the nature of a bright child.” Again: “Our schools are houses of correction for imprisoned youths; and children are made incorrigible by punishment. Visit them when the children are getting their lessons, and you will hear nothing but the outcries of boys under execution and the thundering noises of their teachers, drunk with fury. It is a pernicious way to tempt young and timorous souls to love their books while wearing a ferocious countenance and with a rod in hand.”
Montaigne was equally convinced of the pedagogic error of the humanists in regarding classical knowledge as synonymous with wisdom. “We may become learned from the learning of others,” he said, “but we never become wise except by our own wisdom. . . . We are truly learned from knowing the present, not from knowing the past any more than the future. . . . Yet we toil only to stuff the memory and leave the conscience and understanding void. And like birds abroad to forage for grain, bring it home in their beak, without tasting it themselves, to feed their young, so our pedants go picking knowledge here and there out of several authors, and hold it at their tongue’s end, only to spit it out and distribute it among their pupils.”
Roger Ascham,[1] in the quaint preface of his Scholemaster, also bears testimony against the harsh discipline of the sixteenth century. During the great plague in London, in 1563, Ascham and some friends were dining at Windsor with Sir William Cecil. While there he learned that many of the students at Eton had run away because of the severe punishments
- ↑ The scholemaster. By Roger Ascham. Edited by Edward Arber. Boston: Willard Small, 1888. pp. 317.
