosophical debates, their popularity surged in specific historical junctures. One of these junctures came when François Fénelon (1651–1715) published his Treatise on the Education of Daughters in 1687. In this influential book, Fénelon argued that the education of women must not be neglected and that it should provide them with tools to become capable mothers and household managers, thereby opening a long-lasting literary exchange on how women ought to be educated. The growing interest in women’s education initially sparked by the writings of Fénelon and several other less well-known contemporaries, such as Poulain de la Barre (1647–1723) and l’Abbé de Bellegarde (1648–1734), lasted throughout the Enlightenment period (Jouslin 2012). From the early days of the Enlightenment, influential thinkers such as John Locke and Helvétius took part in the debate on women’s education, but this debate reached a crescendo

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following the publication of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Emile, or On Education (1762). It was the publication of Emile, with its provocative ideas but a nonetheless traditional approach to women’s education, that placed the subject at the center of intellectual attention. Many authors, both male and female, from all parts of the world, participated in this debate. Among the most significant contributors to it were Von Hipple (1741–96) from Germany, Madame d’Epinay (1726–83) and Condorcet (1743– 94) from France, the English historian Catharine Macaulay (1731–91), and the English author Maria Edgeworth (1768–1849), to name only a few. All of these authors played a significant role in advocating for the progressive education of women. From a historical and philosophical perspective, however, the most significant contribution to the contemporary debate on the education of women came from Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–97). This chapter will focus on her ideas and will also discuss, although more briefly, the views of Harriet Taylor Mill (1807–58), who played a crucial but relatively less well-known role in further advancing the path set by Wollstonecraft. The purpose of this chapter is to show that Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill were not only influential women theorists but also philosophers of education with enduring insight. This is so, I argue, because Taylor Mill and Wollstonecraft show adeptness at looking beyond the accepted norms of society. More specifically, they conceive of education as a remedy for a certain perverse idea of feminine virtue. While, of course, they focus on ideas popular at their time, their general approach is still relevant today. The interpretation of both philosophers of education presented here will present them as acknowledging and engaging with conceptions of gender that distort how women are viewed within society. I suggest that, for both philosophers, a skewed education fosters these “puerile vanities of society,” while a thorough and authentic education serves to equip women (and society) to reflect upon gender socialization. In addition, I argue that a renewed appreciation of Taylor Mill’s work is particularly prescient, given her refusal to justify the education of women by reference to education’s role in producing virtuous wives and mothers. The chapter will proceed as follows. The rest of the introduction briefly discusses the two philosophers’ biographies. The second section sketches a broad picture of the state of women’s education in England and the views regarding it at the time in which the authors lived. The third section examines a formative period in the development of Wollstonecraft’s educational philosophy and explains how it shaped her ideas. The fourth section discusses Wollstonecraft’s criticism of contemporary women’s education and some of the philosophical implications of this criticism, while the fifth section focuses on Wollstonecraft’s conception of reason and sensibility, which underlie her views on education. The sixth section is dedicated to Wollstonecraft’s key educational ideas and suggestions. The seventh section moves to consider

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Taylor Mill and her contribution to the advancement of educational thought. In the eighth and final section, parallels are drawn between Wollstonecraft’s and Taylor Mill’s arguments, making use of what contemporary theorists refer to as “gender socialization” and “gender stereotypes.” The chapter will conclude with the suggestion that there is still scope for contemporary educational theorists to promote this reflection such that both boys and girls (and men and women) can be supported to make uncoerced choices and thereby create for themselves a meaningful life. Let me begin, then, with a few brief introductory remarks about the lives of Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill. Mary Wollstonecraft lived a turbulent life that included love affairs, an illegitimate child, suicide attempts, and work as a professional writer (see Figure 6.1). Even her untimely death at the age of thirty-eight from contracting puerperal fever after the birth of her second daughter, the famous author Mary Shelley (1797–1851), seems to fit this pattern. In fact, so anomalous was Wollstonecraft’s life for her times that the publication of her biography in 1798 by her husband, the famous philosopher and anarchist William Godwin (1756– 1836), resulted in her work on philosophy, education, and feminism being overlooked in favor of a focus on her life. This lasted for an extended period, and, as Cora Kaplan (2002) notes, it was only in the mid-to-late twentieth century that interest in Wollstonecraft’s ideas surpassed interest in her personal life. It was the emergence of feminist criticism in academia in the 1960s and 1970s, known as the “second wave” of the feminist movement, that tipped the scale. This era saw Wollstonecraft’s scholarship rise to prominence. The feminist reception of Wollstonecraft’s writings, however, has not always been positive. For example, Susan Gubar (1994: 462) claims that Wollstonecraft was responsible for “feminist misogyny.” Nevertheless, today Wollstonecraft’s significance is beyond dispute. Given the aims and scope of this series, what is remarkable about Wollstonecraft is her focus on education in general and the education of women in particular. In her professional life more broadly as well as in her philosophical writings, Wollstonecraft showed a deep commitment to education. Notably, in 1784 Wollstonecraft opened a school in Newington Green, London, with her sisters and a close friend. When this venture failed due to financial difficulties, Wollstonecraft became a governess to one of Ireland’s wealthiest noble families—a period of her life that is discussed at length in the section “Wollstonecraft: Cork, the Kingsboroughs, and education gone awry.” Moreover, many of Wollstonecraft’s published works pertain to education. Her most famous and systematic works on the subject are Thoughts on the Education of Daughters (1787) and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), but she also wrote plays, letters, and even children’s books through which she transmitted her educational views (Richardson 2002).

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FIGURE 6.1  Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–1797) English teacher, writer and feminist. Married William Godwin (1756–1836) in 1797. Mother of Mary Shelley (1797–1851). After portrait by English painter John Opie (1761–1807). Stipple engraving. (Photo by Universal History Archive/Getty Images)

Taylor Mill was best known in her lifetime, and even long after, for her marriage to the renowned English philosopher John Stuart Mill (hereafter J.S. Mill). She was born in London and married her first husband, John Taylor, in 1826, when she was eighteen years old. Taylor Mill met J.S. Mill in 1831. There followed a long and intimate affair between the two that resulted in

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their marriage in 1851, two years after the death of Taylor Mill’s first husband. There is today an ongoing debate about the scope and extent of Taylor Mill’s collaboration with J.S. Mill, and I will discuss this further in the section devoted to her. In practice, Taylor Mill coauthored most of her writings, and relatively few of them were attributed to her. As a result, her work has often been belittled, disregarded, and even ridiculed (Seiz and Pujol 2000). Taylor Mill, however, is still recognized as the sole author of various works of which the most prominent is “The Enfranchisement of Women” (1851). “The Enfranchisement” presents Taylor Mill as a self-proclaimed feminist theorist who shares Wollstonecraft’s commitment to education in its capacity to transform and liberate women. It also shows that Taylor Mill was able to take the ideas on the education of women a step further than Wollstonecraft and J.S. Mill.

EIGHTEENTH- AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY EDUCATION OF WOMEN: GREAT AND RAPID PROGRESS In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Great Britain offered increasing educational opportunities to its female population. By the late eighteenth century, British society, like other “enlightened” societies such as France, had accepted a new creed of progress and with it the ideal of education as ameliorative for both men and women (Gilead 2011; Miller 1972). In Britain, perhaps even more than anywhere else, education was a growth sector. Many new educational institutions, including charity schools, schools of industry, Sunday schools, monitorial schools, and boarding and day schools, were opening and offering various educational programs (Miller 1972). As part of this general educational flourishing, the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries saw a new emphasis on the importance of female education. The Quarterly Review reported, Whatever doubts may be entertained as to the advances towards knowledge that have been lately made by the male part of our species, it is, we think, impossible to deny that the female have made a great and rapid progress. Indeed, if we were called upon to mention the circumstance most characteristic of our own times, we should not hesitate to mention the improved education of women. (Croker 1814: 31) Given this attitude, it can even be argued that the age saw progress toward the idea of education as being equally relevant to men and women. Moreover, with respect to the aims of education, there were noticeable parallels between the goals of education for men and women. Both sets of goals were deeply influenced by John Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693), which was widely read and adhered to in this period. Locke saw the

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aims of education (or the “training up of youth”) as being to produce virtuous, able, and useful men in their “distinct callings” (Locke 1693/1965: 112). These educational aims were interpreted by many, including Locke himself, as appropriate for both men and women. For example, the contemporary wellknown English novelist Clara Reeve wrote in 1792 that the aim of educating women should be to “inculcate the highest principles of religion and virtue, and to blend them with the most elegant and useful female accomplishments” (1792: 137). Thus, the period saw a seeming convergence of opinion on the aims of education for men and women together with a progressive stance on the need to educate women. The British educational ideal dominating the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, for both boys and girls, was of a moral person who went through a successful process of socialization. It was believed and hoped that the girls and boys who benefited from education would become virtuous women and men, well suited to their stations in society. Given the widespread acceptance that women ought to be educated and the apparent resemblance in the aims set for male and female education, the expectation was that women’s intellectual abilities would significantly increase. Yet commentators of the age regularly decried the state of the female mind.1 As I will discuss, Wollstonecraft, also agreeing that most women’s minds were in a poor state, attributed this reality to flaws or a failing in their education. Many other commenters, however, took this to be evidence of the essential frailty of the female mind. For example, Erasmus Darwin stated that the “temper and disposition” of the female mind made young ladies “ready to take impressions rather than to be decidedly mark’d” (1797: 10). As Cohen remarks, in reference to Darwin on this point, “Impressions” evokes surface and shallowness, while “mark’d, deep imprint” (2006: 329). For many, then, the inability of women to increase their knowledge and intellectual abilities despite the growing amount of education received was taken as a clear indication that they were intellectually inferior to men because of their inherent nature. When, however, one looks deeper into the education of women at the time, the similarities between the education of the sexes vanishes. While it might be said that both men and women were educated toward virtue and social occupation, virtue and occupation were not interpreted or applied in the same way. Men were educated to fulfill their respective roles in the public sphere, and women were prepared for their role in the domestic environment. As a result, men and women had to learn different things and develop different capacities, and their education differed accordingly. Also, what made men virtuous was not what made women virtuous. The dominant conception, which was shared by Rousseau (1762/1974), was that men have to be active, rational, and strong, whereas women have to be passive, sensitive, and agreeable. Moreover, in many ways, what made a woman virtuous was her ability to please men and serve

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them and her family well. Submissiveness, for example, was considered by many to be a feminine virtue (Lloyd 1984). How the different conceptions of the sexes played out and how the same goals were differently interpreted according to gender can best be seen by examining the curriculum offered to women at the time. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the curriculum of women’s education was noticeably different from the curriculum of men’s education in two significant dimensions: subject choice and breadth of focus (Cohen 2006). The subjects chosen for girls to study in this period were usually “modern” in the pejorative sense that they were not classical (Cohen 2006). Thus, for example, John Bennet (1830) recommended for women the “elegant studies” of geography, astronomy, and natural history (rather than politics, philosophy, mathematics, and metaphysics). He states, “these subjects are more immediately, your department, they do not require so much time, abstraction or comprehensiveness of mind, they bring no wrinkles, and they will give a polish to your manner and … a liberal expansion to your understanding” (1830: 113). Perhaps even more telling is that girls pursued these subjects in direct contrast with the prevailing notions on how to teach the curriculum to boys. Most eighteenth-century educationalists (with Locke being a notable exception) advocated for boys to avoid being generalists; they recommended a deep and thorough engagement in a small number of disciplines. In contrast, girls were required to study a great breadth of subjects (Cohen 2006). Motivating this prescription was a particular idea of femininity and the limits of the female mind. Girls, as we have seen, were viewed as unable to reach in-depth knowledge because of their limited intellectual abilities. As a result, a girl’s ideal education imparted a superficial knowledge of a great many topics. In addition, it was held that gaining superficial knowledge about a variety of subjects would make a woman more marriageable because she would be pleasing to men. Acquiring indepth knowledge was seen as a masculine trait that made women less agreeable. Women were supposed to be convivial housewives who posed no threat to male authority. To achieve this aim, superficial general knowledge was sufficient. There was no need to risk the curiosity and criticism that could stem from acquiring in-depth knowledge. In the next sections, I will introduce the educational thought of Wollstonecraft by situating her arguments in the context of the idea of femininity as superficiality. I will return to the idea of a thorough education as associated with masculinity through analyzing Wollstonecraft’s engagement with arguments in support of this view. Before proceeding to a more philosophical account of Wollstonecraft’s contribution to education, I will briefly describe an episode of Wollstonecraft’s biography, which I believe impacted Wollstonecraft’s ideas on superficiality, femininity, and education.

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WOLLSTONECRAFT: CORK, THE KINGSBOROUGHS, AND EDUCATION GONE AWRY In 1786, the 27-year-old Wollstonecraft took up a post as a governess, responsible for the education of the three daughters of Lord and Lady Kingsborough of Mitchelstown Castle, County Cork. This period of a little less than a year greatly influenced Wollstonecraft’s thinking about education. It helped her transition from the closure of the Newington Green school and influenced her decision to become a philosopher and author. Wollstonecraft was known to Lady Kingsborough as a serious educator, a trait Lady Kingsborough seemed to appreciate (Todd 2002). Wollstonecraft, for her part, was initially impressed with Lady Kingsborough’s appraisal of her daughters’ educational needs. What captivated Wollstonecraft was a letter sent to her by Lady Kingsborough expressing the aristocrat’s frustration at the neglected state of her daughters’ minds. In this letter, which was sent to Wollstonecraft before she took her new position, Lady Kingsborough complained that previous governesses had “only attended to the ornamental part of their [her daughters’] education” (quoted in Todd 2002: 84). While it cannot be established what Lady Kingsborough exactly meant by this statement, it seems that she was dissatisfied with what her daughters were learning and the traits they were developing. On the face of it, Wollstonecraft and Lady Kingsborough were well matched as employer and governess. Certainly, in the beginning Wollstonecraft seemed to view Lady Kingsborough in a positive light, stating in an early letter that “Lady K. must be a good kind of woman,” whose thoughts on the education of her daughters “prejudice [me] in her favour” (quoted in Todd 2002: 84). Yet, by the summer of 1787, Wollstonecraft found herself “without home, money or employment” (quoted in Todd 2002: 116). She had gone from being a “GREAT favourite” to a persona non grata in less than a year; along the way she began to hone her thoughts on the proper scope and aims of educating women. Wollstonecraft initially agreed with Lady Kingsborough’s assessment of the state of her charges’ education. Consistent with eighteenth-century (female) education, Wollstonecraft found her students to have only a shallow awareness of a wide array of subjects. For example, she said of fourteen-year-old Margaret that “She has a wonderful capacity but she has such a multiplicity of employments it has not room to expand itself—and in all probability will be lost in a heap of rubbish miss-called accomplishments” (quoted in Todd 2002: 89). Yet, in practice, Wollstonecraft lacked the liberty needed to refocus the girls’ education. She states that she was “grieved at being obliged to continue so wrong a system” (quoted in Todd 2002: 89). The Kingsborough girls may have read “cart-loads of history” and understood “several languages,” but they lacked the sort of intellectual depth and refinement that only a proper

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education conferred. Moreover, Wollstonecraft’s position as the Kingsborough governess brought her into contact with affluent families. She soon learned that the problems she witnessed in the Kingsborough family were not isolated. She describes the Fitzgerald girls, who were friends with the Kingsborough daughters, as “fine girls, just going to market as their brother says” (quoted in Todd 2002: 89). What she means here is that the girls were intent on showing their educational “wares” to the highest and most attractive bidder. The social context for the girls’ learning caused them to dabble in this or that subject without any serious commitment to sustained and disciplined study. Wollstonecraft’s close exposure to the education of affluent girls and its consequences led her to reject this mode of education. Her experience helped clarify her view that the education provided to privileged girls was fundamentally flawed. It also helped her develop her own conception of the education of women: women, like men, should go beyond superficial knowledge and deepen their understanding. Relying on her own experience, she believed that education must make women more than just pleasing to men. When Wollstonecraft wanted to implement her ideas, however, she met with unexpected resistance. She soon perceived that her initial prejudice in favor of Lady Kingsborough was ill-founded. In Wollstonecraft’s assessment, Lady Kingsborough’s concern for the proper education of her daughters was a pretense. In fact, Lady Kingsborough seemed more attentive to the needs of her lapdogs than the education of her daughters. In a particularly savage description in A Vindication of the Rights of Women, Wollstonecraft alludes to Lady Kingsborough when she ridicules the idea of a woman who “takes her dogs to bed, and nurses them with a parade of sensibility, when sick” while suffering “her babes to grow up crooked in the nursery” (1792/1993: 244). Indeed, Wollstonecraft saw in Lady Kingsborough the worst effects of an education aimed at giving the appearance of elegance and accomplishment. Lady Kingsborough was a “shrewd clever woman” (p. 87) whose intelligence had been subverted through her social positioning and her education in affectation. Lisping (Lady Kingsborough was given to speaking in an “infantile lisp”), lapdogs, and vanity came to serve as pet peeves in Wollstonecraft’s writings, and anecdotes about “fine ladies,” which seem similar in tone to her disparaging remarks about Lady Kingsborough, appear throughout A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (see, for example, Wollstonecraft 1792/1993: 245–76). Yet, for all Wollstonecraft’s personal censure of Lady Kingsborough and her ilk, it was the institutions that enabled and sustained a conception of femininity, which Lady Kingsborough exemplified, that drew Wollstonecraft’s most vehement critique. She rejected the idea that women should only be equipped with superficial knowledge in a way that would appeal to men. It was women’s education, she concluded, and not their nature that led them to such a poor intellectual state. Her experience with the Kingsborough girls seems to have

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taught her that, while many women were naturally intelligent, the education they received obscured or even destroyed this intelligence. Wollstonecraft’s thoughts here are consistent with Michèle Cohen’s (2006) analysis of educational institutions and the curriculum of the eighteenth century as they affected girls and women, namely that the female curriculum was designed not, as was claimed, to “meet” the needs of femininity but to construct a version of femininity, one assumed to be superficial and lacking in the mental depth and strength attributed to males. In the next sections of this chapter, I will explore the mature Wollstonecraft’s thoughts on how femininity was being distorted, the cult of sensibility, the public vice created by inappropriate women’s education, and the potential of education to serve as the remedy to such ills.

WOLLSTONECRAFT ON EDUCATION: CULTIVATING A BARREN BLOOMING Wollstonecraft was fully aware that, in her day, the intellectual accomplishments of women were low, and she thought that the state of their moral conduct was no better. In fact, Wollstonecraft’s description of her own sex, as she encountered them in society, is scathing. She describes women as “so much degraded,” “cunning,” with a “propensity to tyrannize” and display “contemptible infantile airs” (1792/1993: 79). She even noted that, despite her contemporaries’ focus on extending and improving upon female education, no real progress had been made toward the creation of an enlightened female population. Wollstonecraft wrote, “The education of women has, of late, been more attended to than formerly; yet they are still reckoned a frivolous sex, and ridiculed or pitied by the writers who endeavour by satire or instruction to improve them” (p. 78). Unlike many of her contemporaries, however, she was confident that this was not the result of the limitation or weakness of women’s essential nature when compared to that of men. Instead, she argued that the frivolity and ignorance that characterized women were the result of their education. Determined to persuade her readers of the truth of her position, she sought to detail and describe how education subverted women’s true nature and spirit. Echoing her thoughts on Margaret King’s education, Wollstonecraft admonishes female education for being only a “smattering of accomplishments” (1792/1993: 78). She argues that superficiality in learning has consequences for girls’ lack of real intellectual progress, writing, “they do not pursue any one branch with that persevering ardor necessary to give vigor to the faculties, and clearness to the judgment.” Female education is not sufficiently deep to allow for mastery or even maturation of natural intellectual abilities. According to Wollstonecraft, the education offered to women in her day not only did not help but also actively prevented women from developing strength of

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body and mind. What it nurtured and led to was a “weak elegancy of mind, exquisite sensibility, and sweet docility of manners, supposed to be the sexual characteristics of the weaker vessel” (p. 78). It made sure that women did not cultivate their reason and intellectual abilities but instead remained feeble and submissive (Lloyd 1984). The ideas of Rousseau on women’s education were, for Wollstonecraft, a clear example of what was wrong in her time, so it is worth saying a few words here about the relationship between the two thinkers. Wollstonecraft’s scholarship on education was directly influenced by Rousseau. While she sympathized with the humane educational project that he articulated in Emile, she disagreed with the education that he thought was appropriate for women. According to Rousseau, man must be “active and strong,” while woman must “put up little resistance” and be “passive and weak” (1762/1974: 322). Revealingly, Rousseau writes, Women, for their part, are always complaining that we raise them only to be vain and coquettish, that we keep them amused with trifles so that we may more easily remain their masters; they blame us for the faults we attribute to them. What stupidity! … Is it our fault if they please us when they are beautiful, if their airs and graces seduce us, if the art they learn from you attracts and flatters us, if we like to see them tastefully attired, if we let them display at leisure the weapons with which they subjugate us? (p. 48) Rousseau provocatively suggests here that the existing education provided to women might benefit them. Women, he argues, learn to direct and manipulate men by transforming their weakness into a measure of control. Their seeming fragility and weakness enable them to influence men’s passions and emotions and rule them through it. Rousseau explains here why a female education that encourages hypocrisy, dependence, and the corruption and debilitation of their minds might actually serve them (Frazer 2011: 608). This idea that women should be educated to be hypocritical and weak, whether for their own benefit or that of men, was the focus of Wollstonecraft’s critique. Such an education, she argues, only facilitates a “barren blooming” of women, leaving them “weak and wretched” (1792/1993: 75). Wollstonecraft rejects Rousseau’s idea that the accomplishment of a well-educated woman is her ability to manipulate while seeming to be virtuous (namely, exercising modesty and fidelity). Wollstonecraft argues that such conniving and cunning are the natural opponent of strength (p.  79). Educated only to appeal to men and denied political participation, women are forced to use covert strategies and manipulation to exercise any sort of power. Ladies such as Lady Kingsborough use female beauty and infantile lisping to hide their shrewd and clever deviousness. Moreover, for Wollstonecraft, denying women an edifying and thorough education and trying to limit them to the private sphere is a recipe for public vice. She states, “Women cannot, by force, be confined to domestic concerns;

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for they will, however ignorant, intermeddle with more weighty affairs, neglecting private duties only to disturb, by cunning tricks, the orderly plans of reason which rise above their comprehension” (1792/1993: 72). Such women, inwardly shrewd and outwardly ornate, are likely to interfere in public matters through their control over men in ways contrary to the public good. The artificial weakness produces a “propensity to tyrannize” (p. 79). For Wollstonecraft, it is impossible for women to observe political society without taking part in it. They will make their agency felt, one way or another. If they are outwardly denied participation, they will secretly meddle, using men as intermediaries. If they are simultaneously denied education, their meddling is unlikely to have positive effects. If women are not to be educated in a way consistent with “laws deduced from the exercise of reason” (p. 113), the world at large will suffer (Berges 2013: 24). Through the illicit use of power, women’s “character is degraded, and licentiousness spread through the whole aggregate of society” (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993: 113). For the benefit of all, then, women must develop their reason. Only in this way can their influence on the public sphere, even if indirect, be advantageous rather than pernicious. When it comes to Wollstonecraft’s positive ideas on education, themes of truth and strength take center stage. In fact, Wollstonecraft’s method seems almost dialectical, returning as she does to themes of strength and weakness, truth and authenticity, artifice and pretense. She interprets strength in terms of both physical strength and strength of mind and will. For Wollstonecraft, “strength of mind has, in most cases, been accompanied by superior strength of body, natural soundness of constitution” (1792/1993: 111). Thus, physical training is important in the education of a girl to “strengthen her constitution.” Their limbs (and faculties) should not be cramped by corsets to preserve personal beauty (p. 115); they should not be limited to a sedentary life of dressing and sewing; and they should not be educated toward “delicacy.” Wollstonecraft underscores that women’s characteristic indolence is not innate. If not “damped by inactivity” and “tainted by false shame,” girls would “romp” around: “Girls and boys would play harmlessly together, if the distinction of sex was not inculcated long before nature makes any difference” (p. 117). For Wollstonecraft, education was, above all, a moral matter. Here Wollstonecraft reveals a Lockean influence. Virtue, she argues, is the aim of education. In this, as we have seen, Wollstonecraft was no different from other theorists who wrote on women’s education. Yet it was in how she understood virtue that Wollstonecraft shows her truly progressive colors. According to her, virtue is to be understood in terms of truth and rationality, and this must apply equally to both men and women. Virtue should not be differentiated by sex because “love of truth” is the true “foundation of virtue” (Wollstonecraft 1787: 13). Wollstonecraft held that truth and authenticity are universal, as are the

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powers of reasoning needed to recognize truth. Women and men are first and foremost “human creatures” (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993: 76), placed on this earth to develop their faculties (p.  77) and acquire the dignity of conscious virtue. If strength is a virtue of men, then it is also a virtue of women. Likewise, if modesty and fidelity are truly virtues, which Wollstonecraft thought they were, then men ought to be modest and true. For her, virtues are not relative to the position one holds or the role one plays. Virtues are the same in the public and private sphere; they are the same for men and women. As she states, it is vain to expect much public or private virtue, till both men and women grow more modest—till men, curbing a sensual fondness for the sex, or an affectation of manly assurance, more properly speaking, impudence, treat each other with respect—unless appetite or passion gives the tone, peculiar to it, to their behaviour. I mean even personal respect—the modest respect of humanity, and fellow-feeling; not the libidinous mockery of gallantry, nor the insolent condescension of protectorship. (p. 211) Wollstonecraft concludes that, because men and women are equal in all respects, they should be educated in the same way. Her proposed model consists of coeducational day schools together with an element of home schooling. Before delving deeper into her educational plan, it is important first to examine her views on sensibility, the emotions, and their relationship with virtue. This will support our understanding of her educational proposals.

WOLLSTONECRAFT ON EMOTION AND REASON: SENSE AND SENSIBILITY It would seem, given her preoccupation with reason and her satire of Lady Kingsborough (and, by extension, sensibility), that Wollstonecraft views the emotions with suspicion. Moreover, Wollstonecraft’s ideas on sensibility as needing the endorsement of reason to be considered virtuous together with her emphasis on rationality as a necessary component of virtue have led many later feminists to critique Wollstonecraft’s perceived rationalism (Garner 2009; Martin 1985).2 Jane Roland Martin, for example, argues that Wollstonecraft adopted a model of personality wherein reason should, ideally, rule the soul; similarly, Naomi Jayne Garner examines Wollstonecraft’s “mimicry of the masculine position” (2009: 81). Nevertheless, I maintain that Wollstonecraft’s position on the emotions and sensibility is more complex than a simple restatement of the reason/emotion dichotomy. Given the dichotomy between mind and body and the emotions and reason, wherein women are relegated to the sphere of the emotions and the body (at the expense of mind and reason), it might be implied from Wollstonecraft’s thoughts on “masculating” women that she meant to distance them from the emotional side of the dichotomy. Yet

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Wollstonecraft’s position is far more subtle than a mere defense of women as rational rather than emotional. Wollstonecraft defines sensibility as cultivated emotion or the capacity for it; sensibility includes spontaneous sympathy and “exquisitely polished instinct” (Todd 1980: 17). Thus construed, there is nothing inherently “wrong” with sensibility. In fact, according to her biographer, Wollstonecraft’s sensibility made her “tremblingly alive to afflictions: of others sometimes, but also of her own” (Todd 2002: 112). Furthermore, the protagonist of Wollstonecraft’s first novel, Mary, A fiction (1788), is a heroine who exemplifies the “woman of sensibility”—a self-portrait, no doubt. Nevertheless, Wollstonecraft held that “excessive sensibility” was to be suspected, critiqued, and thwarted. Lady Kingsborough, an archetype of all that was vicious in feminine form, was synonymous with a corrupted form of sensibility. As Wollstonecraft states through her heroine Mary, “not curbed by reason, [sensibility] is on the brink of vice” (1788: 112). Let us look a little deeper into this novel. Wollstonecraft composed Mary, A Fiction, during the latter part of her time with the Kingsboroughs, and this novel can be read as a counterpoint to Rousseau’s Emile. Mary depicts a female heroine tasked with the duty of educating herself through sensation, nature, and solitary thinking (Wollstonecraft 1788: 112). Mary contrasts with her mother Eliza, who has a recognizably Lady Kingsborough-esque fetish for lapdogs and artifice. Mary is described as “a woman who has thinking powers” (p. 112). She rejects inauthentic displays of sentimentality and so serves as a counterpart to Rousseau’s ideal of femininity, as represented by the character of Sophie. In words reminiscent of Wollstonecraft’s critique of Rousseau as “the sensualist” (p. 186), Mary ruminates on sensibility as “the foundation of all our happiness”; yet this happiness is denied “the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses” (p. 29). According to Wollstonecraft, sensibility must be moderated lest it become vicious. Cultivated to excess and as a frequent result of the sort of education Wollstonecraft critiqued, sensibility can be damaging to women and men. Yet, moderated by reason, sensibility can be a source of happiness and a prompt to consider sensitively the needs of others (p. 13). In addition, to gain a better understanding of this issue, much can be learned from a close reading of Wollstonecraft’s final and unfinished novel, Maria: or, The Wrongs of Woman (1798). In Maria, Wollstonecraft gives two exemplars of excess: Maria and Jemima. While Maria’s character is excessively affected by sensibility, Jemima is excessively rational. As Todd states, “in Jemima’s life, then, sensibility is as uncultivated as reason is in Maria’s” (1980: 19). Throughout the novel, both characters come to realize that, to live a meaningful life, both reason and sensibility must be cultivated in proportion. Moreover, again in Maria Wollstonecraft delineates “superior principles” of respect for the rights of rational beings. Knowledge of these superior principles can only be arrived

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at by “enlarging the mind” through education, sensibility, and experience (Mackenzie 1993). Wollstonecraft’s position is not, then, that reason is hierarchically superior to sensibility or emotion, but, as Mackenzie so eloquently puts it, presents “the view that in a well-balanced, virtuous character, reason and sensibility should mutually strengthen and support each other rather than either dominating the other” (1993: 190–1). Wollstonecraft seems to reject the mind and body dichotomy as false. Mind or reason is not superior or sovereign nor is it synonymous with “male.” To be virtuous, men and women must cultivate a balanced character wherein reason and sensibility hold each other in check. For example, Wollstonecraft extolls the virtues of a particular sort of socially beneficial masculine sensibility in Maria (Friedman 2009: 429). Maria’s uncle exemplifies a conception of masculine sensibility that stands in contrast to the prevailing notions of eighteenth-century masculinity yet is “absolutely essential to the maintenance of society, insofar as he becomes the example par excellence of a socially useful sensibility that allows sympathy to be directed outward, unselfishly, towards others” (p. 424). Wollstonecraft, then, challenges not only the prevailing view of femininity but also that of masculinity as unemotional and detached. Education, it follows, should not make women into men but should positively affect and improve both genders.

WOLLSTONECRAFT ON EDUCATION To be well educated, according to Wollstonecraft, is to be educated toward a universal conception of virtue. To understand this undifferentiated virtue, one needs to cultivate both reason and sensibility as well as a love of truth. Only through such cultivation and education can women and men be socially useful. As such, it is the human that must be educated, not the male or female. Wollstonecraft writes of the necessity of “educating the sexes together to perfect both” (1792/1993: 270). In other words, undifferentiated human virtue can only be attained by educating boys and girls together. While children should sleep at home to learn to “love home,” both sexes need, instead of “smothering,” a sort of competition or “the jostlings of equality” to access reason, sensibility, and truth to form a “just opinion” of themselves (p. 270). To attain her vision of universal virtue, Wollstonecraft calls in the Vindication for the establishment of a state system composed of day schools in which boys and girls study together. She explicitly abandons her view that women should receive domestic education that she advanced in Thoughts on the Education of Daughters (Richardson 2002). Experience, she suggests (thereby probably also referring to her days with the Kingsborough family), has taught her it can easily fail (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993). She also vehemently criticizes the existing

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boarding schools for boys as a source of vice and tyranny. To be virtuous, she argues, children of the two sexes must be exposed to both home and public environments, and the best option that accomplishes this is day schools. The main aim Wollstonecraft sets for school in her time was to raise virtuous, good, and able citizens. To achieve this aim, she proposes that all children between the ages of five and nine should receive a free education (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993). This education should be given to boys and girls of all classes. Wollstonecraft wants to advance not only greater gender equality but also greater class equality. All children in these schools, boys and girls, she maintains, should study reading, writing, arithmetic, natural history, religion, history, botany, mechanics, astronomy, and politics. The studies, Wollstonecraft holds, should be made as interesting as possible, and she even suggests using dialogical methods to teach. She also recommends that the children should receive many breaks and free time for playing outside. What she envisions is a holistic sort of education that developed the pupils’ intellectual, physical, and spiritual abilities (Botting 2016). Moreover, according to her plan, once children reach the age of nine, those who are destined to domestic employments or mechanical trades will be transferred to other schools (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993). In these schools, boys and girls will still study together in the mornings, but in the afternoons they will learn separately subjects and skills that are required for their distinct callings. The more talented pupils (again, boys and girls) will remain in the original school and continue their studies. They will learn languages (ancient and modern), science, history, literature, and politics on a more advanced level. Wollstonecraft argues that the men who complete her plan of education will become better citizens and husbands. They will develop their masculine sensibility through their shared education with women. She also maintains that the women who complete it will become better citizens because they will possess the basic understanding and intellectual traits needed for citizenship. Furthermore, Wollstonecraft is persuaded that they will also be better wives and mothers—better wives because they will have more in common with their husbands, leading to a marriage based on a deeper friendship, and better mothers because they will have acquired the knowledge, virtues, and abilities that are necessary for raising children well. Wollstonecraft proposed a system of education that was progressive, even radical. This places her, together with Condorcet, in a small group of thinkers who envisioned groundbreaking educational reforms. While in England the idea of state-controlled education encountered strong opposition, Wollstonecraft’s criticism of women’s education led her to advance an almost revolutionary plan for state education that is innovative when the questions of gender are set aside. Yet, when it comes to the use society may justifiably make of women, Wollstonecraft seems to be much less of a visionary. Here her theory does

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seem to reinstate a male/female dichotomy. For Wollstonecraft, to be socially useful as a woman is to produce good citizens. That is, the primary object in educating women is to educate them for motherhood. Wollstonecraft speaks of the unique duties of women as being the duties of mistress of a family and a mother. To educate women is not to have them “taken out of their families” but to reconcile them, through reason, to their socially useful role—that is, to make them reflective mothers and wives. While in theory Wollstonecraft sought to educate women in a way that made them suitable to act in the public domain, she did not demand that they be allowed into it. She rejected the premises that served to justify the confinement of women but did not draw the possible radical conclusion that follows from this rejection. Understandably, this relegation of women to the private sphere has earned Wollstonecraft some disapprobation from feminist quarters (Ford 2009; Williams 2019). For example, Mitzi Myers writes of Wollstonecraft that “the core of her manifesto remains middle-class motherhood, a feminist, republicanized adaptation of the female role normative in late eighteenthcentury bourgeois notions of the family” (1982: 206). It is difficult, however, to determine why Wollstonecraft did not call for the emancipation of women. It might be that she was afraid that, if she expressed too radical a view, all of her work and ideas would be rejected (Richardson 2002). Another possible reason is that Wollstonecraft’s ideas on the proper role of women were influenced by what she terms the imperfect state of society. Wollstonecraft’s arguments here show a lack of critical distance from the society within which she lived. If this is indeed the case, then Wollstonecraft would herself be guilty of a failure that she explicitly acknowledged in another context, namely a failure of blurred vision. She articulates the difficulties involved in seeing our own societies clearly: “For men of the greatest abilities have seldom had sufficient strength to rise above the surrounding atmosphere; and, if the page of genius have always been blurred by the prejudices of the age, some allowance should be made for a sex, who, like kings, always see things through a false medium” (Wollstonecraft 1792/1993: 115). Finally, it could also be the case that she did not call for women to leave the private sphere because she adhered to an ideal of femininity that attributed child-rearing and domestic responsibility a profound significance. Nevertheless, whether Wollstonecraft’s thoughts on the essential role of women stem from a rhetorical strategy, an internalization of “the imperfect state of society,” an idealization of the role of wife and mother, or a combination of all of these things, it is remarkable that a woman of such genius and critical insight should relegate women to the house and home. In the next section, I will analyze the feminist ideas of Taylor Mill. Although less renowned than Wollstonecraft, she broadens the conception of female education by denouncing the idea that women should be confined to the private sphere, an idea that Wollstonecraft failed to challenge.

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HARRIET TAYLOR MILL: EDUCATING WOMEN FOR THE WORLD, NOT ONE SEX FOR THE OTHER An obvious obstacle to discussing Taylor Mill’s scholarship in general and her contribution to educational philosophy in particular is that it is almost impossible to disentangle her arguments from those of her more famous husband. Taylor Mill’s detractors actively disparaged her work for the influence of her husband both during her lifetime and posthumously. Much of this criticism amounts to ad hominem argumentation. For example, Jane Carlyle, a contemporary of Taylor Mill, claimed that Harriet was “a peculiarly affected body” who “was not easy unless she startled you with unexpected sayings” and was even “somewhat of a humbug” (quoted in Packe 1954: 325–6). According to J.S. Mill’s biographer Alexander Bain, it was well known that Taylor Mill was J.S. Mill’s intellectual puppet: “she imbibed all his views, and gave them back in her own form, by which he was flattered and pleased” (1882: 173). Whether Taylor Mill was merely a marionette or “a woman of deep and strong feeling, of penetrating and intuitive intelligence, and of an eminently meditative and poetic nature,” as Mill (1984: 195) himself described her, it is incumbent on contemporary scholars to justify their choice of works cited and offer an opinion on the authorship of these works. I concentrate here on “The Enfranchisement of Women,” published in The Westminster Review in 1851 and authored primarily (or perhaps even solely) by Taylor Mill (Rossi 1970; Seiz and Pujol 2000). Moreover, it is not only significantly different from The Subjection of Women (1869), which is normally attributed to J.S. Mill, but also, I will argue, is more innovative. In what follows, I will argue that while “The Enfranchisement” has much in common with Wollstonecraft’s Vindication and with J.S. Mill’s The Subjection, it takes ideas regarding the emancipation of women a step further by arguing that women should be integrated into public life and professions that at the time were reserved only for men. This has, of course, significant educational implications because it requires that women’s education should prepare them to take an active part in public life and not, as Wollstonecraft suggested, simply to gain an understanding of it. Let us, then, examine Taylor Mill’s ideas in greater detail. Taylor Mill, like Wollstonecraft, advanced the idea that the degraded state of women in society was due to the education they received. She describes education as the prime source of women’s “puerile vanities.” Remarking on women’s education in her time, Taylor Mill states that “nothing is taught to women thoroughly.” Although more than half a century had passed, it seems that not much had changed and that, like Wollstonecraft, Taylor Mill worries that women are taught superficially and are not given an opportunity to acquire deep knowledge. Taylor Mill also points out that women do not learn to think

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for themselves and instead are taught to be submissive. She writes that women are “told from infancy that thought and all its greater applications, are other people’s business, while theirs is to make themselves agreeable to other people” (Taylor Mill 1851/1998: 66). For Taylor Mill, then, as for Wollstonecraft, existing modes of women’s education caused considerable damage rather than improving the condition of women. J.S. Mill (1869), it should be noted, expressed similar views. In addition, Taylor Mill argued that any attempt to limit women to the private sphere and deny them political participation would have adverse effects on public virtue. She states in “The Enfranchisement” that “Many a man, whom no money or personal flattery would have bought, has bartered his political opinions against a title, or invitations for his wife; and a still greater number are made mere hunters after the puerile vanities of society, because their wives value them” (1851/1998: 69). Taylor Mill adds that nineteenth-century women act contrary to virtue in the pursuit of these puerile vanities, corrupting men and society in general and, as a consequence, donning a “mask of duty” and an “amiable guise” (p. 68). In a similar vein, J.S. Mill notes in The Subjection that, with the existing education of women, they are unable to see beyond the benefit of their own family and that their influence is therefore harmful to public virtue. Thus, J.S. Mill, Taylor Mill, and Wollstonecraft agreed that women, improperly educated and denied political agency, will imbibe the “puerile vanities of society” (Taylor Mill) or the “prejudices of the age” (Wollstonecraft) and act contrary to public virtue. Where the views of Taylor Mill and J.S. Mill famously diverge from that of Wollstonecraft, however, is that, unlike Wollstonecraft, they both demand that women be accorded equal rights. In their writings, they each maintain that women should have the right to vote and participate actively in the public domain and that they should also not be legally prevented from holding certain positions, as they were at the time. Taylor Mill’s “Enfranchisement” and J.S. Mill’s Subjection, however, advance different conceptions of women’s potential role in society. Interestingly, in The Subjection, J.S. Mill argues that equality between men and women is essential to marital friendship and the progression of society (Shanley 1981). Nevertheless, J.S. Mill sees women’s “individual capacities and suitabilities” (1869: 291) as justifying a differentiation of duties based on sex as “most suitable” (p. 297). As with Wollstonecraft, this differentiation of duties requires that under ordinary conditions “the man earns the income” and “the wife superintends the domestic expenditure” (p. 297). Questions can even be raised regarding the belief of J.S. Mill in women’s intellectual capacities. In one passage, he argues that women have a great faculty for “practical” matters and that their “greater quickness of apprehension” (p. 306) “fit them for practice” (p.  305) but that this comes at the price of not achieving deep insight. Up until the present, it remains controversial whether J.S. Mill truly believed that

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women could fulfill certain social positions as well as men (Botting 2016). J.S. Mill, then, like Wollstonecraft, did not seek to change the social structure. Taylor Mill’s “The Enfranchisement,” in contrast, argues for “the same freedom of occupation” for women as men (1851/1998: 60). In fact, “The Enfranchisement” could be characterized as a call to view gender equality in terms of equality of career opportunity. Moreover, Taylor Mill’s ideas on education, as espoused in “The Enfranchisement,” are inextricably linked to her arguments for women’s right to partake in “active life” through a fulfilling and economically beneficial occupation. In contrast with her husband’s beliefs that most women would choose a family and marriage even if they were free to choose otherwise, Taylor Mill holds that “numbers of women are wives and mothers only because there is no other career open to them,—no other occupation for their feelings or activities” (1851/1998: 60). Given no choice but to aspire to motherhood and family life, women are educated, she maintains, for “mere show.” Here Taylor Mill’s critique of nineteenth-century educational practices goes deeper than Wollstonecraft’s ideas on education as a buttress to superficial “accomplishments.” For Taylor Mill, even a thorough and genuine education of girls whose only aim is to prepare women for motherhood and marriage is problematic. Women, prepared by education to be cultivated companions for men, are never equal to their husbands. Yet, if women were permitted to contribute economically to the household, their position would be raised from servant to that of a partner. A woman who “contributes materially to the support of the family” is not “dependent on the man for subsistence” and therefore can demand respect rather than submit to “contemptuously tyrannical” treatment (Taylor Mill 1851/1998: 60). Moreover, to educate women thoroughly only then to offer them no choice but marriage and motherhood for their occupation is to do them a disservice. As Taylor Mill states, “Every improvement in their education, and enlargement of their faculties, everything which renders them more qualified for any other mode of life, increases the number of those to whom it is an injury and an oppression to be denied the choice” (p. 60). She even maintains that, so long as women’s interests are “concentrated in the family” and women are educated for confinement in the private sphere, then public spirit and a sense of duty toward the public good is “the most rarely to be found among them” (p. 69). In contrast to Wollstonecraft, Taylor Mill holds that, if we want women to contribute to the public sphere, we must let them participate in it. Thus, the education of women, for Taylor Mill, is not to be conflated with the education of mothers and wives. Rather, education (of both men and women) should refine “the power of thought: the stimuli which call forth that power are the interest and dignity of thought itself, and a field for its practical application” (Taylor Mill 1851/1998: 66). Furthermore, until there is freedom

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of opportunity, these fields of practical application, wherein reason and intellect can find an outlet, will be closed to women. In such an unequal society, truly enlightened women will be the exception, not the norm. As Taylor Mill states, “High mental powers in women will be but an exceptional accident, until every career is open to them, and until they, as well as men, are educated for themselves and for the world,—not one sex for the other” (p. 66). Moreover, she maintains that deep knowledge can only be attained through its practical use. What she seems to have in mind is that, for example, to fully understand science one must work as a scientist. If, then, women are prevented from using the knowledge they acquire, this knowledge will always remain on a lower level. For Taylor Mill, Wollstonecraft’s idea of gaining deep knowledge without having the opportunity to use it is unsustainable. Taylor Mill, then, offers some valuable insights into the education of women and its limitations. Unfortunately, unlike Wollstonecraft, she does not turn these insights into practical suggestions regarding education. She points to general directions that should be taken but does not discuss questions of educational organization and curriculum in detail as Wollstonecraft did. In sum, then, Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill use reflection on the true, unadulterated nature of women’s minds to criticize educational practices. Both reject the claim that the unenlightened state of women implies their imperviousness to education. For Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill, the fault lies with education itself. With a curriculum that is broad but shallow, the education of women in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries did little to develop the reason of women, and it failed in the cultivation of virtue. As philosophers of education, Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill succeeded in “rising above their surrounding atmosphere” and the “prejudices” and “vanities” of the age. Yet, in refusing to reduce women’s ultimate aim to marriage and motherhood, Taylor Mill emerges as the more progressive of the two. For this reason, it is shamefully ironic that history has not been more kind to Taylor Mill. Denounced in her own time as little more than a mouthpiece for her husband, her status as “companion” to J.S. Mill is still considered her most noteworthy accomplishment. Much has been lost to the canon of educational thought, as well as that of feminism, through the failure of societal institutions to afford Taylor Mill an occupation and a platform to pursue her arguments on equality of opportunity.

CONCLUDING REFLECTIONS: WOLLSTONECRAFT, TAYLOR MILL, AND CONTEMPORARY EDUCATION AND SOCIETY I conclude this chapter by suggesting that, while much progress has been made in the education of women, our age is still “blurred by prejudice,” and we

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still have much to learn from the insight of these two remarkable educational philosophers. Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill were both concerned with what contemporary theorists might call “gender socialization,” or the processes through which people learn about society’s expectations for internalized norms, attitudes, and behaviors that are differentiated according to gender. Gendered socialization starts early, and this early socialization can impact children’s self-perceptions in light of gendered norms as well as their educational attainment (Fivush et al. 2000; Tomasetto et al. 2015; Witt 1997). This sort of early socialization is not just limited to parental engagement but is “all-around”: one only needs to think of the sheer volume of children’s books with stereotypical gendered content or characters (Narahara 1998). In the case of televised content, there is evidence of a commitment to redressing the balance. A 2002 study found, for example, that children’s cartoons and movies are likely to have disproportionately high numbers of male lead characters in the adventure genre. It also found that the male characters are likely to use physical aggression. On the other hand, it showed that female characters were more likely to show fear and act in a supportive, polite way (Leaper et al. 2002). Nevertheless, a more recent study (Martin 2017) indicates that a trend has begun toward more counterstereotyped emotions. It follows that, even today, our children arrive at school already steeped in gendered stereotypes. At school, the gendered stereotyping continues. Empirical evidence suggests that peers and teachers may show tendencies to prescribe gender stereotypes to girls and boys (Kollmayer, Schober, and Spiel 2018). For example, girls are labeled as “bossy” (Renold 2001), and being attributed this label may be correlated with lower academic performance (Alan, Ertac, and Mumcu 2018). Moreover, boys are neither immune nor unaffected by gender stereotyping. In fact, boys may be particularly vulnerable to peer socialization. Studies on the development of emotional regulation note the effect of childhood socialization of boys to discourage the display of vulnerable emotions (Root and Denham 2010), while studies on the impact of peers on emotional socialization show that male peers play a particularly prominent role in policing one another’s unacceptable emotional displays (Berke et al. 2019; Oransky and Marecek 2009; Reigeluth and Addis 2016; Way 2011). While in comparison to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries there is greater equality of opportunity, and while gendered expectations are less obvious than they once were, they are still present today. Moreover, our educational institutions reflect a lack of neutrality. Since this is the case, like Wollstonecraft, we must acknowledge the imperfect state of our society and our educational institutions. Yet, where Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill needed genius and Herculean strength and courage to achieve reflective distance from their societies, contemporary theorists interested in gender equality and education

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have a community of support among themselves and a receptive audience. For example, a pilot study, which ran from September 2018 to July 2019, entitled “We Can Be All We Want to Be” took a whole school approach to challenging gender stereotypes and promoting gender equality in primary schools (Lifting Limits 2019). The study found that some teachers were unconsciously instilling gendered messages, and this differentiation was reflected in children’s language. Pre-intervention, approximately two-thirds of the children who wanted to work in science-related jobs were boys, while at least three-quarters of those who wanted to work in nurturing roles (e.g., a vet or a teacher) were girls. By the end of the intervention, equal numbers of male and female children wanted to be scientists, substantially more girls wanted to be police officers and footballers, and the percentage of boys who stated they could be teachers increased from 24 percent to 42 percent. As research shows, then, educational institutions still have the capacity both to reinforce and to reduce gender socialization. These findings are consistent with both Wollstonecraft’s and Taylor Mill’s argument that we should, as they did, carefully think about the role of education in gender socialization. We should think about not only what education currently leads to but what it could lead to if differently constructed. Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill have also taught us, however, that reflection on gendered socialization is difficult. To do it effectively, we are forced to gaze through a glass, darkly, our reflective sight mired by our social positioning. To progress and improve our educational institutions, theorists must gain a reflective distance from the very socialization they aim to critique. Nevertheless, the pilot study mentioned in this section shows that gender theory can inform reflective practitioners in their attempts to rise above their own false medium and aid their students to make choices unhindered by the negative effects of gender socialization. Following Wollstonecraft’s and Taylor Mill’s thoughts on education, truly reflective education might function to prepare men and women for their partnership in raising a family as one meaningful life choice among others. Such an education would aid boys and girls in their reflection on the constituents of a meaningful life and equip boys and girls with the skills necessary to live well in accordance with their choices. Moreover, education today can help call into question the traditional notion that a family must include a man and women or even challenge the whole notion of gender differentiation. Furthermore, if a choice to raise a family is made, then, consistent with what we have learned from Wollstonecraft and Taylor Mill, members of the family could be taught to view their partnership apart from questions of gender. This would include, among other things, a refusal to reduce femininity to motherhood and an acknowledgment (contra Wollstonecraft) that care of children is not the “peculiar duty of women” insofar as masculinity as fully consistent with the choice to “superintend” the home as father and husband. Contemporary educational philosophers, such as Noddings (2002) and Martin (1985) engage

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with such issues, and I cannot review the extensive literature on these issues here. Revisiting Wollstonecraft’s and Taylor Mill’s educational philosophies, however, reminds us that the quest to rethink questions related to gender in educational philosophy began long ago and is unlikely to end any time soon. Like them, thinkers of the present and future, and especially women thinkers, will always have to look beyond the boundaries of their society and their own upbringing in order to work toward a better and more just world.

NOTES 1

2

For an example of this sort of criticism of female education in the eighteenth century,  see Hannah More’s (1836: 28) cautionary tale “The Two Wealthy Farmers,” which tells the story of the daughters of two farmers: “of knowledge the Miss Bragwells had got just enough to laugh at their fond parents’ rustic manners and vulgar language, and just enough taste to despise and ridicule every girl who was not as vainly dressed as them- selves.” The story ends in the despair, destitution, and death of these daughters, educated above their station. For an interesting discussion of this topic as well as an argument against the view that Wollstonecraft was reinforcing the view of autonomy as hierarchical opposition between soul/body, reason/passion, and masculine/feminine, see Mackenzie (1993).

REFERENCES Primary sources Bennett, John (1830), Letters to a Young Lady, Philadelphia: John Grigg. Croker, John Willson (1814), “D’Arblay, The Wanderer; or Female Difficulties,” Quaterly Review, 11 (2): 123–30. Darwin, Erasmus (1797), A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education in Boarding Schools, London: J. Drewery for J. Johnson. Fenélon, François S. (1687/1996), “The Education of Girls,” in H.C. Barnard (ed.), Fenélon on Education, London: Cambridge University Press. Locke, John (1693/1965), “Some Thoughts Concerning Education,” in James L. Axtell (ed.), The Educational Writings of John Locke, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 21–179. Mill, John Stuart (1869), The Subjection of Women, London: Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyer. Mill, John Stuart (1984), “Essays on Equality, Law, and Education,” in John M. Robson (ed.), Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, Vol. 21, Toronto: Toronto University Press XXXV. More, Hannah (1836), “The Two Wealthy Farmers,” in The Works of Hannah More, 24–104, New York: Harper & Brothers. Reeve, Clara (1792), Plans of Education with Remarks on the Systems of Other Writers, London: T. Hookham and J. Carpenter. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762/1974), Emile, or On Education, trans. B. Foxley, London: Dent.

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Taylor Mill, Harriet (1851/1998), “The Enfranchisement of Women,” in Jo Ellen Jacobs (ed.), The Complete Works of Harriet Taylor Mill, 51–74, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Wollstonecraft, Mary (1787), Thoughts on the Education of Daughters: With Reflections on Female Conduct, in the More Important Duties of Life, London: Joseph Johnson. Wollstonecraft, Mary (1788), Mary, A Fiction, London: Joseph Johnson. Wollstonecraft, Mary (1792/1993), “A Vindication of the Rights of Women,” in Janet Todd (ed.), Political Writings, 63–294, Toronto: Toronto University Press. Wollstonecraft, Mary (1798/1994), Maria: Or, the Wrongs of Woman, New York: Norton.

Secondary sources Alan, Sule, Seda Ertac, and Ipek Mumcu (2018), “Gender Stereotypes in the Classroom and Effects on Achievement,” Review of Economics and Statistics, 100 (5): 876–90. Bain, Alexander (1882), John Stuart Mill: A Criticism with Personal Reflections, London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Berges, Sandrine (2013), “Mothers and Independent Citizens: Making Sense of Wollstonecraft’s Supposed Essentialism,” Philosophical Papers, 42 (3): 259–84. Berke, D.S., D.E. Reidy, B. Gentile, and A. Zeichner (2019), “Masculinity, Emotion Regulation, and Psychopathology: A Critical Review and Integrated Model,” Clinical Psychology Review, 66: 106–16. Botting, Eileen Hunt (2016), Theories of Human Development: Wollstonecraft and Mill on Sex, Gender and Education, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Calvert, Brian (1975), “Plato and the Equality of Women,” Phoenix, 29 (3): 231–43. Cohen, Michele (2006), “A Little Learning: The Curriculum and the Construction of Gender Difference in the Long Eighteenth Century,” British Journal for EighteenthCentury Studies, 29 (3): 321–35. Fivush, Robyn, Melissa A. Brotman, Janine P. Buckner, and Sherryl H. Goodman (2000), “Gender Differences in Parent–Child Emotion Narratives,” Sex Roles, 42 (3): 233–53. Ford, Thomas H. (2009), “Mary Wollstonecraft and the Motherhood of Feminism,” Women’s Studies Quarterly, 37 (3/4): 189–205. Frazer, Elizabeth (2011), “Mary Wollstonecraft and Catharine Macaulay on Education,” Oxford Review of Education, 37 (5): 603–17. Friedman, Dustin (2009), “‘Parents of the Mind’: Mary Wollstonecraft and the Aesthetics of Productive Masculinity,” Studies in Romanticism, 48 (3): 423–46. Garner, Naomi Jayne (2009), “‘Seeing Through a Glass Darkly’: Wollstonecraft and the Confinements of Eighteenth-Century Femininity,” Journal of International Women’s Studies, 11 (3): 81–95. Gilead, Tal (2011), “The Role of Education Redefined: 18th Century British and French Educational Thought and the Rise of the Baconian Conception of the Study of Nature,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 43: 1020–34. Gubar, Susan (1994), “Feminist Misogyny: Mary Wollstonecraft and the Paradox of ‘It Takes One to Know One,’” Feminist Studies, 20 (3): 453–73. Jacobs, Jo Ellen (1998), “Introduction,” in Jo Ellen Jacobs (ed.), The Complete Works of Harriet Taylor Mill, xi–xxxvi, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Jouslin, Claire Boulard (2012), “Conservative or Reformer? The History and Fortune of Fénelon’s Traité de L’Éducation des Filles in Eighteenth-Century England,” Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies, 12 (4): 48–77.

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Kaplan, Cora (2002), “Mary Wollstonecraft’s Reception and Legacies,” in Claudia L. Johnson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Mary Wollstonecraft, 246–70, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kollmayer, M., B. Schober, and C. Spiel (2018), “Gender Stereotypes in Education: Development, Consequences, and Interventions,” European Journal of Developmental Psychology, 15 (4): 361–77. Leaper, C., L. Breed, L. Hoffman, and C.A. Perlman (2002), “Variations in the Gender-Stereotyped Content of Children’s Television Cartoons across Genres,” Journal of Applied Social Psychology, 32 (3): 1653–62. Lifting Limits (2019), We Can All Be Who We Want to Be, report. Available online: https://www.liftinglimits.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/We-can-all-be-finalreport-for-website.pdf. Lloyd, Genevieve (1984), The Man of Reason: “Male” and “Female” in Western Philosophy, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Mackenzie, Catriona (1993), “Reason and Sensibility: The Ideal of Women’s Self Governance in the Writings of Mary Wollstonecraft,” Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 8 (4): 35–55. Martin, Jane Roland (1985), Reclaiming a Conversation: The Ideal of the Educated Woman, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Martin, R. (2017), “Gender and Emotion Stereotypes in Children’s Television,” Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, 61 (3): 499–517. Miller P.J. (1972), “Women’s Education, ‘Self improvement’ and Social Mobility: A Late Eighteenth Century Debate,” British Journal of Educational Studies, 20 (3): 302–14. Myers, Mitzi (1982), “‘Reform or Ruin’: A Revolution in Female Manners,” Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture, 11: 199–216. Narahara, May M. (1998), Gender Stereotypes in Children’s Picture Books, East Lansing, MI: National Center for Research on Teacher Learning. Noddings, Nel (2002), Educating Moral People: A Caring Alternative to Character Education, New York: Teachers College Press. Oransky, Matthew and Jeanne Marecek (2009), “‘I’m Not Going to Be a Girl’: Masculinity and Emotions in Boys’ Friendships and Peer Groups,” Journal of Adolescent Research, 24 (2): 218–41. Packe, Michael (1954), The Life of John Stuart Mill, New York: Macmillan. Reigeluth, C.S. and M.E. Addis (2016), “Adolescent Boys’ Experiences with Policing of Masculinity: Forms, Functions, and Consequences,” Psychology of Men & Masculinity, 17 (1): 74–83. Renold, Emma (2001), “‘Square-girls,’ Femininity and the Negotiation of Academic Success in the Primary School,” British Educational Research Journal, 27 (5): 577–88. Richardson, Alan (2002), “Mary Wollstonecraft on Education,” in Claudia L. Johnson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Mary Wollstonecraft, 24–41, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rossi, Alice S. (1970), “Sentiment and Intellect: The Story of John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor Mill,” in Alice S. Rossi (ed.), Essays on Sex Equality, 3–63, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Root, A.K. and S.A. Denham (2010), “The Role of Gender in the Socialization of Emotion: Key Concepts and Critical Issues,” New Directions for Child and Adolescent Development, 128: 1–9.

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Seiz, Janet A. and Michele A. Pujol (2000), “Harriet Taylor Mill,” American Economic Review, 90 (2): 476–79. Shanley Mary Lyndon (1981), “Marital Slavery and Friendship: John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women,” Political Theory, 9 (2): 229–47. Todd, Janet (1980), “Reason and Sensibility in Mary Wollstonecraft’s The Wrongs of Woman,” Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, 5 (3): 17–20. Todd, Janet (2002), Mary Wollstonecraft: A Revolutionary Life, New York: Columbia University Press. Tomasetto, C., A. Mirisola, S. Galdi, and M. Cadinu (2015), “Parents’ Math–Gender Stereotypes, Children’s Self-perception of Ability, and Children’s Appraisal of Parents’ Evaluations in 6-year-olds,” Contemporary Educational Psychology, 42: 186–98. Way, Niobe (2011), Deep Secrets: Boys’ Friendships and the Crisis of Connection, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Williams, Valerie (2019), “Mary Wollstonecraft on Motherhood and Political Participation: An Overlooked Insight into Women’s Subordination,” Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 34 (4): 802–26. Witt, S.D. (1997), “Parental Influence on Children’s Socialization to Gender Roles,” Adolescence, 32 (126): 253–9.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Teachings of Uncommon Schooling: American Transcendentalism and Education in Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller NAOKO SAITO

INTRODUCTION It is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women. It is time that villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants the fellows of universities, with leisure— if they are indeed so well off—to pursue liberal studies the rest of their lives. (Thoreau 1992: 74)

So writes Henry David Thoreau in his book Walden. As his remark indicates, American transcendentalists were not necessarily educational philosophers. Their stance on education was unconventional, and their ideas of education were what Stanley Cavell (1984) calls “themes out of school.” It is difficult to contextualize their thought in other educational streams of the period: American transcendentalism is really out of the mainstream of the history of education.

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When you pick up any anthology of the history or philosophy of education, it is rare that the names of American transcendentalists appear—even those of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Thoreau. The point of this chapter is to show how their transcendentalist ideas of education even now are uncommon in ways that go beyond any conventional dichotomy of progressive and traditional education but how, nevertheless, those ideas can contribute powerfully to the discussion of contemporary issues on education. More specifically, the purpose of this chapter is to reclaim the silenced voices of Emerson, Thoreau, and Margaret Fuller in the history and philosophy of education. The negative tendency toward their “dismissal” and “repression” (Standish 2018: 429) is itself, as I shall show, a positive indicator of their originality. From this position, I would like to reread the American transcendentalism of Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller not as a set of classical texts to be read in schools but as voices in the philosophy of education that can and should resound in contemporary educational practice in the name of education in service of human transformation. I explore different vistas of education the transcendentalists open up for us and show the radicalism of their philosophical orientation. American transcendentalism is not of interest primarily for historical reasons because, in important respects, these writers were ahead of their times. Their work retains a powerful significance for various issues in contemporary education—above all, moral education, citizenship and political education, and education in language. They teach us how significant it is to achieve transcendence in the ordinary today. This is especially significant given global trends of education that are so dominated by measurement and transparency.

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND The American transcendentalism of New England was an intellectual movement whose heyday was between the mid-1830s and the mid-1840s. It was, to use the contemporary fashionable term, “interdisciplinary” in that it incorporated literature, poetry, art, religion, philosophy, and social thought. It was also cross-cultural (or international) in that it brought together not only anglophone traditions but also German thought and Asian classics deriving from Hindu, Buddhist, Confucian, and Islamic culture (Buell 2006: xiii). The major figures who carried this movement include Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–82), Henry David Thoreau (1817–62), Margaret Fuller (1810–50), Amos Bronson Alcott (1799–1888), George Ripley (1802–80), Orestes Brownson (1803–76), Elizabeth Peabody (1804–94), and Frederic Henry Hedge (1805–90). They called for social reforms as well as the intellectual regeneration of American culture. It should be noted, however, that, as Lawrence Buell has pointed out, there were “disagreements among Transcendentalists as to the relative

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importance of the elevation of single individuals versus the elevation of society as a whole” (2006: xxiv): Emerson and Thoreau in the former group, George Ripley, in the latter. Buell points out that there was a “shift in thinking among a number of Transcendentalists as the 1840s unfolded, from an early individualcenteredness to a keener social conscience and attentiveness to hard political realities” (p. 252). According to Buell, transcendentalists were “on the verge of becoming the first American youth movement, the nation’s first counterculture” (2006: xiii). Preceding the Civil War period, the transcendentalists were antislavery advocates, though they differed in their stance toward the social activism of abolitionism (p. xvii).1 Beginning as a ferment within Unitarianism (p. xix) but being nondogmatic, anti-institutional, and “post-sectarian” (p. xx), there was among them a shared commitment to “the idea of a divinity latent within each person” (p. xxiii).2 Against this general background there are some particularly liberal features of American transcendentalism that may provide a helpful guide to understanding the educational significance of their work. First, transcendentalism stood out in its “openness to participation of women and to feminist critiques of patriarchy” (Buell 2006: xii). Among other seminal texts, Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century (1845) is known to be a precursor of feminist movements. Second, the American transcendentalists were cosmopolitan in their proclivities and in the background of their thought. They wrote in “universalizing terms rather than in nationalist terms” (Buell 2006: xiii), and their quest for universality was based upon the conviction that “a greater degree of common ground can be reached” (p. xx). Furthermore, their thoughts were influenced by both Western and Eastern sources of thinking.3 Finally, their ideas are prophetic and visionary, and it is in this that Buell finds “the spirit of Transcendentalist perfectionism, of whatever stripe.” They were interested in “the process of transformation” (p.  xxv). Fourth, American transcendentalists, including Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller, were involved in the antislavery movement. Even Emerson and Thoreau, who originally refrained from social activism until later in the 1840s and 1850s, committed themselves in the public arena to the abolition of slavery (pp. xvii, xxi, 252). There was also a rich seam of education in the movement of American transcendentalism. This was a kind of education that took place outside of schools: in the Transcendental Club, which comprised of discussion groups that met in Concord and Cambridge between 1836 and 1840; in the Concord School of Philosophy (1879–88); in The Dial (1840–4), a journal edited by Fuller and later by Emerson; and in the Lyceum, which organized forums for interdisciplinary lectures and debates that took place across America between the mid-1820s and the Civil War, and which can be seen as “premodern equivalent of extension schools and educational television” (Buell 2006: xxv, xvi, xxvi; 2003: 23).

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In the Concord Lyceum, where Emerson gave a series of lectures. Another historically distinctive institution was “Brook Farm”—an experimental, utopian community that was established by George Ripley and his wife in 1841 and that continued during the 1840s. This was a quasi-socialist endeavor inspired by the transcendentalist ideal that encouraged people to share the labor and self-cultivation of farm products. Participants also studied music and languages together (Matteson 2012: 217). But this institution, conceived as part of the transcendentalist movement, was, in fact, short-lived, and it declined in the late 1840s. Through these diverse forms of educational experience, marginal voices were cultivated and a democratic public sphere created (Buell 2003: 310). Against this historical background, some uniquely educational characteristics emerged. First, there was an orientation toward “a much less authoritarian teaching ethic than the traditional drill-and-recitation pedagogy” (Buell 2006: xxi). Of particular note was Bronson Alcott’s experimental school for young children, the Temple School, where he adopted a Socratic method of teaching instead of the prevailing authoritarian approaches (pp. 282, 287).4 Second, there was a tradition of conducting public speaking.5 The Concord Lyceum, for example, provided a venue for free speech. The Lyceum was “a prime example of the republican conviction that the success of representative democracy hinged on the creation of an informed citizenry through a public sphere created by voluntary participation” (Buell 2003: 23). As we shall see in the section From the inmost to the outmost: Emerson’s moral perfectionism,” this embodies Emerson’s idea that “the inmost in due time becomes the outmost” (Emerson 2000: 132). Third was the emphasis on conversation among friends as a means of education. Bronson Alcott, for example, incorporated conversation into his experimental adult education as well as into his teaching of young children. So did Fuller in her enlightening educational endeavors with women. Indeed, she adopted Alcott’s Socratic pedagogy in a series of conversations for women (Buell 2006: xvi, 297). We shall consider this point more closely in relation to Emerson’s idea of conversation. Fourth, as a literary movement, American transcendentalism adopted an enlightened method of education with emphasis on reading and writing. The Dial served as a good example, as it created a forum for diverse literary voices. Buell points out that it helped to perpetuate the “strong ethical and autobiographical emphases in American writing that persist to this day” (p. xviii), as exemplified by Emerson and Thoreau. As we shall see later in the sections “From the inmost to the outmost: Emerson’s moral perfectionism” and “Transcendence in the ordinary: Thoreau,” the first-person voice is a significant feature of Emerson’s and Thoreau’s thought. With this general background in mind, let us go deeper into the texts of American transcendentalism. The purpose here is to get beyond the conventional reading of Emerson and Thoreau (as individualists) and Fuller (as a precursor of feminism) and to examine some common features of their philosophical

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orientations and educational commitments. As discussed, the educational thought of American transcendentalism, if any unified account can be given of it, cannot simply be put into the familiar frameworks of progressive education and traditional education. Although liberal in their orientation, the views of the transcendentalists do not amount to an endorsement of free-floating, laissezfaire education or of anarchism, nor do they harbor a romantic conception of the natural goodness of children. For similar reasons, what they have to say does not fit neatly into the dichotomization of the individual and society or of liberalism and communitarianism. The rich potential of the American transcendentalism of Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller can be fully realized if we think outside these conventional categories. Let us examine from within, as it were, some particular features of each thinker and see how the aforementioned general orientations of American transcendentalism are manifest in each.

FROM THE INMOST TO THE OUTMOST: EMERSON’S MORAL PERFECTIONISM6 Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense: for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost,—and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. (Emerson 2000: 132) So says Emerson. The creation of the “great man”—one who can sustain independence even in the midst of the crowd—is perhaps the obvious thesis of Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” (2000: 135). And although this is surely both a courageous and a heartening call to us to trust in ourselves, an immediate popular reaction can be expected: Is this not too strong, is this not too egocentric a notion of the self to be defensible today? The point in contestation here is whether and how this personal emphasis in Emerson’s account of the self can be justified. In response to prevalent criticism of the Emersonian self on the grounds of its excessive emphasis on the personal side of individualism, Buell (2003: 172) argues that the personal in Emerson is underwritten by impersonality. An implication of Buell’s view is that the underlying drive is negative, an avoidance of the personal. Is this the only way of responding to Emerson’s call for the self-reliant person? I would like to explore an alternative possibility of reading this contested passage of Emerson, a reading that takes issue with the limited frames of both the prevailing criticism and the defense. In education broadly understood and in the various claims that are made for “narrative” in respect to education, emphasis on the “real me” and the “inward turn” to the self have burgeoned (Smeyers, Smith, and Standish 2007: 9). A similar autobiographical trend is no less prevalent in educational research (2007: 57–8). Yet, when it comes to

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schooling, and in the context of these nihilistic times with its crisis of the loss of voice, the education of the self-reliant individual seems urgent: for speaking in one’s own voice—that is, without falling into narcissistic self-containment. In response to this urgency, the negative approach in reading Emerson does not seem adequate. The task for the philosophy of education, then, is to offer a critical framework for rethinking language and the self to bridge the personal and the public. One possibility of such a discourse for education is made possible through a reinterpretation of Emerson centering on the theme of the education of the selfreliant person from the inmost to the outmost (which is Emerson’s idea that the most private is eventually to become most public). A helpful lens through which to view what is at stake is Emersonian moral perfectionism, an idea presented by Stanley Cavell. In his anti-foundationalist approach to perfectionism—an apparently paradoxical idea of searching for a good, perfect life without relying on any fixed ground—Cavell destabilizes the way we conventionally conceive the self in Emerson. He envisions a potential path from the private to the public, showing the aesthetic and the existential to be preconditions for our political becoming. Emersonian moral perfectionism is provocative in the following senses. First, as Emersonian (by implication, American) perfectionism, it is distinguished from traditional strains of Western perfectionism. Unlike the teleological forms of Plato’s and Aristotle’s perfectionism, Emerson’s is ateleological, or, in Cavell’s words, “goalless” (1990: xxxiv). Perhaps the most distinctively Emersonian aspect is the idea that “the self is always attained, as well as to be attained” (p. 12) and that “the human self … is always becoming, as on a journey, always partially in a further state” (p. 26). The reader of Emerson is challenged, then, to be perceptive to this “perpetual moral aspiration to an ‘unattained but attainable self’” (Cavell 2004: 247). Second, Emersonian moral perfectionism requires a reconsideration of what it means to be moral: morality hinges not on theoretical justifications (such as Kantianism and utilitarianism) but on words (how we say what we mean). Cavell quotes from Emerson: “every word they say chagrins us and we know not where to begin to set them right” (2004: 24). Repossession of language, returning it to the language community, is participation in the “city of words.” It is this idea of speaking for oneself that adds a narrative dimension to the moral life featured in Emersonian perfectionism.7 This particular feature of Emerson’s moral perfectionism has implications for moral education—moral education in the broad sense, which permeates the whole curriculum and even the whole school life. Third, the self oriented toward perfection must “speak with necessity” and “stand for humanity” (Cavell 2004: 31–2). “My” voice is my own and yet is not just “mine”: it is already implicated in the words of others. This is a unique

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feature of Emerson’s self-transcendence. Cavell hears in Emerson a Kantian call for speaking with a “universal voice” (2004: 31). This also reflects the political, say, democratic facet of Cavell’s ordinary language philosophy—an idea of “myself and my society being in conversation, demanding a voice in each other” (p. 68). This is an idea of “assent,” which is as Paul Standish explains, “something like membership in a polis, a common world in which judgments are shared, in which (together) we find things the same, in which we project things (together)” (p. 94). The nature of the voice with which the “I” speaks must be particular and yet universal. With this condition in mind, the power implied by Emerson’s genius is not one-sided: greatness is found in the interstices of humility, the perfect in acceptance of the imperfect, and the active in the passive. Even in the idea of expanding circles as an apparently progressive imagery of human perfection (Emerson 2000: 252) there is always a “residuum unknown, unanalyzable” (2000: 254). Nature asks us to acknowledge something unidentifiable: the otherness of Nature including human nature, a realm of life that refuses to be fully articulated and grasped. Emerson, however, never mystifies this unanalyzable realm or safeguards it within the private. It is the beginning and condition of what he calls “Man Thinking” (p. 44). With the gleam of light in its origin, Emerson’s thinking is receptive, humble, and thankful (Cavell 1992: 132). Thinking is a power bestowed upon us by language or by life as a whole. The best way to characterize Emerson’s sense of genius is, perhaps, in terms not of authenticity but of authorship (Cavell 1990: 19). This association opens connections not only to authority and authoritarianism but also to notions of creation and responsibility. It has to do with an individual’s readiness to contribute their own voice to the language community into which they have been initiated. This community is a city of words, and a community that remains the same is moribund. Alluding, somewhat mischievously, to the question in philosophy of whether the “I think” in “I think that p” is redundant, Cavell ventures the thought that to be able to say “I think” is to regain “authority in speech” (2004: 203). To be an authority in one’s language is not a matter of gaining “a fuller mastery” over the world, secured in the exchange of evidence and counterevidence. It is to see language not as functionary but as sovereign, the language not of the technocrat or of the establishment but of prophecy and poiesis. Emersonian genius manifests itself through such language. It reminds us that there is a possibility of language beyond its functional power, to state what is the case. Democracy, then, depends upon the hope that “the voice I lend in recognizing a society as mine, as speaking for me, is my voice, my own” (Cavell 1990: 27). This is “to make a political being of me, create a polis to which I belong” (Cavell 2004: 188). Greatness is measured by the degree to which each individual can, here and now, find or realize the best within themselves; it depends upon the extent to

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which they have committed themselves to a further self, in “a continual effort to raise himself above himself, to work a pitch above his last height” (Emerson 2000: 255). This is not the principle of leveling up or down but rather a raising of spirits that is equally a challenge for all, each in his own singularity. The aristocracy that counts for Emerson both resists meritocratic solutions and refuses to settle down in mediocrity. As Cavell says of Thoreau, the writer speaks to those of “the middle class” in “moderate circumstances” (1990: 78), and, that is to say, he confronts them with their lives, the mediocracy in which they acquiesce. The pressing task for Emerson is to move the spirit from this middling equilibrium to realize an aristocracy within our ordinary lives, to achieve genius for the common man. The political is, to this extent, internal, and the words in which we find ourselves condition political participation: one’s existential need dovetails in due time with the need of the polis (which is always a polis yet to come), its need for people to speak in their own voice (see Figure 7.1). Here it should be noted that finding one’s voice cannot be achieved solely by one’s own power. It requires the other, and this is very clear when we turn again to Emerson’s idea of conversation—one of the key characteristics of transcendentalist education.

FIGURE 7.1  Emerson Lecturing in Concord. Ralph Waldo Emerson addresses a large audience in a Concord, Massachusetts, chapel during a meeting of the Summer School of Philosophy. The School, set up by Bronson Alcott with Emerson, Thoreau, and other members of the Transcendentalist movement, each summer for eleven years. (Photo by Universal History Archive/Getty Images)

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Conversation is a game of circles. In conversation we pluck up the termini which bound the common of silence on every side … When each new speaker strikes a new light, emancipates us from the oppression of the last speaker to oppress us with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought, then yields us to another redeemer, we seem to recover our rights, to become men. (Emerson 2000: 256–7) Distinguishing this from a “social project” or “a field of fairness for individual projects” (Cavell 2004: 73), Cavell characterizes Emerson’s expanding circles of conversation as always being on the way, never settling down in complacent convergence. The point, if any, of Emerson’s conversation is not “respecting” difference itself; rather, its disclosure matters to the extent that it sustains the space for what is beyond its limits—in Emerson’s words, “a residuum unknown, unanalyzable” (2000: 254) or in Cavell’s, “the opacity, or non-transparence, of the present state of our interactions, cooperative or antagonistic” (2004: 173). Hence, its virtues are “those of listening, the responsiveness to difference, the willingness for change” (p. 174). What is at stake here is the kind of vulnerability the “I” exposes in confronting the other. There is no preexisting measure, independent of conversation, that assures you of your moral standing. Our separateness is necessary if we are to keep searching for community without being merely assimilated into some kind of collective, to resist “emotional imperialism” (Cavell 1979: 437). Conversation without convergence is an Emersonian political path in becoming human. Conversation is an occasion through which each of us discovers our voice as our own voice, as a right to be recovered. Becoming political is an educational task, and yet it cannot simply be an education committed to the common good as a pregiven. That common things cannot simply be held in common is an a priori matter. Becoming human requires us to acknowledge the uncommon in our common life—to be receptive to what deviates from what we have so far perceived to be common. Becoming political is the process of the reeducation of one’s relation to common language and, hence, to one’s common human nature. This is at the heart of the education of political literacy in Emersonian conversation. The commonness cannot be equated with mundaneness with its averaged capacity for the use of common language: the common man needs to learn that he can become uncommon by being awakened from within his “moderate circumstances.” The educational task of Emerson’s conversation is to begin again, relearning how to speak and to listen from within the state of resignation: silence is a crucial momentum to remember one’s desire to speak. It seeks an alternative mode of speech beyond polemical debate in moral argument, beyond the language of polemos to which the language of sympathy has been added.

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In order that we love the world again, Emerson’s conversation of justice involves participation in the experience of conversion through conversation, where those joined in conversation transcend their own limits. When they learn how to possess themselves correctly, they realize that the “soul is impersonal” (Cavell 1979: 361); this is Emerson’s idea of the “Over-Soul,” a state of “a higher self-possession” (Emerson 2000: 241). As he says: “the deeper he dives into his privatest, secretest presentiment, to his wonder he finds this is the most acceptable, most public, and universally true” (2000: 53–4). Emerson’s perfectionist task is to achieve the common, the universal, as the “outmost,” without avoiding the undeniable sense of the “inmost,” the personal (p. 132). The educational “outmost” cannot be measured as an “outcome” determined with certainty and accuracy; rather, its measure resides in the moment of conversion “from darkness to light” (Cavell 1979: 102) and from mourning to morning (Cavell 1984: 54). How can a teacher create this moment of self-transcendence for students? Emerson’s answer is abandonment (Cavell 1992: 137). We cannot tell what our motive is until we learn to speak out, to leave “the oppression of the last speaker.” It is to be discovered a posteriori, when each of us learns to strike “a new light.” The conversation of justice stops when a teacher forgets, under the oppression of common language, to trust a student’s voice and their own prophetic force of language. The classroom will be a place to release and enhance mutual voice between teacher and students and among students. Thus, Emersonian moral perfectionism has shown that the morality of Emerson’s thought cannot be simply applied to such separate curriculum as perhaps moral education or character education. It permeates the way teachers and students act in the classroom, the way they immerse themselves in the texts they read. Moral education has nothing to do with imposing on students a set of moral lessons. Emerson’s perfectionism directs us to moral education of an ateleological kind—in other words, an education not geared toward the realization of some fixed notion of good character or even the instilling of supposedly uncontroversial principles of action. Furthermore, while Emerson’s idea of genius and authorship represents his nonconformist, antimoralist perfectionism—as is illustrated by his invocation of the “Devil’s child” (Emerson 2000: 135)—it should be distinguished from the autonomous self of contemporary liberal education or the self of strong individualism.

TRANSCENDENCE IN THE ORDINARY: THOREAU Thoreau is known as a nature writer. The work by which he is best known, Walden (1854), is a record of his living in the woods at Walden Pond for nearly two years. It is typically interpreted as a book in the tradition of “American pastoralism” (Marx 1992: 379) and is often understood as the revelation of

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a possible ecology or environmentalism that would resist the plundering and destructive consequences of booming industry and commerce—consequences, in other words, of capitalism (Standish and Saito 2005: 222). Buell points out three  distinctive features of Thoreau’s view of nature. First is his empirical approach to nature. Second, Thoreau sustains “a deeply personal love and reverence for the nonhuman” (Buell 1995: 137). Third is the political implication of Thoreau’s environmentalism. Thoreau dissented from “nineteenth-century norms” and propounded a “self-conscious politics of environmentalism: a defense of nature against the human invader” (1995: 135). In sum, Buell concludes, Thoreau took a “path from homocentrism toward biocentrism” (p. 138). Buell’s environmentalist reading of Walden may show something of its contemporary value in a postmodern, globalized world in which the apparent advances of science and technology have risked the destruction of nature and the alienation of human beings from nature, even the destruction of the planet. It definitely has implications for environmental education. The politics of environmentalism raises the question of how to (re)connect human beings with nature in such a way as to achieve a harmonious coexistence. The underlying assumption of the politics of environmentalism is of a dichotomous picture between, on the one hand, the natural and the biological and, on the other, the social, the cultural, and the conventional. As Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Emile, or On Education (1762) illustrates, the former is a purer, more aboriginal state of human nature, the latter, a state that has degenerated from its original purity.8 Hence, a shift from homocentrism to biocentrism is called for. To show a hidden but rich implication of Thoreau’s ideas for contemporary education, I would like here to challenge this Buellian politics of the environment and try to destabilize its assumptions of coexistence between man and nature. Cavell’s alternative interpretation, presented in The Senses of Walden (1992), sheds light not only on Thoreau’s Walden but also on what can be meant by environmentalism and, more broadly, the political. Emphasizing language, it guides us toward a different direction of education. But we need to tread carefully with our terms here. Cavell reads Walden as a book not on nonhuman transcendentalism but on transcendence in the ordinary as the crucial momentum for becoming political. Thoreau’s view regarding nature, like Emerson’s, is based upon an analogy between man and nature. Walden is filled with detailed observations and descriptions of nature and of living creatures as “neighbors” to man. He writes, if we take the ages into our account, may there not be a civilization going on among brutes as well as men? They seemed to me to be rudimental, burrowing men, still standing on their defence, awaiting their transformation. (Thoreau 1992: 182)

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This suggests a correspondence between man and nature, and yet at the same time it implies the overturning of any received hierarchical relationship between man and nature. Cavell’s reading, however, disturbs interpretations of Thoreau as a proponent of sheer continuity between man and nature. Cavell’s distinction between a habitat and a habitation implies that nature is for sure a place for human beings to live, and yet, to live does not automatically mean to find one’s home in nature. In fact, the descriptions of place in Walden are suggestive of transitivity and sojourning rather than of settling and owning. Still, at the same time, Thoreau says, “There is a solid bottom everywhere” (1992: 220), for the places you pass through can provide foundation enough in every act of finding. This is a paradoxical and dual relationship between man and nature: to live in intimacy and yet stand astride a rift. Thoreau’s act of living in the woods at Walden Pond is an experiment in displacing and rebuilding the relationship between man and nature: that is, it is a “continuous activity” of “placing ourselves in the world” (Cavell 1992: 53, emphases in the original). The writer of Walden stands “on tiptoe” (Thoreau 1992: 71), on the border between man and nature. And “Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads” (Thoreau 1992: 188; Cavell 1992: 112). Walden Pond is the point of contact at which heaven and earth meet; Thoreau as a human being locates himself between heaven and animal, representing the position of achieving transcendence from within nature, to become human again. “Transcendence” here does not mean some quasi-religious or mystical experience or a dramatic moment of conversion that takes place in exceptional (say, extraordinary) moments. It does not mean some purified movement upward but rather “transcendence downward” (Standish 2012: 25) to keep finding a solid bottom. It is the continuous activity of undergoing the moment of rebirth from within the ordinary, through language. This has rich implications for education—education for human transformation via language. Hence, as its potentially most significant implication for education, I would like to highlight the role that language plays in Thoreau’s thought. Walden is a book about “the creation of a world by a word” (Cavell 1992: 112). It is only through words (relearned) that we can release nature from the bondage created by human beings and recover for ourselves the things of this world (1992: 64). It cannot be the case that human beings are to immerse themselves in nature as the “nonhuman,” hence, as dehumanized. Such labor is rather as Cavell says, the “work of humanization” (p. 76). Cavell says that Thoreau’s transcendentalism underwrites ordinary language philosophy (and, by implication, that language plays a crucial role in transcendence) (Cavell 1984: 32).9 The unique features of language are elucidated not only by Thoreau’s direct reference to the role of language in Walden but also by the traces of language that Thoreau, writing on the border between heaven and earth, between the human and nature, has left

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us: that is, the book of Walden is the record of his experiment in living. Let us note three points about this. First, language not only serves as a bridge between man and nature but also constitutes a rift: it demands not only sharing and continuity but also separation. This is captured by Thoreau’s idea of the “father tongue”—“a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be born again in order to speak” (Thoreau 1992: 69; Cavell 1992: 15). In his theory of communication. John Dewey says that language is “the cherishing mother of all significance” (1981: 146). Thoreau, by contrast, while not negating the role of the “mother tongue,” writes that the human being needs connection with the father tongue to “be born again.” If the mother tongue is characterized by the immediacy typically represented by spoken language, the father tongue is represented by written language as “the maturity and experience” of the mother tongue (Thoreau 1992: 68; Cavell 1992: 15). We are, as humans, fated to this dual relation to language. The experience of rebirth is inevitably associated with death, with the image of ourselves being divided by “a line of words so matured and experienced,” divided as if by a sword (Thoreau 1992: 66; Cavell 1992: 17). The image of death and the undergoing of rebirth symbolizes the moment of crisis brought by this heightened, more exacting relation to language. Second, language in Thoreau’s transcendentalism serves not to solidify the object or meaning but to confront and acknowledge the gap that lies between the occurrence of words and of objects: word and object (via the human being) do not stand in a relationship of correspondence. The sense of the rift entailed by language betrays our expectation of correspondence. Thoreau expresses this with the phrasing, “the volatile truth of our words should continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement” (Thoreau 1992: 217; Cavell 1992: 27). Truth refuses to be finally fixed; it is “instantly translated” (Thoreau 1992: 217; Cavell 1992: 27). This might be said to be Thoreau’s anti-representationalist view of language. He sees language as characterized by transitivity and volatility. In this broader sense, translation, which is heavily related to rebirth and the father tongue, does not come after the acquisition of the first language: it already starts in one’s initiation into the language community, in the relationship with the mother tongue. So, father and mother are united in the process of our becoming human. Third, with the mediation of language man is engaged in the task of temporal dislocation and relocation. The following passage symbolizes this: In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and the future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line. (Thoreau 1992: 11; Cavell 1992: 9)

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The act of “notching” the nick of time, standing in this moment, requires a certain exactness as well as the acceptance of precariousness and uncertainty as captured by the image of standing on a tightrope. “We should live quite laxly and undefined in front, our outlines dim and misty on that side” (Thoreau 1992: 216). Language is prophetic here. The temporal nextness, going beyond what is, invites the self to go beyond itself. As Thoreau declares, “I desire to speak somewhere without bounds; like a man in a waking moment, to men in their waking moments” (p. 216). Awakening and rebirth, or say, transcendence, are not simply natural bestowals or accidental events; rather, they are the work of humanization through language. Man is a natural being all the way through while at the same time is fated to live as a transnatural being. And yet, the “natural” here does not mean the biological as opposed to the cultural. Human nature is already involved in linguistic activity, and hence there is no such thing as the purity of a child’s natural impulse existing before language. Human nature is already and always cultural and social. For Thoreau, the process of socialization is accompanied by phenomenological and temporal displacement and relocation, with the moment of crisis and rebirth as the critical juncture and disjuncture between the human being and nature and within human beings themselves. Thoreau’s father tongue serves to undergo such a disjunctive moment, which is crucially related to the moment of change and rebirth. This implies that language does not serve to solve or absorb a tension between natural instinct and culture but to sustain the rift. Cavell’s rereading of Thoreau is not merely a linguistic analysis. Participation in the language community has political implications. First, human beings as linguistic beings are already involved in a social contract. As Cavell argues, “What I consent to, in consenting to the contract, is not mere obedience, but membership in polis … [C]itizenship … is the same as my autonomy; the polis is the field within which I work out my personal identity and it is the creation of (political) freedom” (1979: 23). Second, the political is reconsidered in such a way as to form an extension of one’s self-examination and discovery of others. A Cavellian approach bridges the psychological (or psychoanalytic) and the political. “Political” here means the process of discovering one’s neighbor while discovering the contribution of one’s own voice to the community. And, as will be pointed out in the section “Crossing Borders: Teaching of an Uncommon Schooling.” This has significant implications for political education in an alternative sense. Third, in Thoreau’s experiment in living at Walden and in the writing of Walden, this political relationship already manifests itself within nature. Through ongoing moments of conversion through language—as it were, from the inner to the outer—we learn to be good neighbors, “to get our living together” (Thoreau 1992: 49; Cavell 1992: 79). Cavell claims that Walden is “a tract of political education,” with the provocative thesis that “education for citizenship is education for isolation”

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(1992: 85–6). Self-examination is at the heart of Thoreau’s political education. Its implications are diverse. Thoreauvian political education in particular has implications for citizenship education: it resists the contemporary orientation toward communal politics, which is often based upon the natural home as a place to return to—a kind of politics that takes a communitarian approach or even promotes citizenship in nationalistic ways. It reminds us that we are always on the border of acceding to the closure of politics, in the shadow of inclusion. This is legitimized by the idea that the natural is cultural: this disturbs both the romantic belief in the purity of nature and naïve realism with its concomitant illusion of being in direct commerce with nature as the object that is observed and known. By resisting the taming of voice and aesthetic judgment by the sloganizing of environmental politics, Thoreau’s political education protects the space of the dissident “I” as a member of the polis.10 Thoreau’s philosophy of language, with its idea of the father tongue characterized by doubleness, nextness, and transitivity, provides us with the mechanism in which the singularity of an individual is never dissipated in publicity and sharing and yet, at the same time, without falling into the “interiorisation of the spiritual” (Standish 2009). One’s reengagement with language—which is the process of dividing and uniting the father and the mother tongue— is a way of sustaining the space of the inner and the sense of rift—the only means through which transcendence (the moment of converting crisis into hope) takes place: it is through this that the public is energized from within. The cultivation of such an individual is a crucial condition for political education in the Thoreauvian sense. The idea of participation in the language community implies that each self is responsible for their own voice, to be contributed to “their” society (which is a democratic aspect of American transcendentalism). Again, this has significant implications for political education, which is inseparable from language education. The perspective of dissent is never a proposal for anarchism; nor is returning language to the ordinary simply an endorsement of a common society with its average, everyday, mundane use of language. Rather, in resistance to the prevailing form of political action, it means rethinking our familiar relation to our words, returning ourselves to the ordinary, in a way that turns or reshapes the ordinary itself. This is anything but a call for quietism, but is a call for action that is presupposed by our relation to language and, hence, by our selfexamination. When we think about how the experience of transcendence can find its place for contemporary education in the tide of globalization, we realize that it must be geared toward neither biocentrism nor spiritualism in any dichotomous schema of nature and civilization. Instead, transcendence in the ordinary seeks to return humans to human nature with the mediation of language (that is, through thinking). Linguistic activity itself is the work of humanization. Hence,

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political education is, in a broad sense, language education. For Thoreau, the political is inseparable from the spiritual, and the political is inseparable from language and from finding one’s voice. Thoreau envisions a political education for human transformation—toward a political life that transcends the dichotomy of liberalism and communitarianism. A rereading of Thoreau from the perspective of language shows that the political requires, if nothing else, our spiritual transformation—a transformation in the ordinary. Such spirituality is crucial in the age of globalization, when everything is exchanged into measured values and everything is supposedly made transparent. This is a call for education to regain humanity, for us to become human again, to become more humane.

THE EDUCATION OF THE FEMININE VOICE: FULLER A reader, however, may wonder where a woman’s voice can be heard in American transcendentalism—if it puts emphasis, especially given the transcendentalist emphasis on finding one’s voice, on the voice of the “I,” as we saw in Emerson and Thoreau. Fuller’s voice responds to this call. She is not usually included in discussions of transcendentalism and education. Adding a feminine perspective to the themes explored in the above discussion of Emerson and Thoreau, she enriches American transcendentalism as a whole (see Figure 7.2). Fuller is an exceptional figure in American transcendentalism; she is one of the few female thinkers who, even though only for a short period of time, made the feminine voice prominent in the movement. She was involved in the transcendental movement in New England from the early 1840s until she left for New York in 1844. According to Fuller’s biographer, John Matteson, [Fuller’s] most durable contributions to her nation’s literature have more to do with literary criticism and social reform than with pursuing the spiritual ideals that captivated Emerson and Alcott … [A]fter Fuller departed New England in 1844, she promptly dropped her affinity for the Over-Soul and was thenceforth transcendental no more. (Matteson 2012: 162) Fuller was more socially and politically oriented than Emerson or Thoreau, as her involvement in the New York Tribune as an editor and her later involvement in the revolution in Italy indicate.11 In her eyes, “Emerson’s exaltation of the self took no cognizance of the prejudices and social conventions that can handicap the bravest spirt” (2012: 205). Yet she was originally deeply influenced by and, in turn, influenced transcendentalism. Even though her way of thinking was oriented more to the social and the political, she believed that “the spiritual is the social and, as many more in later times would realize, the personal is the political” (p. 268); and, as Matteson continues, “positive social change could come from groups

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FIGURE 7.2  A portrait of author Margaret Fuller, 1843. She was a journalist and an early women’s rights advocate. Source: Underwood Archives/Getty Images.

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and institutions … On this point, she was staunchly Emersonian” (pp. 208–9). Indeed, Fuller sustained the Emersonian theme of the education of the selfreliant person, from the inmost to the outmost, from the private to the public, according to which, if there is anything social or political, it is grounded in the power of the self-reliant individual. Fuller is “a ‘provoking nonconformist,’ one who is conscious of secret riches within herself and struggles to find the proper field for their development” (p. 241). In contrast to Emerson and Thoreau, Fuller in her short life (1810–50) did not confine her activities to New England, the birthplace of American transcendentalism: she crossed borders, beyond New England and then beyond America. The “outmost” toward which she aimed was geographically broader than Emerson’s or Thoreau’s. More than anyone else among the transcendentalists, she can be called a cosmopolitan thinker. In her early career, Fuller was particularly influenced by and, in turn, influenced Emerson. She had a close friendship with Emerson, and her thought was inspired by her conversations with him. Their relationship was reciprocal (Buell 2003: 89). According to Buell, “Emerson was more responsive to intellectual women than were most nineteenth-century men” (2003: 88). Emerson said that “[Fuller] was my ideal listener and critic” (quoted in Buell 2003: 88) and that she was an “inspirer of courage, the secret friend of all nobleness, the patient waiter for the realization of character” (p.  88). Their friendship and conversations embodied the Emersonian perfectionist idea of friendship— “friendship as inspiring each party to become his or her best self” (p. 90).12 Indeed, one of the most striking features of Fuller’s achievements in New England was her recourse to “conversations” as the medium of education— especially the education of women. Between 1839 and 1844, she organized a series of occasions for conversations among women in the Boston area (Buell 2003: 33; 2006: 297; Goodman 2015: 165; Matteson 2012: 162). According to Buell, “[her] gift, combined with the power to make even shy people open up, made her an exceptionally magnetic presence as a discussion leader” (2006: 297), and she demonstrated a “gift and zest for intellectual networking, surpassing Emerson’s own” (2003: 33). Goodman says, “She required that her students not simply listen to her, but that each woman be ‘willing to communicate what was in her mind.’ In doing so she was in accord with Emerson’s idea that everyone has something original to say and do, and with his conception of the scholar as an ‘active soul’” (2015: 166). Furthermore, as Matteson remarks, “Her conversations, certainly, had always brought her back into a feminine sphere of thought and feeling” (2012: 259). The radicalism of Fuller’s thought is manifested in her first feminist writing, “The Great Lawsuit” (1843), her initial manifestation of the dissenting voice of a woman. Following this, her most well-known book, Woman in the Nineteenth Century, was published in February 1845. According to Matteson, “If ‘The

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Great Lawsuit’ had been the most audacious statement on behalf of women’s rights ever written in America, Woman in the Nineteenth Century would be the most comprehensive” (2012: 262). Here I would like to briefly capture the essence of “The Great Lawsuit” as it lays the ground for Woman in the Nineteenth Century. “The Great Lawsuit” is the text in which Fuller’s social orientation is demonstrated, and in it the Emersonian perfectionist spirit resounds in the voice of a woman.13 To create the Emersonian path from the inmost to the outmost, Fuller pays attention to the necessity of redressing the conditions of the outer, conditions that prevent woman’s inner light from shining, and she does this with a view to attaining “inward and outward freedom for woman” (Fuller 1843/2006: 307). Fuller embodied and practiced the finding of voice so central to Emersonian perfectionism, and what she sought to establish in the process was the woman’s voice for the sake of the self-realization of women. Goodman also says that “Fuller’s unfolding of women’s ‘powers’ and ‘finding out what is fit for themselves’ are versions of the widespread Transcendentalist concern with self-development and self-expression, what Emerson calls in ‘History,’ discovering one’s ‘unattained but attainable self’” (2015: 167). In “The Great Lawsuit,” Fuller declares “her goal of redressing the errors of feminine education” (Matteson 2012: 161)—education that is complicit in the domestication of women and their exclusion from the public arena. Thoreau praised the writing, and Emerson called it “an important fact in the history of Woman: good for its wit, excellent for its character … It will teach us to revise our habits” (quoted in Matteson 2012: 212). As much as it is considered to be a precursor of feminism in America, “The Great Lawsuit” is not simply a polemical statement bent on redress for the injustice done to women: it is dedicated more than anything to a spiritual enlightening of women in a broader conception of the human. She writes, What woman needs is not as a woman to act or rule, but as a nature to grow, as an intellect to discern, as a soul to live freely, and unimpeded to unfold such powers as were given her when we left our common home. (Fuller 1843/2006: 307) Matteson comments that “Fuller intended her argument to be more comprehensive, and she meant her work to foster a greater good for Man and Woman alike, whom she regarded as ‘the two halves of one thought’” (2012: 208) and that “Fuller insisted that the only way to keep the subjection of women from becoming permanent was to elevate them from their voiceless position and to permit them to vote, to advocate, and to legislate for themselves” (p.  209). What she calls for in this writing is the regaining of the autonomy of women, their “self-respect” and “self-dependence” (p.  309), remembering and resuscitating their voices as the voice of the human. According to Buell,

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“Fuller’s feminism is more ‘cultural’ than ‘political’ in aiming to revolutionize attitudes rather than to revolutionize society at the ballot box” (2006: 301). The political is fused with the spiritual in her writing. One of the characteristic features of her writing is the way she justifies the equality of man and woman. She takes an Emersonian stance to the effect that “there is but one law for all souls” (Fuller 1843/2006: 307). She considers that the division between man and woman is to be transcended, and writes as follows: Male and female represent the two sides of the great radical dualism. But, in fact, they are perpetually passing into one another. Fluid hardens to solid, solid rushes to fluid. There is no wholly masculine man, no purely feminine woman. (p. 319) Her position is to cross gender divides, to appreciate “genderless souls” instead of sexual bodies (Matteson 2012: 266). The division between man and woman, in her view, is an arbitrary barrier. According to Matteson, “[Fuller’s] appeal was only incidentally on behalf of women. She stood for ‘the law of right, the law of growth, that speaks in us, and demands the perfection of each being in its kind, apple as apple, woman as women’” (p. 267).14 Thus we can see how Fuller helps Emerson’s perfectionism to extend into the liberation of female voice. There can be no doubt that the greatest contribution Fuller makes to American transcendentalism is in her emphasis on the cultivation of the feminine voice. “The especial genius of woman,” she writes, “I believe to be electrical in movement, intuitive in function, spiritual in tendency” (Fuller 1843/2006: 319). The receptive nature of the feminine voice is also indicated by Emerson. He writes that “women, as most susceptible, are the best index of the coming hour” and that the feminine voice is delicate, even feeble, and yet, in a certain sense, resilient (Emerson 1957: 350). Here is Fuller again: In so far as soul is in her completely developed, all soul is the same; but as far as it is modified in her as woman, it flows, it breathes, it sings, rather than deposits soil, or finishes work, and that which is especially feminine flushes in blossom the face of earth, and pervades like air and water all this seeming solid globe, daily renewing and purifying its life. Such may be the especially feminine element, spoken of as Femality. (Fuller 1843/2006: 319) We can reread the text of Fuller today as an expression of Emerson’s feminine voice—realizing this not only in the voice of a woman but also in its feminine mode of thinking. Thoreau’s idea of the father tongue also is characterized by receptivity, silence, and patience as modes of a reader’s relation to a text. Cavell cites the words of Walden:

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You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns. (Thoreau quoted in Cavell 1992: 48) The receptive element here indicates a feminine aspect to the father tongue, an unexpected combination or fusion suggestive of the father’s femininity. The reader is tested by the text, put on trial. The reader learns to attend to the voice of the text, to the life of words. Receptivity here is distinguished from passive reading. The reader, in a sense, is read by the text. A Cavellian reading is composed of a strange mixture of the active and the receptive in what might be called a “feminization” of the father tongue. Fuller’s feminine voice puts emphasis on receptivity, and, in that sense, it shares a certain common ground with the feminist ethic of care. It has, however, a sharper focus on the cultivation of the individual voice. Hence, the kind of education that follows Fuller’s idea emphasizes conversation in which each person finds their own voice. Personal conversations will have political implications. Fuller would say that the exercise of one’s language, testing it with others in conversation, is a way of learning to be a member in the polis. Bridging the private and the public, Fuller directs us to a kind of political education where each voice matters. Is it too much to say that Fuller is more radical and more dissenting than Emerson or Thoreau as she shifts Emerson’s idea of “Man Thinking” to that of “Woman Thinking”?

CROSSING BORDERS: TEACHINGS OF AN UNCOMMON SCHOOLING This chapter began with the claim that American transcendentalism does not neatly fit in any conventional discourse of education. This is so especially in that the idea of education that is prevalent among these writers is of education outside schools, in what Thoreau artfully calls “uncommon schools.” Theirs is a vision of a liberal education of a kind that Thoreau wished to recreate not in Paris or Oxford but amidst the ordinary, in the common, “under the skies of Concord” (Thoreau 1992: 74). Cavell calls Thoreau and Emerson “philosophers of direction, orienters, tirelessly prompting us to be on our way, endlessly asking us where we stand, what it is we face” (1992: 141–2). Their stance is anti-foundationalist: as Thoreau says, “there is a solid bottom everywhere,” but this, rather than being something fixed once and for all, is constantly being searched for and found again, its criteria continually being revised. They demonstrate a way of living without fixed foundations, on precarious borders. Education in uncommon schools is not intended as something for adults who have already acquired sophisticated literacy, nor is what is envisioned in any formal institution; rather, what Thoreau has in mind is something that might

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permeate human lives within and without formal sites of learning. It implies an eternal process of dialogue between adults who still need to grow by being open to the kinds of questions that children are still ready to ask or perhaps by being ready for a continuing adolescence. As we saw in each thinker, the transcendentalist perfectionism has some rich implications for education today. Let me sum up some crucial points. First, education on a transcendentalist conception is ateleological by nature. The transcendentalists insist on no fixed idea or ideal as to what an educated person must be like, and yet all of them seek to live better lives. Second, Emersonian perfectionism is anti-moralistic. Indeed, one thing that American transcendentalism would not espouse is any project of moral education as an independent, separate subject. Rather, they would call for an amoral moral education, as is illustrated by Emerson’s “Devil’s child” (Emerson 2000: 135) and by Thoreau’s criticism of philanthropy (Thoreau 1992: 52). If there is anything like moral education in their thoughts, this would be realized in ways that permeate the curriculum, in teachers’ and students’ daily lives, in their interactions and conversations. Third is the significance of conversations among friends, as we saw in Emerson and Fuller. For the self to learn to speak the language of what Thoreau calls “extra vagance” (1992: 216), for a person to “regain his tongue” in conversation (Emerson 2000: 210), he needs a friend who, standing on tiptoe, attests to the moment when the secret is translated into the public, where negativity turns to affirmation. The friend can teach us only indirectly, not by “caring” or “love” but through “a shock of recognition” (Cavell 1992: 32). Friends give me, Emerson says, “that which properly they cannot give, but which emanates from them” (2000: 213). Personal conversations have political implications. Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller respectively show that the exercise of one’s language, testing it together in conversation is a way of learning “membership in the polis,” and this involves identifying citizens as “neighbors.” Yet, neighboring cannot be simply communal or cooperative; it cannot be a ball game, a game of “cricket-ball”; rather it must raise in us the question of how to relate to others from within the state of what Emerson calls “secret melancholy” (2000: 400–1)—a hidden state of depression behind the façade with “all its smiles and all its gayety and games,” a kind of “inner death” that Emerson deplores—not through faith in solidarity but rather in sober acknowledgment of separation as the human condition. Beyond the discourse of distribution and positioning, another dimension remains for which equality and democracy call us to account. American transcendentalism presages what John Dewey (1939/1988) later called democracy as a personal way of living. In creating democracy from within, through conversations, a particular mode of speech and relation to language is cultivated. It requires a mode of political engagement that is different from the dialectic of conflict and

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resolution, conducted in the language of polemos. It requires a conversation in which the mediation of language is allowed to do its own work, with space for the unknown and the nontransparent acknowledged. The father tongue is not the tongue of the authoritarian father. It makes us remember a possibility of speech that is covered over by complacent, rational consensus—the irritable, irritating, disturbing voice of the great and the eccentric. What is alleged to be “eccentric” awaits its expression. Such conversation destabilizes discourses of equality and fairness fossilized in the nostrums of face-to-face dialogue, in rational moral argument. It requires particular modes of engagement and the kind of vulnerability the “I” exposes in confronting the other: the element of risk, of destabilizing the moral ground on which the “I” is standing; you risk “your understanding of the other as of yourself” (Cavell 2004: 235). There is no preexisting measure, preceding or independent of conversation, that assures you of the authority of your “moral standing” in the world (p. 235). The goal of conversation, then, is not to find the point of conversion, to reach an agreement, but the progressive unfolding of further difference. Its foremost task is to regain our pathos in words and life, where we strike a new light (Emerson 2000: 256–7), and to redeem a right in each of us to achieve “greatness.” Genius is a manifestation of enthusiasm—a word that derives from the Greek en- (in) and theos (god). Secret melancholy is the origin of pathos and the original manifestation of political vitality. Through passion and patience, as conditions of thinking, genius seeks to find a way of re-relating oneself to public life. Fourth, the transcendentalists featured here together show a cosmopolitan proclivity to be an admirable, significant trait of education. But this is not the cosmopolitanism of fusing different cultural and national identities: theirs is the idea that cosmopolitanism is to be achieved in the eternal process of crossing boundaries, retaining the sense of cultural and national identities at home while at the same time seeking to achieve the common.15 Finally, and most importantly, American transcendentalism reorients the way we think about political education. For Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller, all three, the political is inseparable from the spiritual, and the political is inseparable from language and from finding one’s voice. As we have seen, these three transcendentalists together envision a political education for human transformation, toward a political life that transcends the dichotomy of liberalism and communitarianism. Here, again, the significant factor is the idea of dissent. For Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller, the elements of discord, disturbance, and eccentricity are crucial factors in anything that might be regarded as education for citizenship.16 In particular, Fuller’s call for the feminine voice is significant in this sense. Perfectionism, which is moral all the way through, permeates our lives, revealing the extent to which our lives are political and, hence, moral; and

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the politics of the kind of education these three writers envisage is something altogether more ambitious than any subject called “citizenship education.” If political literacy is reimagined in the light of Emersonian perfectionism, citizenship education always already starts in every subject in our deeds and words. The category “citizen,” then, it becomes clear, cannot a priori denote membership of a preexisting local community or nation. Nor will it suffice to cultivate citizens in education by turning them into mini-politicians, with mock elections or school councils. And it certainly will not do if their curriculum is otherwise subordinated to the superficial and instrumental demands of accountability and transparency glossed at the start of this chapter. Unlike Bernard Crick’s (2000) idea of political literacy political literacy in perfectionist education involves the performative exercise of language—literacy in service to the feminism of the father tongue. It challenges teachers and students to rethink their relation to language—or, perhaps better, to reexperience it. In service of the cultivation of genius, in the regaining of authority in language, perfectionist political thinking is distinguished from polemical thinking in politics. It dares to propose that we realize an aristocracy of the self, where a role in political justice is a gift for everyone and where we must not succumb to being functionaries in the accounts kept by meritocrats and egalitarians alike.17 Perfectionist education inspires withdrawn young people to be initiated into the language community, through which they will be confronted by the inheritance from the past and, from within this, given readiness for departure. This is an alternative vision of freedom and liberty, a practice of democracy as a way of life, from the inmost to the outmost. In resistance to the “inner death” from which many of us suffer today, it seeks to create a space for the eccentric as for the unique, for the weak as for the great. This is not simply a matter of giving equal opportunities to different identities—to women, children, immigrants, minorities—but of exposing the human psyche to what it wishes to avoid, the unhandsome part of our condition.18 It opens up an alternative mode of thinking and orientates us toward difference. In that regard, education for citizenship is education for “isolation” (Cavell 1992: 85), for learning how to build the most sincere relationship with others. The singularity and eccentricity of the self, the otherness of the self, needs to be deftly acknowledged before and throughout the process of socialization. This is best illustrated by Fuller’s own feminine voice and her advocacy of such voice. The notion of political participation is then to be realigned with what Cavell identifies as “a confrontation which takes the form of a withdrawal” (1984: 50). It is a call to those who are withdrawn to relearn the way of withdrawal to participate again. This is different from participation in deliberative democracy. Against the familiar discourse of education for inclusion, perfectionist education would dare to call for citizenship without inclusion as the most sincere way of “get[ting] our living together” (Thoreau 1992: 49, emphases in

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original; Cavell 1992: 79). Resisting the assimilating force of inclusion, and yet in continuous search for being neighbors to one another, this is the vision of a kind of society that is receptive and responsive to the strange because at home, within the familiar, we are all eccentric.19 This is the position, despite some differences in emphasis, that Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller share for the creation of a healthy democratic society—spiritual democracy in the age of globalization—and for education in service to such democracy.

NOTES 1 2 3

4 5

6 7 8 9

According to Buell’s historical analysis, Emerson took a “pragmatic turn” starting in the mid-1840s (2006: xxvi). The crisis over slavery pushed Emerson and Thoreau, who had before refrained from social activism, into the public arena (p. xvii). There was also a Quaker influence in the formation of American transcendentalism, especially with respect to its idea of inner light. Emerson’s transcendentalism, for example, embraces the influence of Eastern thought. Arthur Versluis points out that Emerson’s self-transcendence is based upon the concept of “the primordial One” in the traditions of Hinduism and Platonism. Versluis interprets Emerson’s thought as an “assimilation” of “German mystical, a Vedantic, or even a Platonic origin.” Emerson creates unique “literary religion” that is “neither Eastern or Western.” Indeed, the significant role that “light” plays in Indian philosophy needs to be noted. Versluis discusses the relationship of light and soul that Emerson describes in connection with the ideas of the karma-yoga (or the “path of works”) and jnana-yoga (or “direct illumination”) in the Bhagavad Gita (1993: 55, 66). Alcott published a book on the school that included transcripts of his dialogues with children: Record of a School: Exemplifying the General Principles of Spiritual Culture (1845). “Public speaking was the one form of creative expression actively nurtured at Harvard, relished by students, admired by younger and older generations alike as a proud tradition of earlier American religious and political life. The nineteenth century—thanks in good part to star lyceum lecturers like Emerson—was to be the golden age of oratory in U.S. history” (Buell 2003: 116). Part of the argument of this section is based upon Saito (2010a, 2011, 2012, and 2013). Cavell says that finding one’s voice is inseparable from an existential “claiming [of one’s] right to exist, [one’s] standing in a moral world” (2004: 50, 260). See Hofman, Chapter 2, this volume. Like Wittgenstein, J.L. Austin returns words from their metaphysical to their everyday use. Cavell is struck especially by the way that the characteristic procedure of the ordinary language philosopher, its characteristic mode of appeal, takes the form of, “When we say …, we mean.” This is an appeal to ordinary use not as some kind of empirical generalization of a particular people; a survey of usage would be beside the point. Two things should be noted especially: the statement is first person and it is plural. That it is first person shows the significance of voice; the authentication of the statement has to do with the speaker’s sincere assent, with how things seem to them, and with their desire or responsibility to express this. That it is plural testifies to their desire or responsibility to speak for others, to find

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community of some kind with them. This is by no means to impose on their views, nor is it simply to align themselves with others in terms, say, of shared characteristics (a community of the same); it is rather to offer their assertion as exemplary in some way, testing this against the responses of others and testing their own responses against what those others themselves say. This is to see their autonomy as inevitably tied to the political (the creation of the polis), as, so it might be said, two sides of the same coin, and to see it as inextricably tied to the conditions of response within which they find themselves. See Gilead, Introduction, this volume, which includes a section on romantic thought. “Long time ago, Fuller had left behind the self-reliant individualism of Emerson and Thoreau. Now her political transformation was complete: for the rest of her life, Margaret Fuller would identify herself as a socialist” (Matteson 2012: 364). For a more detailed discussion on Emerson and friendship, see Saito (2010b). “Whereas Emerson and Alcott showed no inclination to connect the spiritual poverty of modern human beings with their sexual politics, Fuller seized on the association” (Matteson 2012: 208). “[Fuller’s book] called on its audience to recognize that masculine and feminine are fluid classifications and that talent must be respected and developed without regard to the type of body in which it resides” (Matteson 2012: 268). For a discussion of cosmopolitanism and education, see Hansen (2011). For example, Fuller says, “Concord … [lacks] the animating influences of Discord” (quoted in Matteson 2012: 257). For the Nietzschean aspect of Emersonian perfectionism, see Blake et al. (2012). Emerson writes, “I take this evanescence and lubricity of all objects, which let them slip through our figures then when we clutch hardest, to be the most unhandsome part of our condition” (2000: 309). For an expanded discussion of these matters, see Saito (2005, 2019).

REFERENCES Primary sources Dewey, John (1981), Experience and Nature, in Jo Ann Boydston (ed.), The Later Works of John Dewey, Vol. 1, Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Dewey, John (1939/1988), “Creative Democracy: The Task Before Us,” in Jo Ann Boydston (ed.), The Later Works of John Dewey, Vol. 14, 224–30, Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1957), Selections from Ralph Waldo Emerson, ed. Stephen E. Whicher, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. Emerson, Ralph Waldo (2000), The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson, ed. Brooks Atkinson, New York: The Modern Library. Fuller, Margaret (1843/2006), “The Great Lawsuit,” in Lawrence Buell (ed.), The American Transcendentalists: Essential Writings, 302–20, New York: The Modern Library. Thoreau, Henry D. (1992), Walden and Resistance to Civil Government, ed. William Rossi, New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

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Secondary sources Blake, Nigel, Paul Smeyers, Richard Smith, and Paul Standish (2012), Education in an Age of Nihilism: Education and Moral Standards, London: Routledge. Buell, Lawrence (1995), The Environmental Imagination: Thoreau, Nature Writing and the Formation of American Culture, Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Buell, Lawrence (2003), Emerson, Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Buell, Lawrence, ed. (2006), The American Transcendentalists: Essential Writings, New York: The Modern Library. Cavell, Stanley (1979), The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cavell, Stanley(1984), Themes Out of School: Effects and Causes, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cavell, Stanley (1990), Conditions Handsome and Unhandsome: The Constitution of Emersonian Perfectionism, La Salle, IL: Open Court. Cavell, Stanley (1992), The Senses of Walden, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cavell, Stanley (2004), Cities of Words: Pedagogical Letters of a Register of the Moral Life, Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Crick, Bernard (2000), Essays on Citizenship, London: Continuum. Goodman, Russell B. (2015), American Philosophy before Pragmatism, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hansen, David T. (2011), The Teacher and the World: A Study of Cosmopolitanism as Education, New York: Routledge. Marx, Leo (1992), “Walden as Transcendental Pastoral Design” in William Rossi (ed.), Walden and Resistance to Civil Government, 377–90, New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Matteson, John (2012), The Lives of Margaret Fuller, New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Saito, Naoko (2005), The Gleam of Light: Moral Perfectionism and Education in Dewey and Emerson, New York: Fordham University Press. Saito, Naoko (2010a), “Finding Perfect Pitch: Reading Perfectionist Narrative with Stanley Cavell,” Philosophy of Education, 2009: 279–87. Saito, Naoko (2010b), “Leaving and Bequeathing: Friendship, Emersonian Moral Perfectionism and the Gleam of Light,” in John T. Lysaker and William Rossi (eds.), Emerson and Thoreau: Figures of Friendship, 172–85, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Saito, Naoko (2011), “From Meritocracy to Aristocracy: Towards a Just Society for the ‘Great Man’,” Journal of Philosophy of Education, 45 (1): 95–109. Saito, Naoko (2012), “Conversation without Convergence: Becoming Political in Uncommon Schools,” Philosophy of Education: 281–9. Saito, Naoko (2013), “Exceeding Thought: Standing on Tiptoe between the Private and the Public,” Philosophy of Education: 108–116. Saito, Naoko (2019), American Philosophy in Translation, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Smeyers, Paul, Richard Smith, and Paul Standish (2007), The Therapy of Education: Philosophy, Happiness and Personal Growth, London: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Standish, Paul (2004), “In Her Own Voice: Convention, Conversion, Criteria,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 36 (1): 91–106. Standish, Paul (2009), “Education’s Outside,” paper presented at the conference “Philosophy of Education and the Transformation of Educational Systems/ La Philosophie de l’Éducation et la Transformation des Systèmes Éducatifs/ Die Bildungs- und Erziehungsphilosophie und der Wandel der Bildungssysteme,” University of Basel, Switzerland, October 29–31. Standish, Paul (2012), “Pure Experience and Transcendence Down,” in Paul Standish and Naoko Saito (eds.), Education and the Kyoto School of Philosophy: Pedagogy for Human Transformation, 19–26, Dordrecht: Springer Standish, Paul (2018), “‘Language Must Be Raked’: Experience, Race, and the Pressure of Air,” Educational Philosophy and Theory, 50 (4): 428–40. Standish, Paul and Naoko Saito (2005), “Stanley Cavell’s Walden: An Introduction for the Japanese Reader,” in Stanley Cavell, The Senses of Walden [Japanese edition], 213–40, Tokyo: Hosei University Press. Versluis, Arthur (1993), American Transcendentalism and Asian Religions, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CONTRIBUTORS

Katy Dineen has a PhD in Political Theory from the London School of Economics. She currently works at University College Cork (Ireland) as an assistant lecturer in the philosophy department. Dineen has particular interests in value theory, gender, philosophy of education, and the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. Tal Gilead is a senior lecturer at the Seymour Fox School of Education at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His research areas are philosophy of education, educational policy, and the history of educational ideas. His recent works examine the relationship between economic and educational theory. His historical studies focus on the idea of progress in eighteenth-century French and British educational thought. Amos Hofman is a historian, currently holding the position of Vice President of Academic Affairs (Provost) at Beit Berl College, Israel. He has published several articles and books on the history of the Enlightenment, as well as scholarly articles and position papers on teacher education policy in Israel. He has also edited Hebrew translations of major works of the Enlightenment, such as Emile, or on Education and The Social Contract by Rousseau, Rameau’s Nephew and D’Alembert’s Dream by Diderot, and The First Treatise on Government by Locke. Rebekka Horlacher is a senior researcher at the Institute of Education at the University of Zurich and a lecturer at the Zurich University of Teacher Education. Her research interests include the history of education, school history, and methodological questions. She is coeditor of the six-volume edition of the Complete Letters to Pestalozzi (2009–15) and she has published a

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comparative cultural history on the German concept of Bildung: The Educated Subject and the German Concept of Bildung (2016). Lisa McNulty has a PhD in philosophy and teaches in the Education Department at Roehampton University, UK, as well as teaching philosophy for children via the Philosophy Foundation. She is a governor at Green Dragon Primary School in Brentford, where she serves as vice-chair for the Education Committee. Her research interests lie at the intersection between social epistemology and philosophy of education, and her most recent research is on the epistemic rights of children. Jürgen Oelkers held a chair on Philosophy and History of Education at the University of Zurich in Switzerland, retiring in 2012. His research focuses on the history of philosophy of education, reform movements, and the relationships between democracy and public education. He is coeditor of “Zeitschrift für Pädagogik” and is currently working on a book on enlightenment and education. Grace G. Roosevelt completed an Ed.D. at Teachers College, Columbia University, where she studied with Lawrence Cremin, Maxine Greene, and Robert McClintock. Her teaching career has included work in the Liberal Studies Program at New York University and at Metropolitan College of New York (MCNY). Roosevelt is now retired from teaching but her research interests continue to focus on the eighteenth-century Enlightenment and on the political and educational thought of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. She is author of Reading Rousseau in the Nuclear Age (1990), Creating a College That Works: Audrey Cohen and Metropolitan College of New York (2015), as well as several articles on Rousseau and contemporary educational issues. Naoko Saito is a professor at the Graduate School of Education, Kyoto University, Japan. Her area of research is American philosophy and pragmatism and their implications for education. She is the author of The Gleam of Light: Moral Perfectionism and Education in Dewey and Emerson (2005), and coeditor (with Paul Standish) of Education and the Kyoto School of Philosophy (2012), Stanley Cavell and the Education of Grownups (2012), and Stanley Cavell and Philosophy As Translation: The Truth Is Translated (2017). Her most recent publication is American Philosophy in Translation (2019).

INDEX

Addams, Jane xiv adolescence 74 Adorno, Theodor 4, 92 aesthetics xix, 132, 138, 139, 142, 143 Albertone, Manuela 117, 118 Alcott, Amos Bronson 210, 212 American Colonies 10 American Transcendentalists 9, 30, 36–7, 209–10 Brook Farm 212 conversation 212, 216–18, 230, 231 cosmopolitanism 231 Emerson xvi, 30, 31, 37, 210, 211, 212, 226, 229, 231, 233 conversation 212, 216–18 moral perfectionism 213–18, 227, 228, 230, 232 Fuller 37, 210, 211, 212, 224–9, 230, 231, 232, 233 historical background 210–13 perfectionist education 231–2 political education 222–4, 230, 231, 232 Temple School 212 Thoreau 37, 209, 210, 211, 212, 216, 218–24, 229, 230, 231, 233 transcendence and nature 219–21 amour-propre 83, 84 ancient languages 58, 139, 140, 142 anthropology xviii anti-Semitism 176 Aquinas, Thomas 132

Arendt, Hannah xvi Ariès, Philippe 27 Aristotle xi, xiii, 6, 11, 214 Arndt, Johann 131 art of living xvii, xviii association of ideas 53–4, 108–9, 163 Aubrey, John 62 Bacon, Francis 7, 17, 102 Bahrdt, Karl Friedrich 137 Bain, Alexander 198 Barnard, Henry 172 Basedow, Johann Bernhard 10, 128, 134, 135, 136–7 Beccaria, Cesare 143 Bellegarde, Abbé de 181 Bennett, John 187 Bentham, Jeremy 10, 16, 112 beauty 129 Bildung 35, 36, 126–8, 130, 138, 141, 142, 143, 145 Blackmore, Richard 63 Blake, William 28 bourgeois society 83 breastfeeding 88 Brooks, Angeline 174 Brown, John 16 Brownson, Orestes 210 Budgell, Eustace 63 Buell, Lawrence 210, 211, 213, 219, 220, 226, 227–8

240

cameralism 134, 144 Campe, Joachim Heinrich 137 canonical philosophers xi–xii Carlyle, Jane 198 Cavell, Stanley 209, 214, 215, 216, 217, 219, 220, 222, 228, 229, 232 child-centered education 77–8, 90, 91 child development 164–5, 169, 170 child labor 20 childhood, conceptions of 27–9 children’s literature 63–4 Chisick, Harvey 23, 114, 115 Christianity see religion citizenship 79, 80, 89, 90, 223 Clapp, Elsie Ripley xiv Clark, Edward 64 classical languages 58, 139, 140, 142 clothing 60–1 Cohen, Michèle 186, 190 colonialism xvi Comenius, Jan Amos 121 communitarianism 223, 224 Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de 12, 35, 98, 99, 100, 121 educational legacy 106–7 experiential learning 101–6 Condorcet, Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis de 1–2, 3, 10, 16, 22, 23, 25, 35, 98, 99, 100, 114–18, 120, 182 educational legacy 118 Confucius xvii context 33 Cooper, Anthony Ashley, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury 143–4, 145 Copernicus 6 corporal punishment 28, 60, 64 Cotta, Johann Friedrich 159 Cranston, Maurice 91 Crevier, Jean Baptiste Louis 10 Crick, Bernard 232 Crocker, Lester 91 cultural domination 120 curriculum xv, 32, 56, 57, 58, 72, 88, 142, 196 women’s education 24, 187, 190 d’Alembert, Jean le Rond 71 Darnton, Robert 88 Darwin, Charles 173

INDEX

Darwin, Erasmus 186 democracy 230, 233 demonstrative knowledge 52 d’Epinay, Louise 25, 182 Descartes, René 6, 11, 48, 102, 121, 132 Dewey, John x, xi, xiii, xiv, xvi, 16, 91, 156, 160, 173, 221, 230 Diderot, Denis 6, 10, 16, 17, 23, 71, 105, 132 diet 60 Dilthey, Wilhelm 173 Dineen, Katy 36 Doddridge, Phillip 62 drawing 55, 57 Eachard, John 62, 65 economic theories 18–21 Edgeworth, Maria 25, 64, 182 Edgeworth, Richard Lovell 64 “educationalization” 127, 128, 129, 143 egalitarianism 24, 111, 113, 115 Eldridge, Richard xvi elites 120, 129, 142 Emerson, Ralph Waldo xvi, 30, 31, 37, 210, 211, 212, 226, 229, 231, 233 conversation 212, 216–18 moral perfectionism 213–18, 227, 228, 230, 232 emotion gender stereotypes 202 sensibility 132, 190 and reason 193–5 empiricism 56, 57, 58, 119 Enlightenment conception of childhood 27–9 “educational century” 125, 126–7 evaluation 4 future-oriented 2–3 importance of education 6 moral improvement 3 multiple Enlightenments 5 national Enlightenments 5, 97 see also French Enlightenment; German-speaking world; Scottish Enlightenment nature and 74–6 Popular Enlightenment 128, 134–6 religion and 6–11, 126

INDEX

responses and counter-reactions to 26–31, 91–2, 120 roots 5 Rousseau and 27, 69, 70, 72, 77, 81, 91–2 “science of man” 11–15 scientifically inspired outlook 6–11, 16–18, 30, 72 social aspects 15–21 state education 21–4, 30–1 women’s education 24–6 environmentalism 219 epistemology xix, 58, 59, 62, 64 esprit 109 ethics xvii, xviii, 139, 142 experiential learning 101–6 Ezell, Margaret J. M. 62, 63 family relationships 83–4, 88 feminine voice 228–9, 231, 232 femininity 186–7, 190, 191 feminism 24, 36, 85, 94, 115, 183, 197, 211, 227, 228 Fénelon, François 24, 181 Ferry, Jules 118 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 30–1, 160, 163 Fordyce, David 12, 62 Foucault, Michel 92 Francke, August Hermann 128, 129–31, 132, 133 Frankfurt School 92 Franklin, Benjamin 17, 36 Freire, Paulo xiv French Enlightenment 5, 34–5, 119, 120 Condillac 12, 35, 98, 99, 100, 121 educational legacy 106–7 experiential learning 101–6 Condorcet 1–2, 3, 10, 16, 22, 23, 25, 35, 98, 99, 100, 114–18, 120, 182 educational legacy 118 Helvétius 10, 13, 14, 16, 25, 35, 75, 91, 98, 99, 100, 108–12, 120, 181 educational legacy 112–14 philosophes 69, 71, 98–100, 109, 114, 115 Rousseau see Rousseau, Jean-Jacques French Revolution 1, 10, 16, 21, 23, 25, 71, 98, 115, 116, 118, 120, 138, 154

241

Fröbel (Froebel), Friedrich xiii–xiv, 9, 28, 31, 35, 36, 65, 151, 152, 166–72 legacy 174–5 Fuller, Margaret 37, 210, 211, 212, 224–9, 230, 231, 232, 233 Galileo Galilei 6 Gallie, W. B. xv Garner, Jayne 193 Gassendi, Pierre 6 Gay, Peter 4–5 gender differences 85, 87 gender stereotypes 202–3 geography 56–7 geometry 57 German, Andy x–xi German-speaking world 125–6 Bildung 35, 36, 126–8, 130, 138, 141, 142, 143, 145 cameralists 134, 144 “educationalization” 127, 128, 129, 143 exceptionalism 143 inwardness 142–3 “new humanism” 138–42, 145 philanthropinism 126, 128, 136, 137–8, 142 Pietism 35, 128, 129–31, 142 Popular Enlightenment 128, 134–6, 142 Prussian school reform 145, 160, 167 rationalism 131–4, 142 Switzerland 152, 159, 160 Gesner, Johann Matthias 129, 139 Gill, Natasha 111 Girondists 118 globes 56, 57 Godwin, William 112, 183 Goodman, Russell B. 226 Gordon, Thomas 10 Gracián, Baltasar 128 Graham, Catherine Macaulay 62 grammar schools 58 Grandière, Marcel 114, 121 Greek art and culture 139, 140–1, 142 Grouchy, Sophie de 115 Gubar, Susan 183 happiness 31, 32, 112, 113, 137, 138 Hartley, David 12 Hedge, Frederic Henry 210

242

Helvétius, Claude Adrien 10, 13, 14, 16, 25, 35, 75, 91, 98, 99, 100, 108–12, 120, 181 educational legacy 112–14 Herbart, Johann Friedrich 35, 36, 151–2, 156–7, 159–66, 175 legacy 173–4 Herder, Johann Gottfried 30, 31 Heyne, Christian Gottlob 129, 139–40 Hippel, Gottlieb von 25 Hobbes, Thomas xii, 74, 76 Hofman, Amos 34 Hohberg, Wolf Helmhard von 24 home tutoring 153, 156, 161, 165 Horkheimer, Max 4, 92 Horlacher, Rebekka 35 Huguenots 129 human betterment 30 human happiness 31, 32, 112, 113, 137, 138 human nature 12, 13–15, 157, 222 original sin 60, 62, 65 private and public 73–4 transcendence and 223–4 Humboldt, Wilhelm von 30, 141 Hume, David 12 Hutcheson, Francis 12

INDEX

Kant, Immanuel xvi, 6, 160, 163, 164, 214 Kaplan, Cora 183 Kepler, Johannes 6 Kilpatrick, William 175 kindergartens 166, 167–8, 170, 172, 174, 175 King, Margaret 190 Kingsborough of Mitchelstown Castle, Lord and Lady 188 Knight, Isabel F. 103, 106, 108 knowledge 51, 56

imagination 30 imperialism xvi individuality 30, 169, 173, 213 Industrial Revolution 17, 21 innatism 48–51, 102–3 intergenerational encounter xiv intellectual training xvii, xviii intuitive knowledge 51 inwardness 142–3 Iselin, Isaak 128, 134–6, 144 Israel, Jonathan 5, 6 Itard, Jean-Marc 106–7

La Chalotais, Louis-René 10 La Mettrie, Julien Offray de 132 Lane, Harlan 107 Lange, Friedrich Wilhelm 159 language teaching 55–6, 58, 139, 140, 142 Latin 140 Leibniz (Leibnitz), Gottfried Wilhelm 11, 132 Locke, John 5, 6, 9, 10, 12, 13, 17, 24, 25, 27, 31, 33–4, 75, 98, 101, 111, 181 Conduct of the Understanding 46, 58–9 Essay Concerning Human Understanding 12, 46, 47, 51–5, 57, 103–4, 105, 108 rejection of innatism 48–51, 102–3 legacy 62–4 moral education 59–61, 65 Second Treatise of Government 49, 59 Some Thoughts Concerning Education 45–7, 54–7, 59–63, 64, 71, 102, 135, 185–6 tabula rasa 62, 65, 103 theory of learning 51–9 logic 58 Luther, Martin 170 luxury 19

Jacobins 118, 154, 160 James, William xiv Jansenists 112 Jarvin, Josephine 170 Jefferson, Thomas 10, 13, 17, 22, 23, 36, 117 Jesuits 10, 101, 103, 108, 112, 114 Jones, James F. 3 Jonas, Mark 84 judgement 52–3

Macaulay, Catharine 25, 182 Malebranche, Nicolas 11 Mandeville, Bernard 19 Mann, Horace 16, 118, 172 maps 56, 57 marriage 86–7 Martin, Jane Roland 193 Marx, Karl xvi, 112 materialism 111, 112 mathematics 52–3, 56, 115, 164

INDEX

Matteson, John 224, 226, 227, 228 McNulty, Lisa 34 Mead, George Herbert xiv mechanistic worldview 6–7, 11 memorization 102 Mendelssohn, Moses 126 Middle Ages 2 Mill, John Stuart Mill 16, 22, 23, 26, 184–5, 198, 199 Molyneux, William 45 monitorial system 23–4 Montaigne, Michel xiii, xvi Montesquieu, Charles-Louis Secondat, Baron de 71, 74 Montessori, Maria 65, 101, 106, 107, 171 moral capability 77 moral education xvii, 3, 15, 192 John Locke 59–61, 65 reason and the passions 13–14 moral perfectionism 213–18, 227, 228, 230, 232 morality 16, 72, 155, 165 More, Hannah 204 Morelly, Étienne-Gabriel 14 Morveau, Guyton de 10 Murdoch, Iris xi Myers, Mitzi 197 nation-states 32 national Enlightenments 5, 97 see also French Enlightenment; German-speaking world; Scottish Enlightenment Natorp, Paul 173 “natural education” 74–7, 79, 80, 81, 89, 144 natural philosophy 16–17 see also science natural world 7 transcendence and nature 219–21 “new humanism” 138–42, 145 Newbury, John 63–4 Newton, Isaac 7, 9, 102 Nietzsche, Friedrich xii Noddings, Nel 156 nursery schools see kindergartens Oakeshott, Michael ix–x, xiv Oelkers, Jürgen 35–6 original sin 60, 62, 65

243

paideia xiv Paine, Thomas 115 paradox 69–70 Parker, Francis xiv Parry, Geraint 114 passions 13–14 Paulsen, Friedrich 138 Peabody, Elizabeth 174, 210 pedagogy xvii, xix perception 157, 164 perfectibility 116 Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich xiii, 12, 27, 28, 31, 35–6, 88, 126, 135, 151, 152–9, 175, 176 “ABC of perception” 157, 164 “home education” 153, 156, 161 legacy 172–3 philanthropism 126, 128, 136, 136–8, 142 Philipon, Louis 19 philosophes 69, 71, 98–9, 109, 114, 115 philosophy of education canonical philosophers xi–xii dynamic and critical tradition xv–xvii historical origins xiii–xv perennial questions ix–x theorization xvii, xviii philosophical materialism 111, 112 physical education 192 physical punishment 28, 60, 64 physiocrats 19 Piaget, Jean 90 Pickering, Samuel F. 63 Pietism 35, 128, 129–31, 142 plasticity 165 Plato ix, xi, xiii, xvi, 6, 48, 102, 181, 214 play 54, 65, 166, 169, 170–1 Poland 89 politics xvii, xviii, xix, 222–4, 230, 231, 232 Popular Enlightenment 128, 134–6, 142 Porter, Roy 5 postmodern thought 92, 120 Poulain de la Barre, François 24, 181 power relations 85 practical education 167 “presentism” x Priestley, Joseph 17, 22 “progressive education” xii, xiv, 169, 196 Prussian school reform 145, 160, 167 psychology xix

244

public schooling 1–2, 21–4, 30–1, 89, 98, 113, 114–18, 120, 159, 162, 165, 172, 196 Pufendorf, Samuel von 132 punishment 28, 54, 60, 64, 109 Putnam, Alice 174 Quakers 233 rationalism 11, 30, 35, 56, 102, 120, 131–4, 142 Raumer, Karl von 158 reason/reasoning 13, 54, 56, 57, 132, 133, 192, 193 sensibility and 193–5 Reeve, Clara 186 reflection 51, 56, 163 religion 4, 60, 126, 168 human nature and 13, 15 Pietism 35, 128, 129–31, 142 science and 6–11 Renaissance 2 rhetoric 58 Richardson, Samuel 63 Ripley, George 210, 211 Robespierre, Maximilien François Marie Isidore de 23 romantic love 83–4 Romanticism 26–30 Roosevelt, Grace G. 35 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques xi, xiii, 6, 13, 14, 19–20, 27, 31, 34, 65, 98, 101, 102, 105, 135, 153 conception of childhood 27–8, 29, 62 Enlightenment thought and 27, 69, 70, 72, 77, 81, 91–2 paradoxes 69–70 personality 69 philosophy of education 69–72 basic premises 72–4 bourgeois vs. romantic family 81–4, 88 child-centered education 77–8, 90, 91 citizenship and 79, 80, 89, 90 control and supervision 78–81 legacy 88–93 “natural education” 74–7, 79, 80, 81, 89, 144

INDEX

women’s education 24–5, 54, 85–8, 182, 186, 191 “state of nature” 75–6, 77, 78–9, 83, 154–5, 219 Saint Pierre, Charles-Irenée Castel, abbé de 3, 15–16, 21 Saito, Naoko 37 salons 99, 109, 115 Schelling, Wilhelm Joseph 169 Schiller, Friedrich 143 scholasticism 102 schools xiv, xix, 140, 143, 158 see also public schooling Schulthess, Anna 153 science morality and 72 religion and 6–11 science education 16–18 “science of man” 11–15 Scottish Enlightenment 12 secularization 9–10 Séguin, Edouard 107 self-control 60, 64 self-discipline 47, 60, 61 self-examination 223 self-interest 116 self-love 13–14 self-observation 164 self-realization 142, 227 self-reliance 213–14, 226 sensation 51, 56 sensationism 12, 13, 15, 111, 163 sensibility 132, 190 and reason 193–5 sensory experience 101–6, 119 sexual desire 84 Shakespeare, William xii Shelley, Mary 183 Skinner, Quentin 65 slavery 211, 233 sleep 61 Smith, Adam 19, 20, 115 social and political philosophy xvii, xviii, xix, 15–21 social class 167 social contract 83, 86 social efficiency 31 social mobility 23

INDEX

social reform 31 social sciences xix social utility see Utilitarianism/utility socialization 133, 143, 186, 222 gender stereotypes 202–3 Socrates ix, xi, xvii Spencer, Herbert 18 Spencer, Philip Jakob 131 Spinoza, Baruch (Benedictus) xii, 5 spirituality xvii, xviii see also religion Standish, Paul 215 state education 1–2, 21–4, 30–1, 89, 98, 113, 114–18, 120, 159, 162, 165, 172, 196 “state of nature” 75–6, 77, 78–9, 83, 154–5, 219 Steiger, Karl Friedrich 160 stereotypes 202–3 Stuve, Johann 137 Suárez, Francisco 132 Sulzer, Johann Georg 128, 132–4, 135 Switzerland 152, 189, 160 tabula rasa 62, 65, 103, 116 Talleyrand, Charles Maurice de 1–2, 3, 16 Taylor Mill, Harriet 26, 36, 182, 184–5, 198–201, 202, 203 theory of mind 11, 12 Thomasius, Christian 127 Thoreau, Henry David 37, 209, 210, 211, 212, 216, 218–24, 229, 230, 231, 233 Tocqueville, Alexis de 23 totalitarianism 91, 92 toys 170–1 transcendentalism see American transcendentalism Trapp, Ernst Christian 138, 144 Trenchard, John 10 Trimmer, Sarah 64 Truffaut, François 107 Tschiffeli, Johann Rudolf 153 Turgot, Jacques 134 Turnbull, George 12, 14 Unger, Friedrich 171 Unitarianism 211 United Nations xvi, xx

245

United States 116, 118, 172, 174 universal ideas 49–51, 211 Utilitarianism/utility 10, 16, 21, 24, 32, 35, 112, 113, 138, 142, 214 values xvii Versluis, Arthur 233 virtue 61, 62, 63, 64, 72, 84, 89, 133, 134, 139 men and women 186, 191, 192, 193, 195 vocational education 142, 143 Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet) 5, 7, 71, 93 Von Hippel, Theodor Gottlieb 182 Watts, Isaac 63 wealth 19 “Wild Boy of Aveyron” 107 Williams, David 22 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 140–1 Wittgenstein, Ludwig xviii Wolf, Friedrich August 138 Wolff, Christian 11, 131–2 Wollstonecraft, Mary 9, 22, 25, 36, 182, 183–4, 185, 186, 187, 198, 199, 201, 202, 203 feminist critique of 197 governess to the Kingsborough family 188–90 ideas on reason and sensibility 193–5 proposals for women’s education 190–3, 195–7 women’s education 24–6, 54, 85–8, 117, 136, 181–2, 227 curriculum 187, 190 femininity 186–7, 190, 191 gender stereotypes 202–3 progressive attitudes 185–6 Wollstonecraft’s proposals for 190–3, 195–7 Wordsworth, William 28–9, 93 Yolton, John W. & Jean S. 45 Young, Ella Flagg xiv Zedlitz, Abraham von 145 Zöllner, Johann Friedrich 126

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