The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Montessori Method, by Maria Montessori

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license

Title: The Montessori Method

Scientific Pedagogy as Applied to Child Education in 'The
Children's Houses' with Additions and Revisions by the
Author

Author: Maria Montessori

Translator: Anne E. George

Release Date: May 31, 2012 [EBook #39863]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONTESSORI METHOD ***

Produced by Alicia Williams, Brenda Lewis and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
 DR. MONTESSORI GIVING A LESSON
IN TOUCHING GEOMETRICAL INSETS

THE
MONTESSORI METHOD
SCIENTIFIC PEDAGOGY AS APPLIED TO CHILD
EDUCATION IN "THE CHILDREN'S HOUSES"
WITH ADDITIONS AND REVISIONS
BY THE AUTHOR

BY

MARIA MONTESSORI
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY
ANNE E. GEORGE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
PROFESSOR HENRY W. HOLMES
OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY

WITH THIRTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
MCMXII

Copyright, 1912, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian

[Pg iv]

I place at the beginning of this volume, now appearing in the

United States, her fatherland, the dear name of
 ALICE HALLGARTEN
of New York, who by her marriage to Baron Leopold Franchetti
became by choice our compatriot.
Ever a firm believer in the principles underlying the Case dei
Bambini, she, with her husband, forwarded the publication of
this book in Italy, and, throughout the last years of her short life,
greatly desired the English translation which should introduce to
the land of her birth the work so near her heart.
To her memory I dedicate this book, whose pages, like an
ever-living flower, perpetuate the recollection of her beneficence.

[Pg v]

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Mrs. Guy Baring, of
London, for the loan of her manuscript translation of "Pedagogia
Scientifica"; to Mrs. John R. Fisher (Dorothy Canfield) for
translating a large part of the new work written by Dr.
Montessori for the American Edition; and to The House of
Childhood, Inc., New York, for use of the illustrations of the
didactic apparatus. Dr. Montessori's patent rights in the apparatus
are controlled, for the United States and Canada, by The House
of Childhood, Inc.
THE PUBLISHERS.

[Pg vi]

[Pg vii]
PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION
In February, 1911, Professor Henry W. Holmes, of the Division of Education of Harvard
University, did me the honour to suggest that an English translation be made of my Italian
volume, "Il Metodo della Pedagogia Scientifica applicato all' educazione infantile nelle
Case dei Bambini." This suggestion represented one of the greatest events in the history of
my educational work. To-day, that to which I then looked forward as an unusual privilege
has become an accomplished fact.
The Italian edition of "Il Metodo della Pedagogia Scientifica" had no preface, because the
book itself I consider nothing more than the preface to a more comprehensive work, the aim
and extent of which it only indicates. For the educational method for children of from three
to six years set forth here is but the earnest of a work that, developing the same principle and
method, shall cover in a like manner the successive stages of education. Moreover, the
method which obtains in the Case dei Bambini offers, it seems to me, an experimental field
for the study of man, and promises, perhaps, the development of a science that shall disclose
other secrets of nature.
In the period that has elapsed between the publication of the Italian and American
editions, I have had, with my pupils, the opportunity to simplify and render more exact
certain practical details of the method, and to gather additional observations concerning
discipline. The results attest the vitality of the method and the necessity for an extended [Pg viii]
scientific collaboration in the near future, and are embodied in two new chapters written for
the American edition. I know that my method has been widely spoken of in America, thanks
to Mr. S. S. McClure, who has presented it through the pages of his well-known magazine.
Indeed, many Americans have already come to Rome for the purpose of observing
personally the practical application of the method in my little schools. If, encouraged by this
movement, I may express a hope for the future, it is that my work in Rome shall become the
centre of an efficient and helpful collaboration.
To the Harvard professors who have made my work known in America and to McClure's
Magazine, a mere acknowledgment of what I owe them is a barren response; but it is my
hope that the method itself, in its effect upon the children of America, may prove an
adequate expression of my gratitude.
MARIA MONTESSORI.
ROME, 1912.

[Pg ix]
CONTENTS
PAGE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS V
THE AMERICAN EDITION VII
INTRODUCTION XVII

CHAPTER I
A CRITICAL CONSIDERATION OF THE NEW PEDAGOGY IN ITS
RELATION TO MODERN SCIENCE
Influence of Modern Science upon Pedagogy 1
Italy's part in the development of Scientific Pedagogy 4
Difference between scientific technique and the scientific spirit 7
Direction of the preparation should be toward the spirit rather than toward
9
the mechanism
The master to study man in the awakening of his intellectual life 12
Attitude of the teacher in the light of another example 13
The school must permit the free natural manifestations of the child if in the
15
school Scientific Pedagogy is to be born
Stationary desks and chairs proof that the principle of slavery still informs 16
the school
Conquest of liberty, what the school needs 19
What may happen to the spirit 20
Prizes and punishments, the bench of the soul 21
All human victories, all human progress, stand upon the inner force 24

CHAPTER II
HISTORY OF METHODS
Necessity of establishing the method peculiar to Scientific Pedagogy 28
Origin of educational system in use in the "Children's Houses" 31
Practical application of the methods of Itard and Séguin in the Orthophrenic
32
School at Rome
Origin of the methods for the education of deficients 33
Application of the methods in Germany and France 35
Séguin's first didactic material was spiritual 37
Methods for deficients applied to the education of normal children 42
Social and pedagogic importance of the "Children's Houses" 44 [Pg x]

CHAPTER III
INAUGURAL ADDRESS DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION OF THE
OPENING OF ONE OF THE "CHILDREN'S HOUSES"
The Quarter of San Lorenzo before and since the establishment of the
48
"Children's Houses"
Evil of subletting the most cruel form of usury 50
The problem of life more profound than that of the intellectual elevation of
52
the poor
Isolation of the masses of the poor, unknown to past centuries 53
Work of the Roman Association of Good Building and the moral
56
importance of their reforms
The "Children's House" earned by the parents through their care of the
60
building
Pedagogical organization of the "Children's House" 62
The "Children's House" the first step toward the socialisation of the house 65
The communised house in its relation to the home and to the spiritual
66
evolution of women
Rules and regulations of the "Children's Houses" 70

CHAPTER IV
PEDAGOGICAL METHODS USED IN THE "CHILDREN'S HOUSES"
Child psychology can be established only through the method of external 72
observation
Anthropological consideration 73
Anthropological notes 77
Environment and schoolroom furnishings 80

CHAPTER V
DISCIPLINE
Discipline through liberty 86
Independence 95
Abolition of prizes and external forms of punishment 101
Biological concept of liberty in pedagogy 104

CHAPTER VI
HOW THE LESSON SHOULD BE GIVEN
Characteristics of the individual lessons 107
Method of observation the fundamental guide 108
Difference between the scientific and unscientific methods illustrated 109
First task of educators to stimulate life, leaving it then free to develop 115 [Pg xi]

CHAPTER VII
EXERCISES OF PRACTICAL LIFE
Suggested schedule for the "Children's Houses" 119
The child must be prepared for the forms of social life and his attention
121
attracted to these forms
Cleanliness, order, poise, conversation 122

CHAPTER VIII
REFECTION—THE CHILD'S DIET
Diet must be adapted to the child's physical nature 125
Foods and their preparation 126
Drinks 132
Distribution of meals 133

CHAPTER IX
MUSCULAR EDUCATION—GYMNASTICS
Generally accepted idea of gymnastics is inadequate 137
The special gymnastics necessary for little children 138
Other pieces of gymnastic apparatus 141
Free gymnastics 144
Educational gymnastics 144
Respiratory gymnastics, and labial, dental, and lingual gymnastics 147
 CHAPTER X
NATURE IN EDUCATION—AGRICULTURAL LABOUR: CULTURE OF
PLANTS AND ANIMALS
The savage of the Aveyron 149
Itard's educative drama repented in the education of little children 153
Gardening and horticulture basis of a method for education of children 155
The child initiated into observation of the phenomena of life and into
156
foresight by way of auto-education
Children are initiated into the virtue of patience and into confident
159
expectation, and are inspired with a feeling for nature
The child follows the natural way of development of the human race 160 [Pg xii]

CHAPTER XI
MANUAL LABOUR—THE POTTER'S ART, AND BUILDING
Difference between manual labour and manual gymnastics 162
The School of Educative Art 163
Archæological, historical, and artistic importance of the vase 164
Manufacture of diminutive bricks and construction of diminutive walls and
165
houses

CHAPTER XII
EDUCATION OF THE SENSES
Aim of education to develop the energies 168
Difference in the reaction between deficient and normal children in the
169
presentation of didactic material made up of graded stimuli
Education of the senses has as its aim the refinement of the differential
173
perception of stimuli by means of repeated exercises
Three Periods of Séguin 177

CHAPTER XIII
EDUCATION OF THE SENSES AND ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE DIDACTIC
MATERIAL: GENERAL SENSIBILITY: THE TACTILE, THERMIC, BARIC
AND STEREOGNOSTIC SENSES
Education of the tactile, thermic and baric senses 185
Education of the stereognostic sense 188
Education of the senses of taste and smell 190
Education of the sense of vision 191
Exercises with the three series of cards 199
Education of the chromatic sense 200
Exercise for the discrimination of sounds 203
Musical education 206
Tests for acuteness of hearing 209
A lesson in silence 212

CHAPTER XIV
GENERAL NOTES ON THE EDUCATION OF THE SENSES
Aim in education biological and social 215
Education of the senses makes men observers and prepares them directly
218
for practical life [Pg xiii]

CHAPTER XV
INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION
Sense exercises a species of auto-education 224
Importance of an exact nomenclature, and how to teach it 225
Spontaneous progress of the child the greatest triumph of Scientific
228
Pedagogy
Games of the blind 231
Application of the visual sense to the observation of environment 232
Method of using didactic material: dimensions, form, design 233
Free plastic work 241
Geometric analysis of figures 243
Exercises in the chromatic sense 244

CHAPTER XVI
METHOD FOR THE TEACHING OF READING AND WRITING
Spontaneous development of graphic language: Séguin and Itard 246
Necessity of a special education that shall fit man for objective observation
252
and direct logical thought
Results of objective observation and logical thought 253
Not necessary to begin teaching writing with vertical strokes 257
Spontaneous drawing of normal children 258
Use of Froebel mats in teaching children sewing 260
Children should be taught how before they are made to execute a task 261
Two diverse forms of movement made in writing 262
Experiments with normal children 267
Origin of alphabets in present use 269

CHAPTER XVII
DESCRIPTION OF THE METHOD AND DIDACTIC MATERIAL USED
Exercise tending to develop the muscular mechanism necessary in holding
271
and using the instrument in writing
Didactic material for writing 271
Exercise tending to establish the visual-muscular image of the alphabetical
signs, and to establish the muscular memory of the movements necessary to 275
writing
Exercises for the composition of words 281
Reading, the interpretation of an idea from written signs 296
Games for the reading of words 299
Games for the reading of phrases 303
Point education has reached in the "Children's Houses" 307 [Pg xiv]

CHAPTER XVIII
LANGUAGE OF CHILDHOOD
Physiological importance of graphic language 310
Two periods in the development of language 312
Analysis of speech necessary 319
Defects of language due to education 322

CHAPTER XIX
TEACHING OF NUMERATION: INTRODUCTION TO ARITHMETIC
Numbers as represented by graphic signs 328
Exercises for the memory of numbers 330
Addition and subtraction from one to twenty: multiplication and division 332
Lessons on decimals: arithmetical calculations beyond ten 335

CHAPTER XX
SEQUENCE OF EXERCISES
Sequence and grades in the presentation of material and in the exercises 338
First grade 338
Second grade 339
Third grade 342
Fourth grade 343
Fifth grade 345

CHAPTER XXI
GENERAL REVIEW OF DISCIPLINE
Discipline better than in ordinary schools 346
First dawning of discipline comes through work 350
Orderly action is the true rest for muscles intended by nature for action 354
The exercise that develops life consists in the repetition, not in the mere 358
 grasp of the idea
Aim of repetition that the child shall refine his senses through the exercise
360
of attention, of comparison, of judgment
Obedience is naturally sacrifice 363
Obedience develops will-power and the capacity to perform the act it
367
becomes necessary to obey

CHAPTER XXII
CONCLUSIONS AND IMPRESSIONS
The teacher has become the director of spontaneous work in the "Children's
371
Houses"
The problems of religious education should be solved by positive pedagogy 372
Spiritual influence of the "Children's Houses" 376

[Pg xv]
ILLUSTRATIONS
Dr. Montessori giving a lesson in touching geometrical insets Frontispiece
FACING
PAGE
Dr. Montessori in the garden of the school at Via Giusti 144
Children learning to button and lace. Ribbon and button frames 145
Children playing a game with tablets of coloured silk 186
Girl touching a letter and boy telling objects by weight 187
Pupils arranging colours in chromatic order 187
Didactic apparatus to teach differentiation of objects 190
Blocks by which children are taught thickness, length and size 191
Geometric insets to teach form 194
Geometric insets and cabinet 195
Cards used in teaching form and contour 196
Frames illustrating lacing; shoe buttoning; buttoning of other garments; hooks
200
and eyes
Tablets with silk, for educating the chromatic sense 201
Didactic apparatus for training the sense of touch, and for teaching writing 282
Children touching letters and making words with cardboard script 283
Montessori children eating dinner 348
School at Tarrytown, N. Y. 349
[Pg xvi]

[Pg
INTRODUCTION xvii]
 An audience already thoroughly interested awaits this translation of a remarkable book.
For years no educational document has been so eagerly expected by so large a public, and
not many have better merited general anticipation. That this widespread interest exists is due
to the enthusiastic and ingenious articles in McClure's Magazine for May and December,
1911, and January, 1912; but before the first of these articles appeared a number of English
and American teachers had given careful study to Dr. Montessori's work, and had found it
novel and important. The astonishing welcome accorded to the first popular expositions of
the Montessori system may mean much or little for its future in England and America; it is
rather the earlier approval of a few trained teachers and professional students that commends
it to the educational workers who must ultimately decide upon its value, interpret its
technicalities to the country at large, and adapt it to English and American conditions. To
them as well as to the general public this brief critical Introduction is addressed.
It is wholly within the bounds of safe judgment to call Dr. Montessori's work remarkable,
novel, and important. It is remarkable, if for no other reason, because it represents the
constructive effort of a woman. We have no other example of an educational system—
original at least in its systematic wholeness and in its practical application—worked out and
inaugurated by the feminine mind and hand. It is remarkable, also, because it springs from a [Pg
combination of womanly sympathy and intuition, broad social outlook, scientific training, xviii]
intensive and long-continued study of educational problems, and, to crown all, varied and
unusual experience as a teacher and educational leader. No other woman who has dealt with
Dr. Montessori's problem—the education of young children—has brought to it personal
resources so richly diverse as hers. These resources, furthermore, she has devoted to her
work with an enthusiasm, an absolute abandon, like that of Pestalozzi and Froebel, and she
presents her convictions with an apostolic ardour which commands attention. A system
which embodies such a capital of human effort could not be unimportant. Then, too, certain
aspects of the system are in themselves striking and significant: it adapts to the education of
normal children methods and apparatus originally used for deficients; it is based on a radical
conception of liberty for the pupil; it entails a highly formal training of separate sensory,
motor, and mental capacities; and it leads to rapid, easy, and substantial mastery of the
elements of reading, writing, and arithmetic. All this will be apparent to the most casual
reader of this book.
None of these things, to be sure, is absolutely new in the educational world. All have been
proposed in theory; some have been put more or less completely into practice. It is not
unjust, for instance, to point out that much of the material used by Dr. Walter S. Fernald,
Superintendent of the Massachusetts Institution for the Feeble-Minded at Waverley, is almost
identical with the Montessori material, and that Dr. Fernald has long maintained that it could
be used to good effect in the education of normal children. (It may interest American readers
to know that Séguin, on whose work that of Dr. Montessori is based, was once head of the [Pg xix]
school at Waverley.) So, too, formal training in various psycho-physical processes has been
much urged of late by a good many workers in experimental pedagogy, especially by
Meumann. But before Montessori, no one had produced a system in which the elements
named above were combined. She conceived it, elaborated it in practice, and established it in
schools. It is indeed the final result, as Dr. Montessori proudly asserts, of years of
experimental effort both on her own part and on the part of her great predecessors; but the
crystallisation of these experiments in a programme of education for normal children is due
to Dr. Montessori alone. The incidental features which she has frankly taken over from other
modern educators she has chosen because they fit into the fundamental form of her own
scheme, and she has unified them all in her general conception of method. The system is not
original in the sense in which Froebel's system was original; but as a system it is the novel
product of a single woman's creative genius.
 As such, no student of elementary education ought to ignore it. The system doubtless fails
to solve all the problems in the education of young children; possibly some of the solutions it
proposes are partly or completely mistaken; some are probably unavailable in English and
American schools; but a system of education does not have to attain perfection in order to
merit study, investigation, and experimental use. Dr. Montessori is too large-minded to claim
infallibility, and too thoroughly scientific in her attitude to object to careful scrutiny of her
scheme and the thorough testing of its results. She expressly states that it is not yet complete.
Practically, it is highly probable that the system ultimately adopted in our schools will
combine elements of the Montessori programme with elements of the kindergarten [Pg xx]
programme, both "liberal" and "conservative." In its actual procedure school work must
always be thus eclectic. An all-or-nothing policy for a single system inevitably courts defeat;
for the public is not interested in systems as systems, and refuses in the end to believe that
any one system contains every good thing. Nor can we doubt that this attitude is essentially
sound. If we continue, despite the pragmatists, to believe in absolute principles, we may yet
remain skeptical about the logic of their reduction to practice—at least in any fixed
programme of education. We are not yet justified, at any rate, in adopting one programme to
the exclusion of every other simply because it is based on the most intelligible or the most
inspiring philosophy. The pragmatic test must also be applied, and rigorously. We must try
out several combinations, watch and record the results, compare them, and proceed
cautiously to new experiments. This procedure is desirable for every stage and grade of
education, but especially for the earliest stage, because there it has been least attempted and
is most difficult. Certainly a system so radical, so clearly defined, and so well developed as
that of Dr. Montessori offers for the thoroughgoing comparative study of methods in early
education new material of exceptional importance. Without accepting every detail of the
system, without even accepting unqualifiedly its fundamental principles, one may welcome
it, thus, as of great and immediate value. If early education is worth studying at all, the
educator who devotes his attention to it will find it necessary to define the differences in
principle between the Montessori programme and other programmes, and to carry out careful
tests of the results obtainable from the various systems and their feasible combinations. [Pg xxi]

One such combination this Introduction will suggest, and it will discuss also the possible
uses of the Montessori apparatus in the home; but it may be helpful first to present the
outstanding characteristics of the Montessori system as compared with the modern
kindergarten in its two main forms.
Certain similarities in principle are soon apparent. Dr. Montessori's views of childhood are
in some respects identical with those of Froebel, although in general decidedly more radical.
Both defend the child's right to be active, to explore his environment and develop his own
inner resources through every form of investigation and creative effort. Education is to guide
activity, not repress it. Environment cannot create human power, but only give it scope and
material, direct it, or at most but call it forth; and the teacher's task is first to nourish and
assist, to watch, encourage, guide, induce, rather than to interfere, prescribe, or restrict. To
most American teachers and to all kindergartners this principle has long been familiar; they
will but welcome now a new and eloquent statement of it from a modern viewpoint. In the
practical interpretation of the principle, however, there is decided divergence between the
Montessori school and the kindergarten. The Montessori "directress" does not teach children
in groups, with the practical requirement, no matter how well "mediated," that each member
of the group shall join in the exercise. The Montessori pupil does about as he pleases, so
long as he does not do any harm.
Montessori and Froebel stand in agreement also on the need for training of the senses; but
Montessori's scheme for this training is at once more elaborate and more direct than
Froebel's. She has devised out of Séguin's apparatus a comprehensive and scientific scheme
[Pg
for formal gymnastic of the senses; Froebel originated a series of objects designed for a xxii]
much broader and more creative use by the children, but by no means so closely adapted to
the training of sensory discrimination. The Montessori material carries out the fundamental
principle of Pestalozzi, which he tried in vain to embody in a successful system of his own: it
"develops piece by piece the pupil's mental capacities" by training separately, through
repeated exercises, his several senses and his ability to distinguish, compare, and handle
typical objects. In the kindergarten system, and particularly in the "liberal" modifications of
it, sense training is incidental to constructive and imaginative activity in which the children
are pursuing larger ends than the mere arrangement of forms or colours. Even in the most
formal work in kindergarten design the children are "making a picture," and are encouraged
to tell what it looks like—"a star," "a kite," "a flower."
As to physical education, the two systems agree in much the same way: both affirm the
need for free bodily activity, for rhythmic exercises, and for the development of muscular
control; but whereas the kindergarten seeks much of all this through group games with an
imaginative or social content, the Montessori scheme places the emphasis on special
exercises designed to give formal training in separate physical functions.
In another general aspect, however, the agreement between the two systems, strong in
principle, leaves the Montessori system less formal rather than more formal in practice. The
principle in this case consists of the affirmation of the child's need for social training. In the
conservative kindergarten this training is sought once more, largely in group games. These
are usually imaginative, and sometimes decidedly symbolic: that is, the children play at [Pg
being farmers, millers, shoemakers, mothers and fathers, birds, animals, knights, or soldiers; xxiii]
they sing songs, go through certain semi-dramatic activities—such as "opening the pigeon
house," "mowing the grass," "showing the good child to the knights," and the like; and each
takes his part in the representation of some typical social situation. The social training
involved in these games is formal only in the sense that the children are not engaged, as the
Montessori children often are, in a real social enterprise, such as that of serving dinner,
cleaning the room, caring for animals, building a toy house, or making a garden. It cannot be
too strongly emphasized that even the most conservative kindergarten does not, on principle,
exclude "real" enterprises of this latter sort; but in a three-hour session it does rather little
with them. Liberal kindergartens do more, particularly in Europe, where the session is often
longer. Nor does the Montessori system wholly exclude imaginative group games. But Dr.
Montessori, despite an evidently profound interest not only in social training, but also in
æsthetic, idealistic, and even religious development, speaks of "games and foolish stories" in
a casual and derogatory way, which shows that she is as yet unfamiliar with the American
kindergartner's remarkable skill and power in the use of these resources. (Of course the
American kindergartner does not use "foolish" stories; but stories she does use, and to good
effect.) The Montessori programme involves much direct social experience, both in the
general life of the school and in the manual work done by the pupils; the kindergarten
extends the range of the child's social consciousness through the imagination. The groupings
of the Montessori children are largely free and unregulated; the groupings of kindergarten
children are more often formal and prescribed. [Pg
xxiv]
On one point the Montessori system agrees with the conservative kindergarten, but not
with the liberal: it prepares directly for the mastery of the school arts. There can be no doubt
that Dr. Montessori has devised a peculiarly successful scheme for teaching children to write,
an effective method for the introduction of reading, and good material for early number
work. Both types of kindergarten increase, to be sure, the child's general capacity for
expression: kindergarten activity adds to his stock of ideas, awakens and guides his
imagination, increases his vocabulary, and trains him in the effective use of it. Children in a
good kindergarten hear stories and tell them, recount their own experiences, sing songs, and
recite verses, all in a company of friendly but fairly critical listeners, which does even more
to stimulate and guide expression than does the circle at home. But even the conservative
kindergarten does not teach children to write and to read. It does teach them a good deal
about number; and it may fairly be questioned whether it does not do more fundamental
work in this field than the Montessori system itself. The Froebelian gifts offer exceptional
opportunity for concrete illustration of the conceptions of whole and part, through the
creation of wholes from parts, and the breaking up of wholes into parts. This aspect of
number is at least as important as the series aspect, which children get in counting and for
which the Montessori "Long Stair" provides such good material. The Froebelian material
may be used very readily for counting, however, and the Montessori material gives some
slight opportunity for uniting and dividing. So far as preparation for arithmetic is concerned,
a combination of the two bodies of material is both feasible and desirable. The liberal
kindergarten, meanwhile, abandoning the use of the gifts and occupations for mathematical [Pg
purposes, makes no attempt to prepare its pupils directly for the school arts. xxv]

Compared with the kindergarten, then, the Montessori system presents these main points
of interest: it carries out far more radically the principle of unrestricted liberty; its materials
are intended for the direct and formal training of the senses; it includes apparatus designed to
aid in the purely physical development of the children; its social training is carried out
mainly by means of present and actual social activities; and it affords direct preparation for
the school arts. The kindergarten, on the other hand, involves a certain amount of group-
teaching, in which children are held—not necessarily by the enforcement of authority, yet by
authority, confessedly, when other means fail—to definite activities; its materials are
intended primarily for creative use by the children and offer opportunity for mathematical
analysis and the teaching of design; and its procedure is rich in resources for the imagination.
One thing should be made entirely clear and emphatic: in none of these characteristics are
the two systems rigidly antagonistic. Much kindergarten activity is free, and the principle of
prescription is not wholly given over by the "Houses of Childhood"—witness their Rules and
Regulations; the kindergarten involves direct sense training, and the Montessori system
admits some of the Froebel blocks for building and design; there are many purely muscular
activities in the kindergarten, and some of the usual kindergarten games are used by
Montessori; the kindergarten conducts some gardening, care of animals, construction-work,
and domestic business, and the Montessori system admits a few imaginative social plays;
both systems (but not the liberal form of the kindergarten) work directly toward the school [Pg
arts. Since the difference between the two programmes is one of arrangement, emphasis, and xxvi]
degree, there is no fundamental reason why a combination especially adapted to English and
American schools cannot be worked out.
The broad contrast between a Montessori school and a kindergarten appears on actual
observation to be this: whereas the Montessori children spend almost all their time handling
things, largely according to their individual inclination and under individual guidance,
kindergarten children are generally engaged in group work and games with an imaginative
background and appeal. A possible principle of adjustment between the two systems might
be stated thus: work with objects designed for formal sensory, motor, and intellectual
training should be done individually or in purely voluntary groups; imaginative and social
activity should be carried on in regulated groups. This principle is suggested only as a
possible basis for education during the kindergarten age; for as children grow older they
must be taught in classes, and they naturally learn how to carry out imaginative and social
enterprises in free groups, and the former often alone. Nor should it be supposed that the
principle is suggested as a rule to which there can be no exception. It is suggested simply as
a general working hypothesis, the value of which must be tested in experience. Although it
has long been observed by kindergartners themselves that group-work with the Froebelian
materials, especially such work as involves geometrical analysis and formal design, soon
tires the children, it has been held that the kindergartner could safeguard her pupils from loss
of interest or real fatigue by watching carefully for the first signs of weariness and stopping
the work promptly on their appearance. For small groups of the older children, who can do [Pg
work of this sort with ease and enjoyment, no doubt the inevitable restraint of group teaching xxvii]
is a negligible factor, the fatiguing effects of which any good kindergartner can forestall. But
for younger children a régime of complete freedom would seem to promise better results—at
least so far as work with objects is concerned. In games, on the other hand, group teaching
means very little restraint and the whole process is less tiring any way. To differentiate in
method between these two kinds of activity may be the best way to keep them both in an
effective educational programme.
To speak of an effective educational programme leads at once, however, to an important
aspect of the Montessori system, quite aside from its relation to the kindergarten, with which
this Introduction must now deal. This is the social aspect, which finds its explanation in Dr.
Montessori's own story of her first school. In any discussion of the availability of the
Montessori system in English and American schools—particularly in American public
schools and English "Board" schools—two general conditions under which Dr. Montessori
did her early work in Rome should be borne in mind. She had her pupils almost all day long,
practically controlling their lives in their waking hours; and her pupils came for the most part
from families of the laboring class. We cannot expect to achieve the results Dr. Montessori
has achieved if we have our pupils under our guidance only two or three hours in the
morning, nor can we expect exactly similar results from children whose heredity and
experience make them at once more sensitive, more active, and less amenable to suggestion
than hers. If we are to make practical application of the Montessori scheme we must not
neglect to consider the modifications of it which differing social conditions may render [Pg
necessary. xxviii]

The conditions under which Dr. Montessori started her original school in Rome do not,
indeed, lack counterpart in large cities the world over. When one reads her eloquent
"Inaugural Address" it is impossible not to wish that a "School within the Home" might
stand as a centre of hopeful child life in the midst of every close-built city block. Better, of
course, if there were no hive-like city tenements at all, and if every family could give to its
own children on its own premises enough of "happy play in grassy places." Better if every
mother and father were in certain ways an expert in child psychology and hygiene. But while
so many unfortunate thousands still live in the hateful cliff-dwellings of our modern cities,
we must welcome Dr. Montessori's large conception of the social function of her "Houses of
Childhood" as a new gospel for the schools which serve the city poor. No matter what
didactic apparatus such schools may use, they should learn of Dr. Montessori the need of
longer hours, complete care of the children, closer co-operation with the home, and larger
aims. In such schools, too, it is probable that the two fundamental features of Dr.
Montessori's work—her principle of liberty and her scheme for sense training—will find
their completest and most fruitful application.
It is just these fundamental features, however, which will be most bitterly attacked
whenever the social status of the original Casa dei Bambini is forgotten. Anthropometric
measurements, baths, training in personal self-care, the serving of meals, gardening, and the
care of animals we may hear sweepingly recommended for all schools, even for those with a
three-hour session and a socially favored class of pupils; but the need for individual liberty [Pg
and for the training of the senses will be denied even in the work of schools where the xxix]
conditions correspond closely to those at San Lorenzo. Of course no practical educator will
actually propose bathtubs for all schools, and no doubt there will be plenty of wise
conservatism about transferring to a given school any function now well discharged by the
homes that support it. The problems raised by the proposal to apply in all schools the
Montessori conception of discipline and the Montessori sense-training are really more
difficult to solve. Is individual liberty a universal educational principle, or a principle which
must be modified in the case of a school with no such social status as that of the original
"House of Childhood"? Do all children need sense training, or only those of unfavorable
inheritance and home environment? No serious discussion of the Montessori system can
avoid these questions. What is said in answer to them here is written in the hope that
subsequent discussion may be somewhat influenced to keep in view the really deciding
factor in each case—the actual situation in the school.
There is occasion enough in these questions, to be sure, for philosophical and scientific
argument. The first question involves an ethical issue, the second a psychological issue, and
both may be followed through to purely metaphysical issues. Dr. Montessori believes in
liberty for the pupil because she thinks of life "as a superb goddess, ever advancing to new
conquests." Submission, loyalty, self-sacrifice seem to her, apparently, only incidental
necessities of life, not essential elements of its eternal form. There is obvious opportunity
here for profound difference of philosophic theory and belief. She seems to hold, too, that
sense perception forms the sole basis for the mental and hence for the moral life; that "sense
training will prepare the ordered foundation upon which the child may build up a clear and [Pg
strong mentality," including, apparently, his moral ideals; and that the cultivation of purpose xxx]
and of the imaginative and creative capacities of children is far less important than the
development of the power to learn from the environment by means of the senses. These
views seem to agree rather closely with those of Herbart and to some extent with those of
Locke. Certainly they offer material for both psychological and ethical debate. Possibly,
however, Dr. Montessori would not accept the views here ascribed to her on the evidence of
this book; and in any case these are matters for the philosopher and the psychologist. A
pedagogical issue is never wholly an issue of high principle.
Can it reasonably be maintained, then, that an actual situation like that in the first "House
of Childhood" at Rome is the only situation in which the Montessori principle of liberty can
justifiably find full application? Evidently the Roman school is a true Republic of Childhood,
in which nothing need take precedence of the child's claim to pursue an active purpose of his
own. Social restraints are here reduced to a minimum; the children must, to be sure,
subordinate individual caprice to the demands of the common good, they are not allowed to
quarrel or to interfere with each other, and they have duties to perform at stated times; but
each child is a citizen in a community governed wholly in the interests of the equally
privileged members thereof, his liberty is rarely interfered with, he is free to carry out his
own purposes, and he has as much influence in the affairs of the commonwealth as the
average member of an adult democracy. This situation is never duplicated in the home, for a
child is not only a member of the family, whose interests are to be considered with the rest, [Pg
but literally a subordinate member, whose interests must often be frankly set aside for those xxxi]
of an adult member or for those of the household itself. Children must come to dinner at
dinner time, even if continued digging in the sand would be more to their liking or better for
their general development of muscle, mind, or will. It is possible, of course, to refine on the
theory of the child's membership in the family community and of the right of elders to
command, but practically it remains true that the common conditions of family life prohibit
any such freedom as is exercised in a Montessori school. In the same way a school of large
enrollment that elects to cover in a given time so much work that individual initiative cannot
be trusted to compass it, is forced to teach certain things at nine o'clock and others at ten, and
to teach in groups; and the individual whose life is thus cabined and confined must get what
he can. For a given school the obvious question is, Considering the work to be done in the
time allowed, can we give up the safeguards of a fixed programme and group teaching? The
deeper question lies here: Is the work to be done in itself so important that it is worth while
to have the children go through it under compulsion or on interest induced by the teacher? Or
to put it another way: May not the work be so much less important than the child's freedom
that we had better trust to native curiosity and cleverly devised materials anyway and run the
risk of his losing part of the work, or even the whole of it?
For schools beyond the primary grade there will be no doubt as to the answer to this
question. There are many ways in which school work may safely be kept from being the
deadening and depressing process it so often is, but the giving up of all fixed and limited
schedules and the prescriptions of class teaching is not one of them. Even if complete liberty [Pg
of individual action were possible in schools of higher grade, it is not certain that it would be xxxii]
desirable: for we must learn to take up many of our purposes in life under social imperative.
But with young children the question becomes more difficult. What work do we wish to
make sure that each child does? If our schools can keep but half a day, is there time enough
for every child to cover this work without group teaching at stated times? Is the prescription
and restraint involved in such group teaching really enough to do the children any harm or to
make our teaching less effective? Can we not give up prescription altogether for parts of the
work and minimise it for others? The general question of individual liberty is thus reduced to
a series of practical problems of adjustment. It is no longer a question of total liberty or no
liberty at all, but a question of the practical mediation of these extremes. When we consider,
furthermore, that the teacher's skill and the attractiveness of her personality, the alluring
power of the didactic apparatus and the ease with which it enables children to learn, to say
nothing of a cheerful and pleasant room and the absence of set desks and seats, may all work
together to prevent scheduled teaching in groups from becoming in the least an occasion for
restraint, it is plain that in any given school there may be ample justification for abating the
rigour of Dr. Montessori's principle of freedom. Every school must work out its own solution
of the problem in the face of its particular conditions.
The adoption of sense-training would seem to be much less a matter for variable decision.
Some children may need less than others, but for all children between the ages of three and
five the Montessori material will prove fascinating as well as profitable. A good deal of [Pg
modern educational theory has been based on the belief that children are interested only in xxxiii]
what has social value, social content, or "real use"; yet a day with any normal child will give
ample evidence of the delight that children take in purely formal exercises. The sheer
fascination of tucking cards under the edge of a rug will keep a baby happy until any
ordinary supply of cards is exhausted; and the wholly sensory appeal of throwing stones into
the water gives satisfaction enough to absorb for a long time the attention of older children—
to say nothing of grown-ups. The Montessori apparatus satisfies sense hunger when it is keen
for new material, and it has besides a puzzle-interest which children eagerly respond to. Dr.
Montessori subordinates the value of the concrete mental content her material supplies to its
value in rendering the senses more acute; yet it is by no means certain that this content—
purely formal as it is—does not also give the material much of its importance. Indeed, the
refinement of sensory discrimination may not in itself be particularly valuable. What
Professor G. M. Whipple says on this point in his Manual of Menial and Physical Tests (p.
130) has much weight:

The use of sensory tests in correlation work is particularly interesting. In general, some writers are
convinced that keen discrimination is a prerequisite to keen intelligence, while others are equally
convinced that intelligence is essentially conditioned by "higher" processes, and only remotely by sensory
capacity—barring, of course, such diminution of capacity as to interfere seriously with the experiencing of
sensations, as in partial deafness or partial loss of vision. While it is scarcely the place here to discuss the
evolutionary significance of discriminative sensitivity, it may be pointed out that the normal capacity is
many times in excess of the actual demands of life, and that it is consequently difficult to understand why
nature has been so prolific and generous; to understand, in other words, what is the sanction for the [Pg
xxxiv]
seemingly hypertrophied discriminative capacity of the human sense organs. The usual "teleological
explanations" of our sensory life fail to account for this discrepancy. Again, the very fact of the existence
of this surplus capacity seems to negative at the outset the notion that sensory capacity can be a
conditioning factor in intelligence—with the qualification already noted.

It is quite possible that the real pedagogical value of the Montessori apparatus is due to the
fact that it keeps children happily engaged in the exercise of their senses and their fingers
when they crave such exercise most and to the further fact that it teaches them without the
least strain a good deal about forms and materials. These values are not likely to be much
affected by differing school conditions.
In the use of the material for sense-training, English and American teachers may find
profit in two general warnings. First, it should not be supposed that sense training alone will
accomplish all that Dr. Montessori accomplishes through the whole range of her school
activities. To fill up most of a morning with sense-training is to give it (except perhaps in the
case of the youngest pupils) undue importance. It is not even certain that the general use of
the senses will be much affected by it, to say nothing of the loss of opportunity for larger
physical and social activity. Second, the isolation of the senses should be used with some
care. To shut off sight is to take one step toward sleep, and the requirement that a child
concentrate his attention, in this situation, on the sense perceptions he gets by other means
than vision must not be maintained too long. No small strain is involved in mental action
without the usual means of information and control.
The proposal, mentioned above, of a feasible combination of the Montessori system and [Pg
the kindergarten may now be set forth. If it is put very briefly and without defense or xxxv]
prophecy, it is because it is made without dogmatism, simply in the hope that it will prove
suggestive to some open-minded teacher who is willing to try out any scheme that promises
well for her pupils. The conditions supposed are those of the ordinary American public-
school kindergarten, with a two-year programme beginning with children three and a half or
four years old, a kindergarten with not too many pupils, with a competent kindergartner and
assistant kindergartner, and with some help from training-school students.
The first proposal is for the use of the Montessori material during the better part of the first
year instead of the regular Froebelian material. To the use of the Montessori devices—
including the gymnastic apparatus—some of the time now devoted to pictures and stories
should also be applied. It is not suggested that no Froebelian material should be used, but
that the two systems be woven into each other, with a gradual transition from the free,
individual use of the Montessori objects to the same sort of use of the large sizes of the
Froebel gifts, especially the second, third, and fourth. When the children seem to be ready
for it, a certain amount of more formal work with the gifts should be begun. In the second
year the Froebelian gift work should predominate, without absolute exclusion of the
Montessori exercises. In the latter part of the second year the Montessori exercises
preparatory to writing should be introduced. Throughout the second year the full time for
stories and picture work should be given to them, and in both years the morning circle and
the games should be carried on as usual. The luncheon period should of course remain the
same. One part of Dr. Montessori's programme the kindergartner and her assistant should use [Pg
every effort to incorporate in their work—the valuable training in self-help and independent xxxvi]
action afforded in the care of the materials and equipment by the children themselves. This
need not be confined to the Montessori apparatus. Children who have been trained to take
out, use, and put away the Montessori objects until they are ready for the far richer variety of
material in the Froebelian system, should be able to care for it also. Of course if there are
children who can return in the afternoon, it would be very interesting to attempt the
gardening, which both Froebel and Montessori recommend, and the Montessori vase-work.
For the possible scorn of those to whom all compromise is distasteful, the author of this
Introduction seeks but one compensation—that any kindergartner who may happen to adopt
his suggestion will let him study the results.
As to the use of the Montessori system in the home, one or two remarks must suffice. In
the first place, parents should not expect that the mere presence of the material in the nursery
will be enough to work an educational miracle. A Montessori directress does no common
"teaching," but she is called upon for very skillful and very tiring effort. She must watch,
assist, inspire, suggest, guide, explain, correct, inhibit. She is supposed, in addition, to
contribute by her work to the upbuilding of a new science of pedagogy; but her educational
efforts—and education is not an investigative and experimental effort, but a practical and
constructive one—are enough to exhaust all her time, strength, and ingenuity. It will do no
harm—except perhaps to the material itself—to have the Montessori material at hand in the
home, but it must be used under proper guidance if it is to be educationally effective. And [Pg
besides, it must not be forgotten that the material is by no means the most important feature xxxvii]
of the Montessori programme. The best use of the Montessori system in the home will come
through the reading of this book. If parents shall learn from Dr. Montessori something of the
value of child life, of its need for activity, of its characteristic modes of expression, and of its
possibilities, and shall apply this knowledge wisely, the work of the great Italian educator
will be successful enough.
This Introduction cannot close without some discussion, however limited, of the important
problems suggested by the Montessori method of teaching children to write and to read. We
have in American schools admirable methods for the teaching of reading; by the Aldine
method, for instance, children of fair ability read without difficulty ten or more readers in the
first school year, and advance rapidly toward independent power. Our instruction in writing,
however, has never been particularly noteworthy. We have been trying recently to teach
children to write a flowing hand by the "arm movement," without much formation of
separate letters by the fingers, and our results seem to prove that the effort with children
before the age of ten is not worth while. Sensible school officers are content to let children in
the first four grades write largely by drawing the letters, and there has been, a fairly general
conviction that writing is not in any case especially important before the age of eight or nine.
In view of Dr. Montessori's success in teaching children of four and five to write with ease
and skill, must we not revise our estimate of the value of writing and our procedure in
teaching it? What changes may we profitably introduce in our teaching of reading? [Pg
xxxviii]
Here again our theory and our practice have suffered from the headstrong advocacy of
general principles. Because by clumsy methods children used to be kept at the task of
learning the school arts to the undoubted detriment of their minds and bodies, certain writers
have advocated the total exclusion of reading and writing from the early grades. Many
parents refuse to send their children to school until they are eight, preferring to let them "run
wild." This attitude is well justified by school conditions in some places; but where the
schools are good, it ignores not only the obvious advantages of school life quite aside from
instruction in written language, but also the almost complete absence of strain afforded by
modern methods. Now that the Montessori system adds a new and promising method to our
resources, it is the more unreasonable: for as a fact normal children are eager to read and
write at six, and have plenty of use for these accomplishments.
This does not mean, however, that reading and writing are so important for young children
that they should be unduly emphasised. If we can teach them without strain, let us do so, and
the more effectively the better; but let us remember, as Dr. Montessori does, that reading and
writing should form but a subordinate part of the experience of a child and should minister in
general to his other needs. With the best of methods the value of reading and writing before
six is questionable. Our conscious life is bookish enough as it is, and it would seem on
general grounds a safer policy to defer written language until the age of normal interest in it,
and even then not to devote to it more time than an easy and gradual mastery demands.
 Of the technical advantages of the Montessori scheme for writing there can be little doubt. [Pg
The child gains ready control over his pencil through exercises which have their own simple xxxix]
but absorbing interest; and if he does not learn to write with an "arm movement," we may be
quite content with his ability to draw a legible and handsome script. Then he learns the
letters—their forms, their names, and how to make them—through exercises which have the
very important technical characteristic of involving a thorough sensory analysis of the
material to be mastered. Meumann has taught us of late the great value in all memory work
of complete impression through prolonged and intensive analytical study. In the teaching of
spelling, for instance, it is comparatively useless to devise schemes for remembering unless
the original impressions are made strong and elaborate; and it is only by careful, varied, and
detailed sense impression that such material as the alphabet can be thus impressed. So
effective is the Montessori scheme for impressing the letters—especially because of its novel
use of the sense of touch—that the children learn how to make the whole alphabet before the
abstract and formal character of the material leads to any diminution of interest or
enthusiasm. Their initial curiosity over the characters they see their elders use is enough to
carry them through.
In Italian the next step is easy. The letters once learned, it is a simple matter to combine
them into words, for Italian spelling is so nearly phonetic that it presents very little difficulty
to any one who knows how to pronounce. It is at just this point that the teaching of English
reading by the Montessori method will find its greatest obstacle. Indeed, it is the unphonetic
character of English spelling that has largely influenced us to give up the alphabet method of
teaching children to read. Other reasons, to be sure, have also induced us to teach by the [Pg xl]
word and the sentence method; but this one has been and will continue to be the deciding
factor. We have found it more effective to teach children whole words, sentences, or rhymes
by sight, adding to sense impressions the interest aroused by a wide range of associations,
and then analysing the words thus acquired into their phonetic elements to give the children
independent power in the acquisition of new words. Our marked success with this method
makes it by no means certain that it is "in the characteristic process of natural development"
for children to build up written words from their elements—sounds and syllables. It would
seem, on the contrary, as James concluded, that the mind works quite as naturally in the
opposite direction—grasping wholes first, especially such as have a practical interest, and
then working down to their formal elements. In the teaching of spelling, of course, the
wholes (words) are already known at sight—that is, the pupil recognises them easily in
reading—and the process aims at impressing upon the child's mind the exact order of their
constituent elements. It is because reading and spelling are in English such completely
separate processes that we can teach a child to read admirably without making him a "good
speller" and are forced to bring him to the latter glorious state by new endeavours. We gain
by this separation both in reading and in spelling, as experience and comparative tests—
popular superstition to the contrary notwithstanding—have conclusively proved. The
mastery of the alphabet by the Montessori method will be of great assistance in teaching our
children to write, but of only incidental assistance in teaching them to read and to spell.
Once more, then, this Introduction attempts to suggest a compromise. In the school arts [Pg xli]
the programme used to such good effect in the Italian schools and the programme which has
been so well worked out in English and American schools may be profitably combined. We
can learn much about writing and reading from Dr. Montessori—especially from the freedom
her children have in the process of learning to write and in the use of their newly acquired
power, as well as from her device for teaching them to read connected prose. We can use her
materials for sense training and lead as she does to easy mastery of the alphabetic symbols.
Our own schemes for teaching reading we can retain, and doubtless the phonetic analysis
they involve we shall find easier and more effective because of our adoption of the
Montessori scheme for teaching the letters. The exact adjustment of the two methods is of
course a task for teachers in practice and for educational leaders.
To all educators this book should prove most interesting. Not many of them will expect
that the Montessori method will regenerate humanity. Not many will wish to see it—or any
method—produce a generation of prodigies such as those who have been heralded recently
in America. Not many will approve the very early acquisition by children of the arts of
reading and writing. But all who are fair-minded will admit the genius that shines from the
pages which follow, and the remarkable suggestiveness of Dr. Montessori's labors. It is the
task of the professional student of education to-day to submit all systems to careful
comparative study, and since Dr. Montessori's inventive power has sought its tests in
practical experience rather than in comparative investigation, this duller task remains to be
done. But however he may scrutinise the results of her work, the educator who reads of it
here will honour in the Dottoressa Maria Montessori the enthusiasm, the patience, and the [Pg xlii]
constructive insight of the scientist and the friend of humanity.
HENRY W. HOLMES.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY,
February 22, 1912.

THE MONTESSORI METHOD

[Pg 1]
CHAPTER I
A CRITICAL CONSIDERATION OF THE NEW
PEDAGOGY IN ITS RELATION TO MODERN SCIENCE
It is not my intention to present a treatise on Scientific Pedagogy. The modest design of
these incomplete notes is to give the results of an experiment that apparently opens the way
for putting into practice those new principles of science which in these last years are tending
to revolutionise the work of education.
Much has been said in the past decade concerning the tendency of pedagogy, following in
the footsteps of medicine, to pass beyond the purely speculative stage and base its
conclusions on the positive results of experimentation. Physiological or experimental
psychology which, from Weber and Fechner to Wundt, has become organised into a new
science, seems destined to furnish to the new pedagogy that fundamental preparation which
the old-time metaphysical psychology furnished to philosophical pedagogy. Morphological
anthropology applied to the physical study of children, is also a strong element in the growth
of the new pedagogy.
But in spite of all these tendencies, Scientific Pedagogy has never yet been definitely
constructed nor defined. It is something vague of which we speak, but which does not, in [Pg 2]
reality, exist. We might say that it has been, up to the present time, the mere intuition or
suggestion of a science which, by the aid of the positive and experimental sciences that have
renewed the thought of the nineteenth century, must emerge from the mist and clouds that
have surrounded it. For man, who has formed a new world through scientific progress, must
himself be prepared and developed through a new pedagogy. But I will not attempt to speak
of this more fully here.
Several years ago, a well-known physician established in Italy a School of Scientific
Pedagogy, the object of which was to prepare teachers to follow the new movement which
had begun to be felt in the pedagogical world. This school had, for two or three years, a great
success, so great, indeed, that teachers from all over Italy flocked to it, and it was endowed
by the City of Milan with a splendid equipment of scientific material. Indeed, its beginnings
were most propitious, and liberal help was afforded it in the hope that it might be possible to
establish, through the experiments carried on there, "the science of forming man."
The enthusiasm which welcomed this school was, in a large measure, due to the warm
support given it by the distinguished anthropologist, Giuseppe Sergi, who for more than
thirty years had earnestly laboured to spread among the teachers of Italy the principles of a
new civilisation based upon education. "To-day in the social world," said Sergi, "an
imperative need makes itself felt—the reconstruction of educational methods; and he who
fights for this cause, fights for human regeneration." In his pedagogical writings collected in
a volume under the title of "Educazione ed Istruzione" (Pensieri),[1] he gives a résumé of the [Pg 3]
lectures in which he encouraged this new movement, and says that he believes the way to
this desired regeneration lies in a methodical study of the one to be educated, carried on
under the guidance of pedagogical anthropology and of experimental psychology.
"For several years I have done battle for an idea concerning the instruction and education
of man, which appeared the more just and useful the more deeply I thought upon it. My idea
was that in order to establish natural, rational methods, it was essential that we make
numerous, exact, and rational observations of man as an individual, principally during
infancy, which is the age at which the foundations of education and culture must be laid.
"To measure the head, the height, etc., does not indeed mean that we are establishing a
system of pedagogy, but it indicates the road which we may follow to arrive at such a
system, since if we are to educate an individual, we must have a definite and direct
knowledge of him."
The authority of Sergi was enough to convince many that, given such a knowledge of the
individual, the art of educating him would develop naturally. This, as often happens, led to a
confusion of ideas among his followers, arising now from a too literal interpretation, now
from an exaggeration, of the master's ideas. The chief trouble lay in confusing the
experimental study of the pupil, with his education. And since the one was the road leading
to the other, which should have grown from it naturally and rationally, they straightway gave
the name of Scientific Pedagogy to what was in truth pedagogical anthropology. These new
converts carried as their banner, the "Biographical Chart," believing that once this ensign [Pg 4]
was firmly planted upon the battle-field of the school, the victory would be won.
The so-called School of Scientific Pedagogy, therefore, instructed the teachers in the
taking of anthropometric measurements, in the use of esthesiometric instruments, in the
gathering of Psychological Data—and the army of new scientific teachers was formed.
It should be said that in this movement Italy showed herself to be abreast of the times. In
France, in England, and especially in America, experiments have been made in the
elementary schools, based upon a study of anthropology and psychological pedagogy, in the
hope of finding in anthropometry and psychometry, the regeneration of the school. In these
attempts it has rarely been the teachers who have carried on the research; the experiments
have been, in most cases, in the hands of physicians who have taken more interest in their
especial science than in education. They have usually sought to get from their experiments
some contribution to psychology, or anthropology, rather than to attempt to organise their
work and their results toward the formation of the long-sought Scientific Pedagogy. To sum
up the situation briefly, anthropology and psychology have never devoted themselves to the
question of educating children in the schools, nor have the scientifically trained teachers ever
measured up to the standards of genuine scientists.
The truth is that the practical progress of the school demands a genuine fusion of these
modern tendencies, in practice and thought; such a fusion as shall bring scientists directly
into the important field of the school and at the same time raise teachers from the inferior
intellectual level to which they are limited to-day. Toward this eminently practical ideal the
University School of Pedagogy, founded in Italy by Credaro, is definitely working. It is the [Pg 5]
intention of this school to raise Pedagogy from the inferior position it has occupied as a
secondary branch of philosophy, to the dignity of a definite science, which shall, as does
Medicine, cover a broad and varied field of comparative study.
And among the branches affiliated with it will most certainly be found Pedagogical
Hygiene, Pedagogical Anthropology, and Experimental Psychology.
Truly, Italy, the country of Lombroso, of De-Giovanni, and of Sergi, may claim the honour
of being pre-eminent in the organisation of such a movement. In fact, these three scientists
may be called the founders of the new tendency in Anthropology: the first leading the way in
criminal anthropology, the second in medical anthropology, and the third in pedagogical
anthropology. For the good fortune of science, all three of them have been the recognised
leaders of their special lines of thought, and have been so prominent in the scientific world
that they have not only made courageous and valuable disciples, but have also prepared the
minds of the masses to receive the scientific regeneration which they have encouraged. (For
reference, see my treatise "Pedagogical Anthropology.")[2]
Surely all this is something of which our country may be justly proud.

To-day, however, those things which occupy us in the field of education are the interests of
humanity at large, and of civilisation, and before such great forces we can recognise only one
country—the entire world. And in a cause of such great importance, all those who have
given any contribution, even though it be only an attempt not crowned with success, are [Pg 6]
worthy of the respect of humanity throughout the civilised world. So, in Italy, the schools of
Scientific Pedagogy and the Anthropological Laboratories, which have sprung up in the
various cities through the efforts of elementary teachers and scholarly inspectors, and which
have been abandoned almost before they became definitely organised, have nevertheless a
great value by reason of the faith which inspired them, and because of the doors they have
opened to thinking people.
It is needless to say that such attempts were premature and sprang from too slight a
comprehension of new sciences still in the process of development. Every great cause is born
from repeated failures and from imperfect achievements. When St. Francis of Assisi saw his
Lord in a vision, and received from the Divine lips the command—"Francis, rebuild my
Church!"—he believed that the Master spoke of the little church within which he knelt at
that moment. And he immediately set about the task, carrying upon his shoulders the stones
with which he meant to rebuild the fallen walls. It was not until later that he became aware of
the fact that his mission was to renew the Catholic Church through the spirit of poverty. But
the St. Francis who so ingenuously carried the stones, and the great reformer who so
miraculously led the people to a triumph of the spirit, are one and the same person in
different stages of development. So we, who work toward one great end, are members of one
and the same body; and those who come after us will reach the goal only because there were
those who believed and laboured before them. And, like St. Francis, we have believed that
by carrying the hard and barren stones of the experimental laboratory to the old and [Pg 7]
crumbling walls of the school, we might rebuild it. We have looked upon the aids offered by
the materialistic and mechanical sciences with the same hopefulness with which St. Francis
looked upon the squares of granite, which he must carry upon his shoulders.
Thus we have been drawn into a false and narrow way, from which we must free
ourselves, if we are to establish true and living methods for the training of future generations.

To prepare teachers in the method of the experimental sciences is not an easy matter.
When we shall have instructed them in anthropometry and psychometry in the most minute
manner possible, we shall have only created machines, whose usefulness will be most
doubtful. Indeed, if it is after this fashion that we are to initiate our teachers into experiment,
we shall remain forever in the field of theory. The teachers of the old school, prepared
according to the principles of metaphysical philosophy, understood the ideas of certain men
regarded as authorities, and moved the muscles of speech in talking of them, and the muscles
of the eye in reading their theories. Our scientific teachers, instead, are familiar with certain
instruments and know how to move the muscles of the hand and arm in order to use these
instruments; besides this, they have an intellectual preparation which consists of a series of
typical tests, which they have, in a barren and mechanical way, learned how to apply.
The difference is not substantial, for profound differences cannot exist in exterior
technique alone, but lie rather within the inner man. Not with all our initiation into scientific
experiment have we prepared new masters, for, after all, we have left them standing without [Pg 8]
the door of real experimental science; we have not admitted them to the noblest and most
profound phase of such study,—to that experience which makes real scientists.
And, indeed, what is a scientist? Not, certainly, he who knows how to manipulate all the
instruments in the physical laboratory, or who in the laboratory of the chemist handles the
various reactives with deftness and security, or who in biology knows how to make ready the
specimens for the microscope. Indeed, it is often the case that an assistant has a greater
dexterity in experimental technique than the master scientist himself. We give the name
scientist to the type of man who has felt experiment to be a means guiding him to search out
the deep truth of life, to lift a veil from its fascinating secrets, and who, in this pursuit, has
felt arising within him a love for the mysteries of nature, so passionate as to annihilate the
thought of himself. The scientist is not the clever manipulator of instruments, he is the
worshipper of nature and he bears the external symbols of his passion as does the follower of
some religious order. To this body of real scientists belong those who, forgetting, like the
Trappists of the Middle Ages, the world about them, live only in the laboratory, careless
often in matters of food and dress because they no longer think of themselves; those who,
through years of unwearied use of the microscope, become blind; those who in their
scientific ardour inoculate themselves with tuberculosis germs; those who handle the
excrement of cholera patients in their eagerness to learn the vehicle through which the
diseases are transmitted; and those who, knowing that a certain chemical preparation may be
an explosive, still persist in testing their theories at the risk of their lives. This is the spirit of [Pg 9]
the men of science, to whom nature freely reveals her secrets, crowning their labours with
the glory of discovery.
There exists, then, the "spirit" of the scientist, a thing far above his mere "mechanical
skill," and the scientist is at the height of his achievement when the spirit has triumphed over
the mechanism. When he has reached this point, science will receive from him not only new
revelations of nature, but philosophic syntheses of pure thought.
It is my belief that the thing which we should cultivate in our teachers is more the spirit
than the mechanical skill of the scientist; that is, the direction of the preparation should be
toward the spirit rather than toward the mechanism. For example, when we considered the
scientific preparation of teachers to be simply the acquiring of the technique of science, we
did not attempt to make these elementary teachers perfect anthropologists, expert
experimental psychologists, or masters of infant hygiene; we wished only to direct them
toward the field of experimental science, teaching them to manage the various instruments
with a certain degree of skill. So now, we wish to direct the teacher, trying to awaken in him,
in connection with his own particular field, the school, that scientific spirit which opens the
door for him to broader and bigger possibilities. In other words, we wish to awaken in the
mind and heart of the educator an interest in natural phenomena to such an extent that,
loving nature, he shall understand the anxious and expectant attitude of one who has
prepared an experiment and who awaits a revelation from it.[3]
The instruments are like the alphabet, and we must know how to manage them if we are to [Pg 10]
read nature; but as the book, which contains the revelation of the greatest thoughts of an
author, uses in the alphabet the means of composing the external symbols or words, so
nature, through the mechanism of the experiment, gives us an infinite series of revelations,
unfolding for us her secrets.
Now one who has learned to spell mechanically all the words in his spelling-book, would
be able to read in the same mechanical way the words in one of Shakespeare's plays,
provided the print were sufficiently clear. He who is initiated solely into the making of the
bare experiment, is like one who spells out the literal sense of the words in the spelling-
book; it is on such a level that we leave the teachers if we limit their preparation to technique
alone.
We must, instead, make of them worshippers and interpreters of the spirit of nature. They
must be like him who, having learned to spell, finds himself, one day, able to read behind the
written symbols the thought of Shakespeare, or Goethe, or Dante. As may be seen, the
difference is great, and the road long. Our first error was, however, a natural one. The child
who has mastered the spelling-book gives the impression of knowing how to read. Indeed, he
does read the signs over the shop doors, the names of newspapers, and every word that
comes under his eyes. It would be very natural if, entering a library, this child should be
deluded into thinking that he knew how to read the sense of all the books he saw there. But
attempting to do this, he would soon feel that "to know how to read mechanically" is
nothing, and that he needs to go back to school. So it is with the teachers whom we have [Pg 11]
thought to prepare for scientific pedagogy by teaching them anthropometry and psychometry.

But let us put aside the difficulty of preparing scientific masters in the accepted sense of
the word. We will not even attempt to outline a programme of such preparation, since this
would lead us into a discussion which has no place here. Let us suppose, instead, that we
have already prepared teachers through long and patient exercises for the observation of
nature, and that we have led them, for example, to the point attained by those students of
natural sciences who rise at night and go into the woods and fields that they may surprise the
awakening and the early activities of some family of insects in which they are interested.
Here we have the scientist who, though he may be sleepy and tired with walking, is full of
watchfulness, who is not aware that he is muddy or dusty, that the mist wets him, or the sun
burns him; but is intent only upon not revealing in the least degree his presence, in order that
the insects may, hour after hour, carry on peacefully those natural functions which he wishes
to observe. Let us suppose these teachers to have reached the standpoint of the scientist who,
half blind, still watches through his microscope the spontaneous movements of some
particular infusory animalcule. These creatures seem to this scientific watcher, in their
manner of avoiding each other and in their way of selecting their food, to possess a dim
intelligence. He then disturbs this sluggish life by an electric stimulus, observing how some
group themselves about the positive pole, and others about the negative. Experimenting
further, with a luminous stimulus, he notices how some run toward the light, while others fly [Pg 12]
from it. He investigates these and like phenomena; having always in mind this question:
whether the fleeing from or running to the stimulus be of the same character as the avoidance
of one another or the selection of food—that is, whether such differences are the result of
choice and are due to that dim consciousness, rather than to physical attraction or repulsion
similar to that of the magnet. And let us suppose that this scientist, finding it to be four
o'clock in the afternoon, and that he has not yet lunched, is conscious, with a feeling of
pleasure, of the fact that he has been at work in his laboratory instead of in his own home,
where they would have called him hours ago, interrupting his interesting observation, in
order that he might eat.
Let us imagine, I say, that the teacher has arrived, independently of his scientific training,
at such an attitude of interest in the observation of natural phenomena. Very well, but such a
preparation is not enough. The master, indeed, is destined in his particular mission not to the
observation of insects or of bacteria, but of man. He is not to make a study of man in the
manifestations of his daily physical habits as one studies some family of insects, following
their movements from the hour of their morning awakening. The master is to study man in
the awakening of his intellectual life.
The interest in humanity to which we wish to educate the teacher must be characterised by
the intimate relationship between the observer and the individual to be observed; a
relationship which does not exist between the student of zoology or botany and that form of
nature which he studies. Man cannot love the insect or the chemical reaction which he
studies, without sacrificing a part of himself. This self-sacrifice seems to one who looks at it [Pg 13]
from the standpoint of the world, a veritable renunciation of life itself, almost a martyrdom.
But the love of man for man in a far more tender thing, and so simple that it is universal.
To love in this way is not the privilege of any especially prepared intellectual class, but lies
within the reach of all men.
To give an idea of this second form of preparation, that of the spirit, let us try to enter into
the minds and hearts of those first followers of Christ Jesus as they heard Him speak of a
Kingdom not of this world, greater far than any earthly kingdom, no matter how royally
conceived. In their simplicity they asked of Him, "Master, tell us who shall be greatest in the
Kingdom of Heaven!" To which Christ, caressing the head of a little child who, with
reverent, wondering eyes, looked into His face, replied, "Whosoever shall become as one of
these little ones, he shall be greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven." Now let us picture among
those to whom these words were spoken, an ardent, worshipping soul, who takes them into
his heart. With a mixture of respect and love, of sacred curiosity and of a desire to achieve
this spiritual greatness, he sets himself to observe every manifestation of this little child.
Even such an observer placed in a classroom filled with little children will not be the new
educator whom we wish to form. But let us seek to implant in the soul the self-sacrificing
spirit of the scientist with the reverent love of the disciple of Christ, and we shall have
prepared the spirit of the teacher. From the child itself he will learn how to perfect himself as
an educator.
 Let us consider the attitude of the teacher in the light of another example. Picture to
yourself one of our botanists or zoologists experienced in the technique of observation and [Pg 14]
experimentation; one who has travelled in order to study "certain fungi" in their native
environment. This scientist has made his observations in open country and, then, by the aid
of his microscope and of all his laboratory appliances, has carried on the later research work
in the most minute way possible. He is, in fact, a scientist who understands what it is to
study nature, and who is conversant with all the means which modern experimental science
offers for this study.

Now let us imagine such a man appointed, by reason of the original work he has done, to a
chair of science in some university, with the task before him of doing further original
research work with hymenoptera. Let us suppose that, arrived at his post, he is shown a
glass-covered case containing a number of beautiful butterflies, mounted by means of pins,
their outspread wings motionless. The student will say that this is some child's play, not
material for scientific study, that these specimens in the box are more fitly a part of the game
which the little boys play, chasing butterflies and catching them in a net. With such material
as this the experimental scientist can do nothing.
The situation would be very much the same if we should place a teacher who, according to
our conception of the term, is scientifically prepared, in one of the public schools where the
children are repressed in the spontaneous expression of their personality till they are almost
like dead beings. In such a school the children, like butterflies mounted on pins, are fastened
each to his place, the desk, spreading the useless wings of barren and meaningless
knowledge which they have acquired. [Pg 15]

It is not enough, then, to prepare in our Masters the scientific spirit. We must also make
ready the school for their observation. The school must permit the free, natural
manifestations of the child if in the school scientific pedagogy is to be born. This is the
essential reform.
No one may affirm that such a principle already exists in pedagogy and in the school. It is
true that some pedagogues, led by Rousseau, have given voice to impracticable principles
and vague aspirations for the liberty of the child, but the true concept of liberty is practically
unknown to educators. They often have the same concept of liberty which animates a people
in the hour of rebellion from slavery, or perhaps, the conception of social liberty, which
although it is a more elevated idea is still invariably restricted. "Social liberty" signifies
always one more round of Jacob's ladder. In other words it signifies a partial liberation, the
liberation of a country, of a class, or of thought.
That concept of liberty which must inspire pedagogy is, instead, universal. The biological
sciences of the nineteenth century have shown it to us when they have offered us the means
for studying life. If, therefore, the old-time pedagogy foresaw or vaguely expressed the
principle of studying the pupil before educating him, and of leaving him free in his
spontaneous manifestations, such an intuition, indefinite and barely expressed, was made
possible of practical attainment only after the contribution of the experimental sciences
during the last century. This is not a case for sophistry or discussion, it is enough that we
state our point. He who would say that the principle of liberty informs the pedagogy of to-
day, would make us smile as at a child who, before the box of mounted butterflies, should
insist that they were alive and could fly. The principle of slavery still pervades pedagogy, [Pg 16]
and, therefore, the same principle pervades the school. I need only give one proof—the
stationary desks and chairs. Here we have, for example, a striking evidence of the errors of
the early materialistic scientific pedagogy which, with mistaken zeal and energy, carried the
barren stones of science to the rebuilding of the crumbling walls of the school. The schools
were at first furnished with the long, narrow benches upon which the children were crowded
together. Then came science and perfected the bench. In this work much attention was paid
to the recent contributions of anthropology. The age of the child and the length of his limbs
were considered in placing the seat at the right height. The distance between the seat and the
desk was calculated with infinite care, in order that the child's back should not become
deformed, and, finally, the seats were separated and the width so closely calculated that the
child could barely seat himself upon it, while to stretch himself by making any lateral
movements was impossible. This was done in order that he might be separated from his
neighbour. These desks are constructed in such a way as to render the child visible in all his
immobility. One of the ends sought through this separation is the prevention of immoral acts
in the schoolroom. What shall we say of such prudence in a state of society where it would
be considered scandalous to give voice to principles of sex morality in education, for fear we
might thus contaminate innocence? And, yet, here we have science lending itself to this
hypocrisy, fabricating machines! Not only this; obliging science goes farther still, perfecting
the benches in such a way as to permit to the greatest possible extent the immobility of the
child, or, if you wish, to repress every movement of the child. [Pg 17]

It is all so arranged that, when the child is well-fitted into his place, the desk and chair
themselves force him to assume the position considered to be hygienically comfortable. The
seat, the foot-rest, the desks are arranged in such a way that the child can never stand at his
work. He is allotted only sufficient space for sitting in an erect position. It is in such ways
that schoolroom desks and benches have advanced toward perfection. Every cult of the so-
called scientific pedagogy has designed a model scientific desk. Not a few nations have
become proud of their "national desk,"—and in the struggle of competition these various
machines have been patented.
Undoubtedly there is much that is scientific underlying the construction of these benches.
Anthropology has been drawn upon in the measuring of the body and the diagnosis of the
age; physiology, in the study of muscular movements; psychology, in regard to perversion of
instincts; and, above all, hygiene, in the effort to prevent curvature of the spine. These desks
were indeed scientific, following in their construction the anthropological study of the child.
We have here, as I have said, an example of the literal application of science to the schools.
I believe that before very long we shall all be struck with great surprise by this attitude. It
will seem incomprehensible that the fundamental error of the desk should not have been
revealed earlier through the attention given to the study of infant hygiene, anthropology, and
sociology, and through the general progress of thought. The marvel is greater when we
consider that during the past years there has been stirring in almost every nation a movement
toward the protection of the child.
I believe that it will not be many years before the public, scarcely believing the
descriptions of these scientific benches, will come to touch with wondering bands the [Pg 18]
amazing seats that were constructed for the purpose of preventing among our school children
curvature of the spine!
The development of these scientific benches means that the pupils were subjected to a
régime, which, even though they were born strong and straight, made it possible for them to
become humpbacked! The vertebral column, biologically the most primitive, fundamental,
and oldest part of the skeleton, the most fixed portion, of our body, since the skeleton is the
most solid portion of the organism—the vertebral column, which resisted and was strong
through the desperate struggles of primitive man when he fought against the desert-lion,
when he conquered the mammoth, when he quarried the solid rock and shaped the iron to his
uses, bends, and cannot resist, under the yoke of the school.
 It is incomprehensible that so-called science should have worked to perfect an instrument
of slavery in the school without being enlightened by one ray from the movement of social
liberation, growing and developing throughout the world. For the age of scientific benches
was also the age of the redemption of the working classes from the yoke of unjust labor.
The tendency toward social liberty is most evident, and manifests itself on every hand.
The leaders of the people make it their slogan, the labouring masses repeat the cry, scientific
and socialistic publications voice the same movement, our journals are full of it. The
underfed workman does not ask for a tonic, but for better economic conditions which shall
prevent malnutrition. The miner who, through the stooping position maintained during many
hours of the day, is subject to inguinal rupture, does not ask for an abdominal support, but [Pg 19]
demands shorter hours and bettor working conditions, in order that he may be able to lead a
healthy life like other men.
And when, during this same social epoch, we find that the children in our schoolrooms are
working amid unhygienic conditions, so poorly adapted to normal development that even the
skeleton becomes deformed, our response to this terrible revelation is an orthopedic bench. It
is much as if we offered to the miner the abdominal brace, or arsenic to the underfed
workman.
Some time ago a woman, believing me to be in sympathy with all scientific innovations
concerning the school, showed me with evident satisfaction a corset or brace for pupils. She
had invented this and felt that it would complete the work of the bench.
Surgery has still other means for the treatment of spinal curvature. I might mention
orthopedic instruments, braces, and a method of periodically suspending the child, by the
head or shoulders, in such a fashion that the weight of the body stretches and thus straightens
the vertebral column. In the school, the orthopedic instrument in the shape of the desk is in
great favour to-day; someone proposes the brace—one step farther and it will be suggested
that we give the scholars a systematic course in the suspension method!
All this is the logical consequence of a material application of the methods of science to
the decadent school. Evidently the rational method of combating spinal curvature in the
pupils, is to change the form of their work—so that they shall no longer be obliged to remain
for so many hours a day in a harmful position. It is a conquest of liberty which the school
needs, not the mechanism of a bench. [Pg 20]

Even were the stationary seat helpful to the child's body, it would still be a dangerous and
unhygienic feature of the environment, through the difficulty of cleaning the room perfectly
when the furniture cannot be moved. The foot-rests, which cannot be removed, accumulate
the dirt carried in daily from the street by the many little feet. To-day there is a general
transformation in the matter of house furnishings. They are made lighter and simpler so that
they may be easily moved, dusted, and even washed. But the school seems blind to the
transformation of the social environment.

It behooves us to think of what may happen to the spirit of the child who is condemned to
grow in conditions so artificial that his very bones may become deformed. When we speak of
the redemption of the workingman, it is always understood that beneath the most apparent
form of suffering, such as poverty of the blood, or ruptures, there exists that other wound
from which the soul of the man who is subjected to any form of slavery must suffer. It is at
this deeper wrong that we aim when we say that the workman must be redeemed through
liberty. We know only too well that when a man's very blood has been consumed or his
intestines wasted away through his work, his soul must have lain oppressed in darkness,
rendered insensible, or, it may be, killed within him. The moral degradation of the slave is,
above all things, the weight that opposes the progress of humanity—humanity striving to rise
and held back by this great burden. The cry of redemption speaks far more clearly for the
souls of men than for their bodies.
What shall we say then, when the question before us is that of educating children? [Pg 21]

We know only too well the sorry spectacle of the teacher who, in the ordinary schoolroom,
must pour certain cut and dried facts into the heads of the scholars. In order to succeed in this
barren task, she finds it necessary to discipline her pupils into immobility and to force their
attention. Prizes and punishments are every-ready and efficient aids to the master who must
force into a given attitude of mind and body those who are condemned to be his listeners.
It is true that to-day it is deemed expedient to abolish official whippings and habitual
blows, just as the awarding of prizes has become less ceremonious. These partial reforms are
another prop approved of by science, and offered to the support of the decadent school. Such
prizes and punishments are, if I may be allowed the expression, the bench of the soul, the
instrument of slavery for the spirit. Here, however, these are not applied to lessen
deformities, but to provoke them. The prize and the punishment are incentives toward
unnatural or forced effort, and, therefore we certainly cannot speak of the natural
development of the child in connection with them. The jockey offers a piece of sugar to his
horse before jumping into the saddle, the coachman beats his horse that he may respond to
the signs given by the reins; and, yet, neither of these runs so superbly as the free horse of
the plains.
And here, in the case of education, shall man place the yoke upon man?
True, we say that social man is natural man yoked to society. But if we give a
comprehensive glance to the moral progress of society, we shall see that little by little, the
yoke is being made easier, in other words, we shall see that nature, or life, moves gradually
toward triumph. The yoke of the slave yields to that of the servant, and the yoke of the [Pg 22]
servant to that of the workman.
All forms of slavery tend little by little to weaken and disappear, even the sexual slavery
of woman. The history of civilisation is a history of conquest and of liberation. We should
ask in what stage of civilisation we find ourselves and if, in truth, the good of prizes and of
punishments be necessary to our advancement. If we have indeed gone beyond this point,
then to apply such a form of education would be to draw the new generation back to a lower
level, not to lead them into their true heritage of progress.
Something very like this condition of the school exists in society, in the relation between
the government and the great numbers of the men employed in its administrative
departments. These clerks work day after day for the general national good, yet they do not
feel or see the advantage of their work in any immediate reward. That is, they do not realise
that the state carries on its great business through their daily tasks, and that the whole nation
is benefited by their work. For them the immediate good is promotion, as passing to a higher
class is for the child in school. The man who loses sight of the really big aim of his work is
like a child who has been placed in a class below his real standing: like a slave, he is cheated
of something which is his right. His dignity as a man is reduced to the limits of the dignity of
a machine which must be oiled if it is to be kept going, because it does not have within itself
the impulse of life. All those petty things such as the desire for decorations or medals, are but
artificial stimuli, lightening for the moment the dark, barren path in which he treads.
In the same way we give prizes to school children. And the fear of not achieving [Pg 23]
promotion, withholds the clerk from running away, and binds him to his monotonous work,
even as the fear of not passing into the next class drives the pupil to his book. The reproof of
the superior is in every way similar to the scolding of the teacher. The correction of badly
executed clerical work is equivalent to the bad mark placed by the teacher upon the scholar's
poor composition. The parallel is almost perfect.
But if the administrative departments are not carried on in a way which would seem
suitable to a nation's greatness; if corruption too easily finds a place; it is the result of having
extinguished the true greatness of man in the mind of the employee, and of having restricted
his vision to those petty, immediate facts, which he has come to look upon as prizes and
punishments. The country stands, because the rectitude of the greater number of its
employees is such that they resist the corruption of the prizes and punishments, and follow
an irresistible current of honesty. Even as life in the social environment triumphs against
every cause of poverty and death, and proceeds to new conquests, so the instinct of liberty
conquers all obstacles, going from victory to victory.
It is this personal and yet universal force of life, a force often latent within the soul, that
sends the world forward.

But he who accomplishes a truly human work, he who does something really great and
victorious, is never spurred to his task by those trifling attractions called by the name of
"prizes," nor by the fear of those petty ills which we call "punishments." If in a war a great
army of giants should fight with no inspiration beyond the desire to win promotion, epaulets,
or medals, or through fear of being shot, if these men were to oppose a handful of pygmies [Pg 24]
who were inflamed by love of country, the victory would go to the latter. When real heroism
has died within an army, prizes and punishments cannot do more than finish the work of
deterioration, bringing in corruption and cowardice.
All human victories, all human progress, stand upon the inner force.
Thus a young student may become a great doctor if he is spurred to his study by an
interest which makes medicine his real vocation. But if he works in the hope of an
inheritance, or of making a desirable marriage, or if indeed he is inspired by any material
advantage, he will never become a true master or a great doctor, and the world will never
make one step forward because of his work. He to whom such stimuli are necessary, had far
better never become a physician. Everyone has a special tendency, a special vocation,
modest, perhaps, but certainly useful. The system of prizes may turn an individual aside from
this vocation, may make him choose a false road, for him a vain one, and forced to follow it,
the natural activity of a human being may be warped, lessened, even annihilated.
We repeat always that the world progresses and that we must urge men forward to obtain
progress. But progress comes from the new things that are born, and these, not being
foreseen, are not rewarded with prizes: rather, they often carry the leader to martyrdom. God
forbid that poems should ever be born of the desire to be crowned in the Capitol! Such a
vision need only come into the heart of the poet and the muse will vanish. The poem must
spring from the soul of the poet, when he thinks neither of himself nor of the prize. And if he
does win the laurel, he will feel the vanity of such a prize. The true reward lies in the [Pg 25]
revelation through the poem of his own triumphant inner force.
There does exist, however, an external prize for man; when, for example, the orator sees
the faces of his listeners change with the emotions he has awakened, he experiences
something so great that it can only be likened to the intense joy with which one discovers
that he is loved. Our joy is to touch, and conquer souls, and this is the one prize which can
bring us a true compensation.
 Sometimes there is given to us a moment when we fancy ourselves to be among the great
ones of the world. These are moments of happiness given to man that he may continue his
existence in peace. It may be through love attained or because of the gift of a son, through a
glorious discovery or the publication of a book; in some such moment we feel that there
exists no man who is above us. If, in such a moment, someone vested with authority comes
forward to offer us a medal or a prize, he is the important destroyer of our real reward
—"And who are you?" our vanished illusion shall cry, "Who are you that recalls me to the
fact that I am not the first among men? Who stands so far above me that he may give me a
prize?" The prize of such a man in such a moment can only be Divine.
As for punishments, the soul of the normal man grows perfect through expanding, and
punishment as commonly understood is always a form of repression. It may bring results
with those inferior natures who grow in evil, but these are very few, and social progress is
not affected by them. The penal code threatens us with punishment if we are dishonest
within the limits indicated by the laws. But we are not honest through fear of the laws; if we [Pg 26]
do not rob, if we do not kill, it is because we love peace, because the natural trend of our
lives leads us forward, leading us ever farther and more definitely away from the peril of low
and evil acts.
Without going into the ethical or metaphysical aspects of the question, we may safely
affirm that the delinquent before he transgresses the law, has, if he knows of the existence of a
punishment, felt the threatening weight of the criminal code upon him. He has defined it, or
he has been lured into the crime, deluding himself with the idea that he would be able to
avoid the punishment of the law. But there has occurred within his mind, a struggle between
the crime and the punishment. Whether it be efficacious in hindering crime or not, this penal
code is undoubtedly made for a very limited class of individuals; namely, criminals. The
enormous majority of citizens are honest without any regard whatever to the threats of the
law.
The real punishment of normal man is the loss of the consciousness of that individual
power and greatness which are the sources of his inner life. Such a punishment often falls
upon men in the fullness of success. A man whom we would consider crowned by happiness
and fortune may be suffering from this form of punishment. Far too often man does not see
the real punishment which threatens him.

And it is just here that education may help.

To-day we hold the pupils in school, restricted by those instruments so degrading to body
and spirit, the desk—and material prizes and punishments. Our aim in all this is to reduce
them to the discipline of immobility and silence,—to lead them,—where? Far too often
toward no definite end. [Pg 27]

Often the education of children consists in pouring into their intelligence the intellectual
contents of school programmes. And often these programmes have been compiled in the
official department of education, and their use is imposed by law upon the teacher and the
child.
Ah, before such dense and wilful disregard of the life which is growing within these
children, we should hide our heads in shame and cover our guilty faces with our hands!
Sergi says truly: "To-day an urgent need imposes itself upon society: the reconstruction of
methods in education and instruction, and he who fights for this cause, fights for human
regeneration."
 [1] Trevisini, 1892.
[2] Montessori: "L'Antropologia Pedagogica." Vallardi.

[3] See in my treatise on Pedagogical Anthropology the chapter on "The Method

Used In Experimental Sciences."

[Pg 28]
CHAPTER II

HISTORY OF METHODS
If we are to develop a system of scientific pedagogy, we must, then, proceed along lines
very different from those which have been followed up to the present time. The
transformation of the school must be contemporaneous with the preparation of the teacher.
For if we make of the teacher an observer, familiar with the experimental methods, then we
must make it possible for her to observe and to experiment in the school. The fundamental
principle of scientific pedagogy must be, indeed, the liberty of the pupil;—such liberty as
shall permit a development of individual, spontaneous manifestations of the child's nature. If
a new and scientific pedagogy is to arise from the study of the individual, such study must
occupy itself with the observation of free children. In vain should we await a practical
renewing of pedagogical methods from methodical examinations of pupils made under the
guidance offered to-day by pedagogy, anthropology, and experimental psychology.
Every branch of experimental science has grown out of the application of a method
peculiar to itself. Bacteriology owes its scientific content to the method of isolation and
culture of microbes. Criminal, medical, and pedagogical anthropology owe their progress to
the application of anthropological methods to individuals of various classes, such as
criminals, the insane, the sick of the clinics, scholars. So experimental psychology needs as [Pg 29]
its starting point an exact definition of the technique to be used in making the experiment.
To put it broadly, it is important to define the method, the technique, and from its
application to await the definite result, which must be gathered entirely from actual
experience. One of the characteristics of experimental sciences is to proceed to the making of
an experiment without preconceptions of any sort as to the final result of the experiment
itself. For example, should we wish to make scientific observations concerning the
development of the head as related to varying degrees of intelligence, one of the conditions
of such an experiment would be to ignore, in the taking of the measurements, which were the
most intelligent and which the most backward among the scholars examined. And this
because the preconceived idea that the most intelligent should have the head more fully
developed will inevitably alter the results of the research.
He who experiments must, while doing so, divest himself of every preconception. It is
clear then that if we wish to make use of a method of experimental psychology, the first thing
necessary is to renounce all former creeds and to proceed by means of the method in the
search for truth.
We must not start, for example, from any dogmatic ideas which we may happen to have
held upon the subject of child psychology. Instead, we must proceed by a method which shall
tend to make possible to the child complete liberty. This we must do if we are to draw from
the observation of his spontaneous manifestations conclusions which shall lead to the
establishment of a truly scientific child psychology. It may be that such a method holds for us [Pg 30]
great surprises, unexpected possibilities.
Child psychology and pedagogy must establish their content by successive conquests
arrived at through the method of experimentation.

Our problem then, is this: to establish the method peculiar to experimental pedagogy. It
cannot be that used in other experimental sciences. It is true that scientific pedagogy is
rounded out by hygiene, anthropology, and psychology, and adopts in part the technical
method characteristic of all three, although limiting itself to a special study of the individual
to be educated. But in pedagogy this study of the individual, though it must accompany the
very different work of education, is a limited and secondary part of the science as a whole.
This present study deals in part with the method used in experimental pedagogy, and is the
result of my experiences during two years in the "Children's Houses." I offer only a
beginning of the method, which I have applied to children between the ages of three and six.
But I believe that these tentative experiments, because of the surprising results which they
have given, will be the means of inspiring a continuation of the work thus undertaken.
Indeed, although our educational system, which experience has demonstrated to be
excellent, is not yet entirely completed, it nevertheless constitutes a system well enough
established to be practical in all institutions where young children are cared for, and in the
first elementary classes.
Perhaps I am not exact when I say that the present work springs from two years of
experience. I do not believe that these later attempts of mine could alone have rendered
possible all that I set forth in this book. The origin of the educational system in use in the [Pg 31]
"Children's Houses" is much more remote, and if this experience with normal children seems
indeed rather brief, it should be remembered that it sprang from preceding pedagogical
experiences with abnormal children, and that considered in this way, it represents a long and
thoughtful endeavour.
About fifteen years ago, being assistant doctor at the Psychiatric Clinic of the University
of Rome, I had occasion to frequent the insane asylums to study the sick and to select
subjects for the clinics. In this way I became interested in the idiot children who were at that
time housed in the general insane asylums. In those days thyroid organotherapy was in full
development, and this drew the attention of physicians to deficient children. I myself, having
completed my regular hospital services, had already turned my attention to the study of
children's diseases.
It was thus that, being interested in the idiot children, I became conversant with the special
method of education devised for these unhappy little ones by Edward Séguin, and was led to
study thoroughly the idea, then beginning to be prevalent among the physicians, of the
efficacy of "pedagogical treatment" for various morbid forms of disease such as deafness,
paralysis, idiocy, rickets, etc. The fact that pedagogy must join with medicine in the
treatment of disease was the practical outcome of the thought of the time. And because of
this tendency the method of treating disease by gymnastics became widely popular. I,
however, differed from my colleagues in that I felt that mental deficiency presented chiefly a
pedagogical, rather than mainly a medical, problem. Much was said in the medical
congresses of the medico-pedagogic method for the treatment and education of the feeble [Pg 32]
minded, and I expressed my differing opinion in an address on Moral Education at the
Pedagogical Congress of Turin in 1898. I believe that I touched a chord already vibrant,
because the idea, making its way among the physicians and elementary teachers, spread in a
flash as presenting a question of lively interest to the school.
 In fact I was called upon by my master, Guido Baccelli, the great Minister of Education, to
deliver to the teachers of Rome a course of lectures on the education of feeble-minded
children. This course soon developed into the State Orthophrenic School, which I directed
for more than two years.
In this school we had an all-day class of children composed of those who in the
elementary schools were considered hopelessly deficient. Later on, through the help of a
philanthropic organisation, there was founded a Medical Pedagogic Institute where, besides
the children from the public schools, we brought together all of the idiot children from the
insane asylums in Rome.
I spent these two years with the help of my colleagues in preparing the teachers of Rome
for a special method of observation and education of feeble-minded children. Not only did I
train teachers, but what was much more important, after I had been in London and Paris for
the purpose of studying in a practical way the education of deficients, I gave myself over
completely to the actual teaching of the children, directing at the same time the work of the
other teachers in our institute.
I was more than an elementary teacher, for I was present, or directly taught the children,
from eight in the morning to seven in the evening without interruption. These two years of
practice are my first and indeed my true degree in pedagogy. From the very beginning of my [Pg 33]
work with deficient children (1898 to 1900) I felt that the methods which I used had in them
nothing peculiarly limited to the instruction of idiots. I believed that they contained
educational principles more rational than those in use, so much more so, indeed, that through
their means an inferior mentality would be able to grow and develop. This feeling, so deep as
to be in the nature of an intuition, became my controlling idea after I had left the school for
deficients, and, little by little, I became convinced that similar methods applied to normal
children would develop or set free their personality in a marvellous and surprising way.
It was then that I began a genuine and thorough study of what is known as remedial
pedagogy, and, then, wishing to undertake the study of normal pedagogy and of the
principles upon which it is based, I registered as a student of philosophy at the University. A
great faith animated me, and although I did not know that I should ever be able to test the
truth of my idea, I gave up every other occupation to deepen and broaden its conception. It
was almost as if I prepared myself for an unknown mission.
The methods for the education of deficients had their origin at the time of the French
Revolution in the work of a physician whose achievements occupy a prominent place in the
history of medicine, as he was the founder of that branch of medical science which to-day is
known as Otiatria (diseases of the ear).
He was the first to attempt a methodical education of the sense of hearing. He made these
experiments in the institute for deaf mutes founded in Paris by Pereire, and actually
succeeded in making the semi-deaf hear clearly. Later on, having in charge for eight years
the idiot boy known as "the wild boy of Aveyron," he extended to the treatment of all the [Pg 34]
senses those educational methods which had already given such excellent results in the
treatment of the sense of hearing. A student of Pinel, Itard, was the first educator to practise
the observation of the pupil in the way in which the sick are observed in the hospitals,
especially those suffering from diseases of the nervous system.
The pedagogic writings of Itard are most interesting and minute descriptions of
educational efforts and experiences, and anyone reading them to-day must admit that they
were practically the first attempts at experimental psychology. But the merit of having
completed a genuine educational system for deficient children was due to Edward Séguin,
first a teacher and then a physician. He took the experiences of Itard as his starting point,
applying these methods, modifying and completing them during a period of ten years'
experience with children taken from the insane asylums and placed in, a little school in Rue
Pigalle in Paris. This method was described for the first time in a volume of more than six
hundred pages, published in Paris in 1846, with the title: "Traitement Moral, Hygiène et
Education des Idiots." Later Séguin emigrated to the United States of America where he
founded many institutions for deficients, and where, after another twenty years of
experience, he published the second edition of his method, under a very different title:
"Idiocy and its Treatment by the Physiological Method." This volume was published in New
York in 1886, and in it Séguin had carefully defined his method of education, calling it the
physiological method. He no longer referred in the title to a method for the "education of
idiots" as if the method were special to them, but spoke now of idiocy treated by a [Pg 35]
physiological method. If we consider that pedagogy always had psychology as its base, and
that Wundt defines a "physiological psychology," the coincidence of these ideas must strike
us, and lead us to suspect in the physiological method some connection with physiological
psychology.
While I was assistant at the Psychiatric Clinic, I had read Edward Séguin's French book,
with great interest. But the English book which was published in New York twenty years
later, although it was quoted in the works about special education by Bourneville, was not to
be found in any library. I made a vain quest for it, going from house to house of nearly all the
English physicians, who were known to be specially interested in deficient children, or who
were superintendents of special schools. The fact that this book was unknown in England,
although it had been published in the English language, made me think that the Séguin
system had never been understood. In fact, although Séguin was constantly quoted in all the
publications dealing with institutions for deficients, the educational applications described,
were quite different from the applications of Séguin's system.
Almost everywhere the methods applied to deficients are more or less the same as those in
use for normal children. In Germany, especially, a friend who had gone there in order to help
me in my researches, noticed that although special materials existed here and there in the
pedagogical museums of the schools for deficients, these materials were rarely used. Indeed,
the German educators hold the principle that it is well to adapt to the teaching of backward
children, the same method used for normal ones; but these methods are much more objective
in Germany than with us. [Pg 36]

At the Bicêtre, where I spent some time, I saw that it was the didactic apparatus of Séguin
far more than his method which was being used, although, the French text was in the hands
of the educators. The teaching there was purely mechanical, each teacher following the rules
according to the letter. I found, however, wherever I went, in London as well as in Paris, a
desire for fresh counsel and for new experiences, since far too often Séguin's claim that with
his methods the education of idiots was actually possible, had proved only a delusion.
After this study of the methods in use throughout Europe I concluded my experiments
upon the deficients of Rome, and taught them throughout two years. I followed Séguin's
book, and also derived much help from the remarkable experiments of Itard.
Guided by the work of these two men, I had manufactured a great variety of didactic
material. These materials, which I have never seen complete in any institution, became in the
hands of those who knew how to apply them, a most remarkable and efficient means, but
unless rightly presented, they failed to attract the attention of the deficients.
I felt that I understood the discouragement of those working with feeble-minded children,
and could see why they had, in so many cases, abandoned the method. The prejudice that the
educator must place himself on a level with the one to be educated, sinks the teacher of
deficients into a species of apathy. He accepts the fact that he is educating an inferior
personality, and for that very reason he does not succeed. Even so those who teach little
children too often have the idea that they are educating babies and seek to place themselves
on the child's level by approaching him with games, and often with foolish stories. Instead of [Pg 37]
all this, we must know how to call to the man which lies dormant within the soul of the
child. I felt this, intuitively, and believed that not the didactic material, but my voice which
called to them, awakened the children, and encouraged them to use the didactic material, and
through it, to educate themselves. I was guided in my work by the deep respect which I felt
for their misfortune, and by the love which these unhappy children know how to awaken in
those who are near them.
Séguin, too, expressed himself in the same way on this subject. Reading his patient
attempts, I understand clearly that the first didactic material used by him was spiritual.
Indeed, at the close of the French volume, the author, giving a résumé of his work, concludes
by saying rather sadly, that all he has established will be lost or useless, if the teachers are
not prepared for their work. He holds rather original views concerning the preparation of
teachers of deficients. He would have them good to look upon, pleasant-voiced, careful in
every detail of their personal appearance, doing everything possible to make themselves
attractive. They must, he says, render themselves attractive in voice and manner, since it is
their task to awaken souls which are frail and weary, and to lead them forth to lay hold upon
the beauty and strength of life.
This belief that we must act upon the spirit, served as a sort of secret key, opening to me
the long series of didactic experiments so wonderfully analysed by Edward Séguin,—
experiments which, properly understood, are really most efficacious in the education of
idiots. I myself obtained most surprising results through their application, but I must confess
that, while my efforts showed themselves in the intellectual progress of my pupils, a peculiar [Pg 38]
form of exhaustion prostrated me. It was as if I gave to them some vital force from within
me. Those things which we call encouragement, comfort, love, respect, are drawn from the
soul of man, and the more freely we give of them, the more do we renew and reinvigorate
the life about us.
Without such inspiration the most perfect external stimulus may pass unobserved. Thus
the blind Saul, before the glory of the sun, exclaimed, "This?—It is the dense fog!"
Thus prepared, I was able to proceed to new experiments on my own account. This is not
the place for a report of these experiments, and I will only note that at this time I attempted
an original method for the teaching of reading and writing, a part of the education of the
child which was most imperfectly treated in the works of both Itard and Séguin.
I succeeded in teaching a number of the idiots from the asylums both to read and to write
so well that I was able to present them at a public school for an examination together with
normal children. And they passed the examination successfully.
These results seemed almost miraculous to those who saw them. To me, however, the boys
from the asylums had been able to compete with the normal children only because they had
been taught in a different way. They had been helped in their psychic development, and the
normal children had, instead, been suffocated, held back. I found myself thinking that if,
some day, the special education which had developed these idiot children in such a
marvellous fashion, could be applied to the development of normal children, the "miracle" of
which my friends talked would no longer be possible. The abyss between the inferior [Pg 39]
mentality of the idiot and that of the normal brain can never be bridged if the normal child
has reached his full development.
While everyone was admiring the progress of my idiots, I was searching for the reasons
which could keep the happy healthy children of the common schools on so low a plane that
they could be equalled in tests of intelligence by my unfortunate pupils!
One day, a directress in the Institute for Deficients, asked me to read one of the prophecies
of Ezekiel which had made a profound impression upon her, as it seemed to prophesy the
education of deficients.
"The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set
me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones.
"And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the
open valley; and, lo, they were very dry.
"And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God,
thou knowest.
"Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry hones,
hear the word of the Lord.
"Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you,
and ye shall live:
"And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with
skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord.
"So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold
a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone.
"And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered [Pg 40]
them above: but there was no breath in them.
"Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the
wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these
slain, that they may live.
"So I prophesied as He commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived,
and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.
"Then he said unto me, Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel: behold,
they say, Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost: we are cut off for our parts."
In fact, the words—"I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live," seem to me to
refer to the direct individual work of the master who encourages, calls to, and helps his pupil,
preparing him for education. And the remainder—"I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring
up flesh upon you," recalled the fundamental phrase which sums up Séguin's whole method,
—"to lead the child, as it were, by the hand, from the education of the muscular system, to
that of the nervous system, and of the senses." It was thus that Séguin taught the idiots how
to walk, how to maintain their equilibrium in the most difficult movements of the body—
such as going up stairs, jumping, etc., and finally, to feel, beginning the education of the
muscular sensations by touching, and reading the difference of temperature, and ending with
the education of the particular senses.
But if the training goes no further than this, we have only led these children to adapt
themselves to a low order of life (almost a vegetable existence). "Call to the Spirit," says the
prophecy, and the spirit shall enter into them, and they shall have life. Séguin, indeed, led the [Pg 41]
idiot from the vegetative to the intellectual life, "from the education, of the senses to general
notions, from general notions to abstract thought, from abstract thought to morality." But
when this wonderful work is accomplished, and by means of a minute physiological analysis
and of a gradual progression in method, the idiot has become a man, he is still an inferior in
the midst of his fellow men, an individual who will never be able fully to adapt himself to
the social environment: "Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost; we are cut off for our
parts."
This gives us another reason why the tedious method of Séguin was so often abandoned;
the tremendous difficulty of the means, did not justify the end. Everyone felt this, and many
said, "There is still so much to be done for normal children!"

Having through actual experience justified my faith in Séguin's method, I withdrew from
active work among deficients, and began a more thorough study of the works of Itard and
Séguin. I felt the need of meditation. I did a thing which I had not done before, and which
perhaps few students have been willing to do,—I translated into Italian and copied out with
my own hand, the writings of these men, from beginning to end, making for myself books as
the old Benedictines used to do before the diffusion of printing.
I chose to do this by hand, in order that I might have time to weigh the sense of each word,
and to read, in truth, the spirit of the author. I had just finished copying the 600 pages of
Séguin's French volume when I received from New York a copy of the English book
published in 1866. This old volume had been found among the books discarded from the
private library of a New York physician. I translated it with the help of an English friend. [Pg 42]
This volume did not add much in the way of new pedagogical experiments, but dealt with
the philosophy of the experiences described in the first volume. The man who had studied
abnormal children for thirty years expressed the idea that the physiological method, which
has as its base the individual study of the pupil and which forms its educative methods upon
the analysis of physiological and psychological phenomena, must come also to be applied to
normal children. This step, he believed, would show the way to a complete human
regeneration.
The voice of Séguin seemed to be like the voice of the forerunner crying in the wilderness,
and my thoughts were filled with the immensity and importance of a work which should be
able to reform the school and education.
At this time I was registered at the University as a student of philosophy, and followed the
courses in experimental psychology, which had only recently been established in Italian
universities, namely, at Turin, Rome and Naples. At the same time I made researches in
Pedagogic Anthropology in the elementary schools, studying in this way the methods in
organisation used for the education of normal children. This work led to the teaching of
Pedagogic Anthropology in the University of Rome.

I had long wished to experiment with the methods for deficients in a first elementary class
of normal children, but I had never thought of making use of the homes or institutions where
very young children were cared for. It was pure chance that brought this new idea to my
mind.
It was near the end of the year 1906, and I had just returned from Milan, where I had been
one of a committee at the International Exhibition for the assignment of prizes in the subjects [Pg 43]
of Scientific Pedagogy and Experimental Psychology. A great opportunity came to me, for I
was invited by Edoardo Talamo, the Director General of the Roman Association for Good
Building, to undertake the organisation of infant schools in its model tenements. It was
Signor Talamo's happy idea to gather together in a large room all the little ones between the
ages of three and seven belonging to the families living in the tenement. The play and work
of these children was to be carried on under the guidance of a teacher who should have her
own apartment in the tenement house. It was intended that every house should have its
school, and as the Association for Good Building already owned more than 400 tenements in
Rome the work seemed to offer tremendous possibilities of development. The first school
was to be established in January, 1907, in a large tenement house in the Quarter of San
Lorenzo. In the same Quarter the Association already owned fifty-eight buildings, and
according to Signor Talamo's plans we should soon be able to open sixteen of these "schools
within the house."
This new kind of school was christened by Signora Olga Lodi, a mutual friend of Signor
Talamo and myself, under the fortunate title of Casa dei Bambini or "The Children's House."
Under this name the first of our schools was opened on the sixth of January, 1907, at 58 Via
dei Masi. It was confided to the care of Candida Nuccitelli and was under my guidance and
direction.
From the very first I perceived, in all its immensity, the social and pedagogical importance
of such institutions, and while at that time my visions of a triumphant future seemed
exaggerated, to-day many are beginning to understand that what I saw before was indeed the
truth.
On the seventh of April of the same year, 1907, a second "Children's House" was opened [Pg 44]
in the Quarter of San Lorenzo; and on the eighteenth of October, 1908, another was
inaugurated by the Humanitarian Society in Milan in the Quarter inhabited by workingmen.
The workshops of this same society undertook the manufacture of the materials which we
used.
On the fourth of November following, a third "Children's House" was opened in Rome,
this time not in the people's Quarter, but in a modern building for the middle classes, situated
in Via Famagosta, in that part of the city known as the Prati di Castello; and in January,
1909, Italian Switzerland began to transform its orphan asylums and children's homes in
which the Froebel system had been used, into "Children's Houses" adopting our methods and
materials.
The "Children's House" has a twofold importance: the social importance which it assumes
through its peculiarity of being a school within the house, and its purely pedagogic
importance gained through its methods for the education of very young children, of which I
now made a trial.
As I have said, Signor Talamo's invitation gave me a wonderful opportunity for applying
the methods used with deficients to normal children, not of the elementary school age, but of
the age usual in infant asylums.
If a parallel between the deficient and the normal child is possible, this will be during the
period of early infancy when the child who has not the force to develop and he who is not yet
developed are in some ways alike.
The very young child has not yet acquired a secure co-ordination of muscular movements,
and, therefore, walks imperfectly, and is not able to perform the ordinary acts of life, such as
fastening and unfastening its garments. The sense organs, such as the power of [Pg 45]
accommodation of the eye, are not yet completely developed; the language is primordial and
shows those defects common to the speech of the very young child. The difficulty of fixing
the attention, the general instability, etc., are characteristics which the normal infant and the
deficient child have in common. Preyer, also, in his psychological study of children has
turned aside to illustrate the parallel between pathological linguistic defects, and those of
normal children in the process of developing.
Methods which made growth possible to the mental personality of the idiot ought,
therefore, to aid the development of young children, and should be so adapted as to constitute
a hygienic education of the entire personality of a normal human being. Many defects which
become permanent, such as speech defects, the child acquires through being neglected
during the most important period of his age, the period between three and six, at which time
he forms and establishes his principal functions.
Here lies the significance of my pedagogical experiment in the "Children's Houses." It
represents the results of a series of trials made by me, in the education of young children,
with methods already used with deficients. My work has not been in any way an application,
pure and simple, of the methods of Séguin to young children, as anyone who will consult the
works of the author will readily see. But it is none the less true that, underlying these two
years of trial, there is a basis of experiment which goes back to the days of the French
Revolution, and which represents the earnest work of the lives of Itard and Séguin.
As for me, thirty years after the publication of Séguin's second book, I took up again the
ideas and, I may even say, the work of this great man, with the same freshness of spirit with [Pg 46]
which he received the inheritance of the work and ideas of his master Itard. For ten years I
not only made practical experiments according to their methods, but through reverent
meditation absorbed the works of these noble and consecrated men, who have left to
humanity most vital proof of their obscure heroism.
Thus my ten years of work may in a sense be considered as a summing up of the forty
years of work done by Itard and Séguin. Viewed in this light, fifty years of active work
preceded and prepared for this apparently brief trial of only two years, and I feel that I am
not wrong in saying that these experiments represent the successive work of three
physicians, who from Itard to me show in a greater or less degree the first steps along the
path of psychiatry.
As definite factors in the civilisation of the people, the "Children's Houses" deserve a
separate volume. They have, in fact, solved so many of the social and pedagogic problems in
ways which have seemed to be Utopian, that they are a part of that modern transformation of
the home which must most surely be realised before many years have passed. In this way
they touch directly the most important side of the social question—that which deals with the
intimate or home life of the people.
It is enough here to reproduce the inaugural discourse delivered by me on the occasion of
the opening of the second "Children's House" in Rome, and to present the rules and
regulations[4] which I arranged in accordance with the wishes of Signor Talamo.
It will be noticed that the club to which I refer, and the dispensary which is also an out-
patients' institution for medical and surgical treatment (all such institutions being free to the [Pg 47]
inhabitants) have already been established. In the modern tenement—Casa Moderna in the
Prati di Castello, opened November 4, 1908, through the philanthropy of Signor Talamo—
they are also planning to annex a "communal kitchen."
[4] See page 70.

[Pg 48]
CHAPTER III
 INAGURAL ADDRESS DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION
OF THE OPENING OF ONE OF THE "CHILDREN'S
HOUSES"
It may be that the life lived by the very poor is a thing which some of you here to-day
have never actually looked upon in all its degradation. You may have only felt the misery of
deep human poverty through the medium of some great book, or some gifted actor may have
made your soul vibrato with its horror.

Let us suppose that in some such moment a voice should cry to you, "Go look upon these
homes of misery and blackest poverty. For there have sprung up amid the terror and the
suffering, cases of happiness, of cleanliness, of peace. The poor are to have an ideal house
which shall be their own. In Quarters where poverty and vice ruled, a work of moral
redemption is going on. The soul of the people is being set free from the torpor of vice, from
the shadows of ignorance. The little children too have a 'House' of their own. The new
generation goes forward to meet the new era, the time when misery shall no longer be
deplored but destroyed. They go to meet the time when the dark dens of vice and
wretchedness shall have become things of the past, and when no trace of them shall be found
among the living." What a change of emotions we should experience! and how we should
hasten here, as the wise men guided by a dream and a star hastened to Bethlehem! [Pg 49]

I have spoken thus in order that you may understand the great significance, the real beauty,
of this humble room, which seems like a bit of the house itself set apart by a mother's hand
for the use and happiness of the children of the Quarter. This is the second "Children's
House"[5] which has been established within the ill-favoured Quarter of San Lorenzo.
The Quarter of San Lorenzo is celebrated, for every newspaper in the city is filled with
almost daily accounts of its wretched happenings. Yet there are many who are not familiar
with the origin of this portion of our city.
It was never intended to build up here a tenement district for the people. And indeed San
Lorenzo is not the People's Quarter, it is the Quarter of the poor. It is the Quarter where lives
the underpaid, often unemployed workingman, a common type in a city which has no factory
industries. It is the home of him who undergoes the period of surveillance to which he is
condemned after his prison sentence is ended. They are all here, mingled, huddled together.
The district of San Lorenzo sprang into being between 1884 and 1888 at the time of the
great building fever. No standards either social or hygienic guided these new constructions.
The aim in building was simply to cover with walls square foot after square foot of ground.
The more space covered, the greater the gain of the interested Banks and Companies. All this
with a complete disregard of the disastrous future which they were preparing. It was natural
that no one should concern himself with the stability of the building he was creating, since in [Pg 50]
no case would the property remain in the possession of him who built it.
When the storm burst, in the shape of the inevitable building panic of 1888 to 1890, these
unfortunate houses remained for a long time untenanted. Then, little by little, the need of
dwelling-places began to make itself felt, and these great houses began to fill. Now, those
speculators who had been so unfortunate as to remain possessors of these buildings could
not, and did not wish to, add fresh capital to that already lost, so the houses constructed in
the first place in utter disregard of all laws of hygiene, and rendered still worse by having
been used as temporary habitations, came to be occupied by the poorest class in the city.
 The apartments not being prepared for the working class, were too large, consisting of
five, six, or seven rooms. These were rented at a price which, while exceedingly low in
relation to the size, was yet too high for any one family of very poor people. This led to the
evil of subletting. The tenant who has taken a six room apartment at eight dollars a month
sublets rooms at one dollar and a half or two dollars a month to those who can pay so much,
and a corner of a room, or a corridor, to a poorer tenant, thus making an income of fifteen
dollars or more, over and above the cost of his own rent.

This means that the problem of existence is in great part solved for him, and that in every
case he adds to his income through usury. The one who holds the lease traffics in the misery
of his fellow tenants, lending small sums at a rate which generally corresponds to twenty
cents a week for the loan of two dollars, equivalent to an annual rate of 500 per cent. [Pg 51]

Thus we have in the evil of subletting the most cruel form of usury: that which only the
poor know how to practise upon the poor.
To this we must add the evils of crowded living, promiscuousness, immorality, crime.
Every little while the newspapers uncover for us one of these intérieurs: a large family,
growing boys and girls, sleep in one room; while one corner of the room is occupied by an
outsider, a woman who receives the nightly visits of men. This is seen by the girls and the
boys; evil passions are kindled that lead to the crime and bloodshed which unveil for a brief
instant before our eyes, in some lurid paragraph, this little detail of the mass of misery.
Whoever enters, for the first time, one of these apartments is astonished and horrified. For
this spectacle of genuine misery is not at all like the garish scene he has imagined. We enter
here a world of shadows, and that which strikes us first is the darkness which, even though it
be midday, makes it impossible to distinguish any of the details of the room.
When the eye has grown accustomed to the gloom, we perceive, within, the outlines of a
bed upon which lies huddled a figure—someone ill and suffering. If we have come to bring
money from some society for mutual aid, a candle must be lighted before the sum can be
counted and the receipt signed. Oh, when we talk of social problems, how often we speak
vaguely, drawing upon our fancy for details instead of preparing ourselves to judge
intelligently through a personal investigation of facts and conditions.
We discuss earnestly the question of home study for school children, when for many of [Pg 52]
them home means a straw pallet thrown down in the corner of some dark hovel. We wish to
establish circulating libraries that the poor may read at home. We plan to send among these
people books which shall form their domestic literature—books through whose influence
they shall come to higher standards of living. We hope through the printed page to educate
these poor people in matters of hygiene, of morality, of culture, and in this we show
ourselves profoundly ignorant of their most crying needs. For many of them have no light by
which to read!
There lies before the social crusader of the present day a problem more profound than that
of the intellectual elevation of the poor; the problem, indeed, of life.
In speaking of the children born in these places, even the conventional expressions must
be changed, for they do not "first see the light of day"; they come into a world of gloom.
They grow among the poisonous shadows which envelope over-crowded humanity. These
children cannot be other than filthy in body, since the water supply in an apartment originally
intended to be occupied by three or four persons, when distributed among twenty or thirty is
scarcely enough for drinking purposes!
 We Italians have elevated our word "casa" to the almost sacred significance of the English
word "home," the enclosed temple of domestic affection, accessible only to dear ones.
Far removed from this conception is the condition of the many who have no "casa," but
only ghastly walls within which the most intimate acts of life are exposed upon the pillory.
Here, there can be no privacy, no modesty, no gentleness; here, there is often not even light,
nor air, nor water! It seems a cruel mockery to introduce here our idea of the home as [Pg 53]
essential to the education of the masses, and as furnishing, along with the family, the only
solid basis for the social structure. In doing this we would be not practical reformers but
visionary poets.
Conditions such as I have described make it more decorous, more hygienic, for these
people to take refuge in the street and to let their children live there. But how often these
streets are the scene of bloodshed, of quarrel, of sights so vile as to be almost inconceivable.
The papers tell us of women pursued and killed by drunken husbands! Of young girls with
the fear of worse than death, stoned by low men. Again, we see untellable things—a
wretched woman thrown, by the drunken men who have preyed upon her, forth into the
gutter. There, when day has come, the children of the neighbourhood crowd about her like
scavengers about their dead prey, shouting and laughing at the sight of this wreck of
womanhood, kicking her bruised and filthy body as it lies in the mud of the gutter!
Such spectacles of extreme brutality are possible here at the very gate of a cosmopolitan
city, the mother of civilisation and queen of the fine arts, because of a new fact which was
unknown to past centuries, namely, the isolation of the masses of the poor.
In the Middle Ages, leprosy was isolated: the Catholics isolated the Hebrews in the
Ghetto; but poverty was never considered a peril and an infamy so great that it must be
isolated. The homes of the poor were scattered among those of the rich and the contrast
between these was a commonplace in literature up to our own times. Indeed, when I was a
child in school, teachers, for the purpose of moral education, frequently resorted to the
illustration of the kind princess who sends help to the poor cottage next door, or of the good [Pg 54]
children from the great house who carry food to the sick woman in the neighbouring attic.
To-day all this would be as unreal and artificial as a fairy tale. The poor may no longer
learn from their more fortunate neighbours lessons in courtesy and good breeding, they no
longer have the hope of help from them in cases of extreme need. We have herded them
together far from us, without the walls, leaving them to learn of each other, in the abandon of
desperation, the cruel lessons of brutality and vice. Anyone in whom the social conscience is
awake must see that we have thus created infected regions that threaten with deadly peril the
city which, wishing to make all beautiful and shining according to an æsthetic and
aristocratic ideal, has thrust without its walls whatever is ugly or diseased.
When I passed for the first time through these streets, it was as if I found myself in a city
upon which some great disaster had fallen. It seemed to me that the shadow of some recent
struggle still oppressed the unhappy people who, with something very like terror in their pale
faces, passed me in these silent streets. The very silence seemed to signify the life of a
community interrupted, broken. Not a carriage, not even the cheerful voice of the ever-
present street vender, nor the sound of the hand-organ playing in the hope of a few pennies,
not even these things, so characteristic of poor quarters, enter here to lighten this sad and
heavy silence.
Observing these streets with their deep holes, the doorsteps broken and tumbling, we
might almost suppose that this disaster had been in the nature of a great inundation which
had carried the very earth away; but looking about us at the houses stripped of all
decorations, the walls broken and scarred, we are inclined to think that it was perhaps an [Pg 55]
earthquake which has afflicted this quarter. Then, looking still more closely, we see that in all
this thickly settled neighbourhood there is not a shop to be found. So poor is the community
that it has not been possible to establish even one of those popular bazars where necessary
articles are sold at so low a price as to put them within the reach of anyone. The only shops
of any sort are the low wine shops which open their evil-smelling doors to the passer-by. As
we look upon all this, it is borne upon us that the disaster which has placed its weight of
suffering upon these people is not a convulsion of nature, but poverty—poverty with its
inseparable companion, vice.
This unhappy and dangerous state of things, to which our attention is called at intervals by
newspaper accounts of violent and immoral crime, stirs the hearts and consciences of many
who come to undertake among these people some work of generous benevolence. One might
almost say that every form of misery inspires a special remedy and that all have been tried
here, from the attempt to introduce hygienic principles into each house, to the establishment
of crêches, "Children's Houses," and dispensaries.
But what indeed is benevolence? Little more than an expression of sorrow; it is pity
translated into action. The benefits of such a form of charity cannot be great, and through the
absence of any continued income and the lack of organisation it is restricted to a small
number of persons. The great and widespread peril of evil demands, on the other hand, a
broad and comprehensive work directed toward the redemption of the entire community.
Only such an organisation, as, working for the good of others, shall itself grow and prosper
through the general prosperity which it has made possible, can make a place for itself in this [Pg 56]
quarter and accomplish a permanent good work.
It is to meet this dire necessity that the great and kindly work of the Roman Association of
Good Building has been undertaken. The advanced and highly modern way in which this
work is being carried on is due to Edoardo Talamo, Director General of the Association. His
plans, so original, so comprehensive, yet so practical, are without counterpart in Italy or
elsewhere.
This Association was incorporated three years ago in Rome, its plan being to acquire city
tenements, remodel them, put them into a productive condition, and administer them as a
good father of a family would.
The first property acquired comprised a large portion of the Quarter of San Lorenzo,
where to-day the Association possesses fifty-eight houses, occupying a ground space of
about 30,000 square metres, and containing, independent of the ground floor, 1,600 small
apartments. Thousands of people will in this way receive the beneficent influence of the
protective reforms of the Good Building Association. Following its beneficent programme,
the Association set about transforming these old houses, according to the most modern
standards, paying as much attention to questions related to hygiene and morals as to those
relating to buildings. The constructional changes would make the property of real and lasting
value, while the hygienic and moral transformation, would, through the improved condition
of the inmates, make the rent from these apartments a more definite asset.
The Association of Good Building therefore decided upon a programme which would
permit of a gradual attainment of their ideal. It is necessary to proceed slowly because it is
not easy to empty a tenement house at a time when houses are scarce, and the humanitarian [Pg 57]
principles which govern the entire movement make it impossible to proceed more rapidly in
this work of regeneration. So it is, that the Association has up to the present time
transformed only three houses in the Quarter of San Lorenzo. The plan followed in this
transformation is as follows:
A: To demolish in every building all portions of the structure not originally constructed
with the idea of making homes, but, from a purely commercial standpoint, of making the
rental roll larger. In other words, the new management tore down those parts of the building
which encumbered the central court, thus doing away with dark, ill-ventilated apartments,
and giving air and light to the remaining portion of the tenement. Broad airy courts take the
place of the inadequate air and light shafts, rendering the remaining apartments more
valuable and infinitely more desirable.
B: To increase the number of stairways, and to divide the room space in a more practical
way. The large six or seven room suites are reduced to small apartments of one, two, or three
rooms, and a kitchen.
The importance of such changes may be recognised from the economic point of view of
the proprietor as well as from the standpoint of the moral and material welfare of the tenant.
Increasing the number of stairways diminishes that abuse of walls and stairs inevitable where
so many persons must pass up and down. The tenants more readily learn to respect the
building and acquire habits of cleanliness and order. Not only this, but in reducing the
chances of contact among the inhabitants of the house, especially late at night, a great
advance has been made in the matter of moral hygiene.
The division of the house into small apartments has done much toward this moral [Pg 58]
regeneration. Each family is thus set apart, homes are made possible, while the menacing evil
of subletting together with all its disastrous consequences of overcrowding and immorality is
checked in the most radical way.
On one side this arrangement lessens the burden of the individual lease holders, and on the
other increases the income of the proprietor, who now receives those earnings which were
the unlawful gain of the system of subletting. When the proprietor who originally rented an
apartment of six rooms for a monthly rental of eight dollars, makes such an apartment over
into three small, sunny, and airy suites consisting of one room and a kitchen, it is evident that
he increases his income.
The moral importance of this reform as it stands to-day is tremendous, for it has done
away with those evil influences and low opportunities which arise from crowding and from
promiscuous contact, and has brought to life among these people, for the first time, the gentle
sentiment of feeling themselves free within their own homes, in the intimacy of the family.
But the project of the Association goes beyond even this. The house which it offers to its
tenants is not only sunny and airy, but in perfect order and repair, almost shining, and as if
perfumed with purity and freshness. These good things, however, carry with them a
responsibility which the tenant must assume if he wishes to enjoy them. He must pay an
actual tax of care and good will. The tenant who receives a clean house must keep it so, must
respect the walls from the big general entrance to the interior of his own little apartment. He
who keeps his house in good condition receives the recognition and consideration due such a
tenant. Thus all the tenants unite in an ennobling warfare for practical hygiene, an end made [Pg 59]
possible by the simple task of conserving the already perfect conditions.
Here indeed is something new! So far only our great national buildings have had a
continued maintenance fund. Here, in these houses offered to the people, the maintenance is
confided to a hundred or so workingmen, that is, to all the occupants of the building. This
care is almost perfect. The people keep the house in perfect condition, without a single spot.
The building in which we find ourselves to-day has been for two years under the sole
protection of the tenants, and the work of maintenance has been left entirely to them. Yet few
of our houses can compare in cleanliness and freshness with this home of the poor.
The experiment has been tried and the result is remarkable. The people acquire together
with the lore of home-making, that of cleanliness. They come, moreover, to wish to beautify
their homes. The Association helps this by placing growing plants and trees in the courts and
about the halls.
Out of this honest rivalry in matters so productive of good, grows a species of pride new
to this quarter; this is the pride which the entire body of tenants takes in having the best-
cared-for building and in having risen to a higher and more civilised plane of living. They
not only live in a house, but they know how to live, they know how to respect the house in
which they live.
This first impulse has led to other reforms. From the clean home will come personal
cleanliness. Dirty furniture cannot be tolerated in a clean house, and those persons living in a
permanently clean house will come to desire personal cleanliness.
One of the most important hygienic reforms of the Association is that of the baths. Each [Pg 60]
remodeled tenement has a place set apart for bathrooms, furnished with tubs or shower, and
having hot and cold water. All the tenants in regular turn may use these baths, as, for
example, in various tenements the occupants go according to turn, to wash their clothes in
the fountain in the court. This is a great convenience which invites the people to be clean.
These hot and cold baths within the house are a great improvement upon the general public
baths. In this way we make possible to these people, at one and the same time, health and
refinement, opening not only to the sun, but to progress, those dark habitations once the vile
caves of misery.
But in striving to realise its ideal of a semi-gratuitous maintenance of its buildings, the
Association met with a difficulty in regard to those children under school age, who must
often be left alone during the entire day while their parents went out to work. These little
ones, not being able to understand the educative motives which taught their parents to
respect the house, became ignorant little vandals, defacing the walls and stairs. And here we
have another reform the expense of which may be considered as indirectly assumed by the
tenants as was the care of the building. This reform may be considered as the most brilliant
transformation of a tax which progress and civilisation have as yet devised. The "Children's
House" is earned by the parents through the care of the building. Its expenses are met by the
sum that the Association would have otherwise been forced to spend upon repairs. A
wonderful climax, this, of moral benefits received! Within the "Children's House," which
belongs exclusively to those children under school age, working mothers may safely leave
their little ones, and may proceed with a feeling of great relief and freedom to their own [Pg 61]
work. But this benefit, like that of the care of the house, is not conferred without a tax of care
and of good will. [6]The Regulations posted on the walls announce it thus:
"The mothers are obliged to send their children to the 'Children's House' clean, and to co-
operate with the Directress in the educational work."
Two obligations: namely, the physical and moral care of their own children. If the child
shows through its conversation that the educational work of the school is being undermined
by the attitude taken in his home, he will be sent back to his parents, to teach them thus how
to take advantage of their good opportunities. Those who give themselves over to low-living,
to fighting, and to brutality, shall feel upon them the weight of those little lives, so needing
care. They shall feel that they themselves have once more cast into the darkness of neglect
those little creatures who are the dearest part of the family. In other words, the parents must
learn to deserve the benefit of having within the house the great advantage of a school for
their little ones.
"Good will," a willingness to meet the demands of the Association is enough, for the
directress is ready and willing to teach them how. The regulations say that the mother must
go at least once a week, to confer with the directress, giving an account of her child, and
accepting any helpful advice which the directress may be able to give. The advice thus given
will undoubtedly prove most illuminating in regard to the child's health and education, since
to each of the "Children's Houses" is assigned a physician as well as a directress.
The directress is always at the disposition of the mothers, and her life, as a cultured and [Pg 62]
educated person, is a constant example to the inhabitants of the house, for she is obliged to
live in the tenement and to be therefore a co-habitant with the families of all her little pupils.
This is a fact of immense importance. Among these almost savage people, into these houses
where at night no one dared go about unarmed, there has come not only to teach, but to live
the very life they live, a gentlewoman of culture, an educator by profession, who dedicates
her time and her life to helping those about her! A true missionary, a moral queen among the
people, she may, if she be possessed of sufficient tact and heart, reap an unheard-of harvest
of good from her social work.
This house is verily new; it would seem a dream impossible of realisation, but it has been
tried. It is true that there have been before this attempts made by generous persons to go and
live among the poor to civilise them. But such work is not practical, unless the house of the
poor is hygienic, making it possible for people of better standards to live there. Nor can such
work succeed in its purpose unless some common advantage or interest unites all of the
tenants in an effort toward better things.
This tenement is new also because of the pedagogical organisation of the "Children's
House." This is not simply a place where the children are kept, not just an asylum, but a true
school for their education, and its methods are inspired by the rational principles of scientific
pedagogy.
The physical development of the children is followed, each child being studied from the
anthropological standpoint. Linguistic exercises, a systematic sense-training, and exercises
which directly fit the child for the duties of practical life, form the basis of the work done.
The teaching is decidedly objective, and presents an unusual richness of didactic material. [Pg 63]

It is not possible to speak of all this in detail. I must, however, mention that there already
exists in connection with the school a bathroom, where the children may be given hot or cold
baths and where they may learn to take a partial bath, hands, face, neck, ears. Wherever
possible the Association has provided a piece of ground in which the children may learn to
cultivate the vegetables in common use.
It is important that I speak here of the pedagogical progress attained by the "Children's
House" as an institution. Those who are conversant with the chief problems of the school
know that to-day much attention is given to a great principle, one that is ideal and almost
beyond realisation,—the union of the family and the school in the matter of educational
aims. But the family is always something far away from the school, and is almost always
regarded as rebelling against its ideals. It is a species of phantom upon which the school can
never lay its hands. The home is closed not only to pedagogical progress, but often to social
progress. We see here for the first time the possibility of realising the long-talked-of
pedagogical ideal. We have put the school within the house; and this is not all. We have
placed it within the house as the property of the collectivity, leaving under the eyes of the
parents the whole life of the teacher in the accomplishment of her high mission.
This idea of the collective ownership of the school is new and very beautiful and
profoundly educational.
The parents know that the "Children's House" is their property, and is maintained by a
portion of the rent they pay. The mothers may go at any hour of the day to watch, to admire, [Pg 64]
or to meditate upon the life there. It is in every way a continual stimulus to reflection, and a
fount of evident blessing and help to their own children. We may say that the mothers adore
the "Children's House," and the directress. How many delicate and thoughtful attentions
these good mothers show the teacher of their little ones! They often leave sweets or flowers
upon the sill of the schoolroom window, as a silent token, reverently, almost religiously,
given.
And when after three years of such a novitiate, the mothers send their children to the
common schools, they will be excellently prepared to co-operate in the work of education,
and will have acquired a sentiment, rarely found even among the best classes; namely, the
idea that they must merit through their own conduct and with their own virtue, the
possession of an educated son.
Another advance made by the "Children's Houses" as an institution is related to scientific
pedagogy. This branch of pedagogy, heretofore, being based upon the anthropological study
of the pupil whom it is to educate, has touched only a few of the positive questions which
tend to transform education. For a man is not only a biological but a social product, and the
social environment of individuals in the process of education, is the home. Scientific
pedagogy will seek in vain to better the new generation if it does not succeed in influencing
also the environment within which this new generation grows! I believe, therefore, that in
opening the house to the light of new truths, and to the progress of civilisation we have
solved the problem of being able to modify directly, the environment of the new generation,
and have thus made it possible to apply, in a practical way, the fundamental principles of
scientific pedagogy. [Pg 65]

The "Children's House" marks still another triumph; it is the first step toward the
socialisation of the house. The inmates find under their own roof the convenience of being
able to leave their little ones in a place, not only safe, but where they have every advantage.
And let it be remembered that all the mothers in the tenement may enjoy this privilege,
going away to their work with easy minds. Until the present time only one class in society
might have this advantage. Rich women were able to go about their various occupations and
amusements, leaving their children in the hands of a nurse or a governess. To-day the women
of the people who live in these remodeled houses, may say, like the great lady, "I have left
my son with the governess and the nurse." More than this, they may add, like the princess of
the blood, "And the house physician watches over them and directs their sane and sturdy
growth." These women, like the most advanced class of English and American mothers,
possess a "Biographical Chart," which, filled for the mother by the directress and the doctor,
gives her the most practical knowledge of her child's growth and condition.
We are all familiar with the ordinary advantages of the communistic transformation of the
general environment. For example, the collective use of railway carriages, of street lights, of
the telephone, all these are great advantages. The enormous production of useful articles,
brought about by industrial progress, makes possible to all, clean clothes, carpets, curtains,
table-delicacies, better tableware, etc. The making of such benefits generally tends to level
social caste. All this we have seen in its reality. But the communising of persons is new. That
the collectivity shall benefit from the services of the servant, the nurse, the teacher—this is a
modern ideal. [Pg 66]

We have in the "Children's Houses" a demonstration of this ideal which is unique in Italy
or elsewhere. Its significance is most profound, for it corresponds to a need of the times. We
can no longer say that the convenience of leaving their children takes away from the mother
a natural social duty of first importance; namely, that of caring for and educating her tender
offspring. No, for to-day the social and economic evolution calls the working-woman to take
her place among wage-earners, and takes away from her by force those duties which would
be most dear to her! The mother must, in any event, leave her child, and often with the pain
of knowing him to be abandoned. The advantages furnished by such institutions are not
limited to the labouring classes, but extend also to the general middle-class, many of whom
work with the brain. Teachers, professors, often obliged to give private lessons after school
hours, frequently leave their children to the care, of some rough and ignorant maid-of-all-
work. Indeed, the first announcement of the "Children's House" was followed by a deluge of
letters from persons of the better class demanding that these helpful reforms be extended to
their dwellings.
We are, then, communising a "maternal function," a feminine duty, within the house. We
may see here in this practical act the solving of many of woman's problems which have
seemed to many impossible of solution. What then will become of the home, one asks, if the
woman goes away from it? The home will be transformed and will assume the functions of
the woman.
I believe that in the future of society other forms of communistic life will come.
Take, for example, the infirmary; woman is the natural nurse for the dear ones of her
household. But who does not know how often in these days she is obliged to tear herself [Pg 67]
unwillingly from the bedside of her sick to go to her work? Competition is great, and her
absence from her post threatens the tenure of the position from which she draws the means
of support. To be able to leave the sick one in a "house-infirmary," to which she may have
access any free moments she may have, and where she is at liberty to watch during the night,
would be an evident advantage to such a woman.
And how great would be the progress made in the matter of family hygiene, in all that
relates to isolation and disinfection! Who does not know the difficulties of a poor family
when one child is ill of some contagions disease, and should be isolated from the others?
Often such a family may have no kindred or friends in the city to whom the other children
may be sent.
Much more distant, but not impossible, is the communal kitchen, where the dinner ordered
in the morning is sent at the proper time, by means of a dumb-waiter, to the family dining-
room. Indeed, this has been successfully tried in America. Such a reform would be of the
greatest advantage to those families of the middle-class who must confide their health and
the pleasures of the table to the hands of an ignorant servant who ruins the food. At present,
the only alternative in such cases is to go outside the home to some café where a cheap table
d'hôte may be had.
Indeed, the transformation of the house must compensate for the loss in the family of the
presence of the woman who has become a social wage-earner.
In this way the house will become a centre, drawing into itself all those good things which
have hitherto been lacking: schools, public baths, hospitals, etc. [Pg 68]

Thus the tendency will be to change the tenement houses, which have been places of vice
and peril, into centres of education, of refinement, of comfort. This will be helped if, besides
the schools for the children, there may grow up also clubs and reading-rooms for the
inhabitants, especially for the men, who will find there a way to pass the evening pleasantly
and decently. The tenement-club, as possible and as useful in all social classes as is the
"Children's House," will do much toward closing the gambling-houses and saloons to the
great moral advantage of the people. And I believe that the Association of Good Building
will before long establish such clubs in its reformed tenements here in the Quarter of San
Lorenzo; clubs where the tenants may find newspapers and books, and where they may hear
simple and helpful lectures.
We are, then, very far from the dreaded dissolution of the home and of the family, through
the fact that woman has been forced by changed social and economic conditions to give her
time and strength to remunerative work. The home itself assumes the gentle feminine
attributes of the domestic housewife. The day may come when the tenant, having given to
the proprietor of the house a certain sum, shall receive in exchange whatever is necessary to
the comfort of life; in other words, the administration shall become the steward of the family.
The house, thus considered, tends to assume in its evolution a significance more exalted
than even the English word "home" expresses. It does not consist of walls alone, though
these walls be the pure and shining guardians of that intimacy which is the sacred symbol of
the family. The home shall become more than this. It lives! It has a soul. It may be said to
embrace its inmates with the tender, consoling arms of woman. It is the giver of moral life, [Pg 69]
of blessings; it cares for, it educates and feeds the little ones. Within it, the tired workman
shall find rest and newness of life. He shall find there the intimate life of the family, and its
happiness.
The new woman, like the butterfly come forth from the chrysalis, shall be liberated from
all those attributes which once made her desirable to man only as the source of the material
blessings of existence. She shall be, like man, an individual, a free human being, a social
worker; and, like man, she shall seek blessing and repose within the house, the house which
has been reformed and communised.
She shall wish to be loved for herself and not as a giver of comfort and repose. She shall
wish a love free from every form of servile labour. The goal of human love is not the
egotistical end of assuring its own satisfaction—it is the sublime goal of multiplying the
forces of the free spirit, making it almost Divine, and, within such beauty and light,
perpetuating the species.
This ideal love is made incarnate by Frederick Nietzsche, in the woman of Zarathustra,
who conscientiously wished her son to be better than she. "Why do you desire me?" she asks
the man. "Perhaps because of the perils of a solitary life?
"In that case go far from me. I wish the man who has conquered himself, who has made
his soul great. I wish the man who has conserved a clean and robust body. I wish the man
who desires to unite with me, body and soul, to create a son! A son better, more perfect,
stronger, than any created heretofore!"
To better the species consciously, cultivating his own health, his own virtue, this should be
the goal of man's married life. It is a sublime concept of which, as yet, few think. And the [Pg 70]
socialised home of the future, living, provident, kindly; educator and comforter; is the true
and worthy home of those human mates who wish to better the species, and to send the race
forward triumphant into the eternity of life!

RULES AND REGULATIONS OF THE

"CHILDREN'S HOUSES"

The Roman Association of Good Building hereby establishes within its tenement house
number, a "Children's House," in which may be gathered together all children under
common school age, belonging to the families of the tenants.
The chief aim of the "Children's House" is to offer, free of charge, to the children of those
parents who are obliged to absent themselves for their work, the personal care which the
 parents are not able to give.
In the "Children's House" attention is given to the education, the health, the physical and
moral development of the children. This work is carried on in a way suited to the age of
the children.
There shall be connected with the "Children's House" a Directress, a Physician, and a
Caretaker.
The programme and hours of the "Children's House" shall be fixed by the Directress.
There may be admitted to the "Children's House" all the children in the tenement between
the ages of three and seven.
The parents who wish to avail themselves of the advantages of the "Children's House" pay
nothing. They must, however, assume these binding obligations:
(a) To send their children to the "Children's House" at the appointed time, clean in body
and clothing, and provided with a suitable apron.
(b) To show the greatest respect and deference toward the Directress and toward all [Pg 71]
persons connected with the "Children's House," and to co-operate with the Directress
herself in the education of the children. Once a week, at least, the mothers may talk
with the Directress, giving her information concerning the home life of the child, and
receiving helpful advice from her.
There shall be expelled from the "Children's House":
(a) Those children who present themselves unwashed, or in soiled clothing.
(b) Those who show themselves to be incorrigible.
(c) Those whose parents fail in respect to the persons connected with the "Children's
House," or who destroy through bad conduct the educational work of the institution.
[5] Dr. Montessori no longer directs the work in the Casa dei Bambini in the Quarter
of San Lorenzo.
[6] See page 70.

[Pg 72]
CHAPTER IV
PEDAGOGICAL METHODS USED IN THE "CHILDREN'S
HOUSES"
As soon as I knew that I had at my disposal a class of little children, it was my wish to
make of this school a field for scientific experimental pedagogy and child psychology. I
started with a view in which Wundt concurs; namely, that child psychology does not exist.
Indeed, experimental researches in regard to childhood, as, for example, those of Preyer and
Baldwin, have been made upon not more than two or three subjects, children of the
investigators. Moreover, the instruments of psychometry must be greatly modified and
simplified before they can be used with children, who do not lend themselves passively as
subjects for experimentation. Child psychology can be established only through the method
of external observation. We must renounce all idea of making any record of internal states,
which can be revealed only by the introspection of the subject himself. The instruments of
psychometric research, as applied to pedagogy, have up to the present time been limited to
the esthesiometric phase of the study.
My intention was to keep in touch with the researches of others, but to make myself
independent of them, proceeding to my work without preconceptions of any kind. I retained
as the only essential, the affirmation, or, rather, the definition of Wundt, that "all methods of
experimental psychology may be reduced to one; namely, carefully recorded observation of [Pg 73]
the subject."
Treating of children, another factor must necessarily intervene: the study of the
development. Here too, I retained the same general criterion, but without clinging to any
dogma about the activity of the child according to age.

ANTHROPOLOGICAL CONSIDERATION

In regard to physical development, my first thought was given to the regulating of

anthropometric observations, and to the selection of the most important observations to be
made.
I designed an anthropometer provided with the metric scale, varying between .50 metre
and 1.50 metres. A small stool, 30 centimetres high, could be placed upon the floor of the
anthropometer for measurements taken in a sitting position. I now advise making the
anthropometer with a platform on either side of the pole bearing the scale, so that on one side
the total stature can be measured, and on the other the height of the body when seated. In the
second case, the zero is indicated at 30 centimetres; that is, it corresponds to the seat of the
stool, which is fixed. The indicators on the vertical post are independent one of the other and
this makes it possible to measure two children at the same time. In this way the
inconvenience and waste of time caused by having to move the seat about, is obviated, and
also the trouble of having to calculate the difference in the metric scale.
Having thus facilitated the technique of the researches, I decided to take the measurements
of the children's stature, seated and standing, every month, and in order to have these
regulated as exactly as possible in their relation to development, and also to give greater [Pg 74]
regularity to the research work of the teacher, I made a rule that the measurements should be
taken on the day on which the child completed each month of his age. For this purpose I
designed a register arranged on the following plan:—
 The spaces opposite each number are used to register the name of the child born on that
day of the month. Thus the teacher knows which scholars she must measure on the days
which are marked on the calendar, and she fills in his measurements to correspond with the
month in which he was born. In this way a most exact registration can be arrived at without
having the teacher feel that she is overburdened, or fatigued.
With regard to the weight of the child, I have arranged that it shall be taken every week on
a pair of scales which I have placed in the dressing-room where the children are given their
bath. According to the day on which the child is born, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc.,
we have him weighed when he is ready to take a bath. Thus the children's baths (no small
matter when we consider a class of fifty) are sub-divided into seven days, and from three to [Pg 75]
five children go to the bath every day. Certainly, theoretically, a daily bath would be
desirable, but in order to manage this a large bath or a number of small ones would be
necessary, so that a good many children could be bathed at once. Even a weekly bath entails
many difficulties, and sometimes has to be given up. In any case, I have distributed the
taking of the weight in the order stated with the intention of thus arranging for and making
sure of periodical baths.[7]
The form here given shows the register which we use in recording the weight of the
children. Every page of the register corresponds to a month.
It seems to me that the anthropological measurements, the taking and recording of which I
have just described, should be the only ones with which the schoolmistress need occupy
herself; and, therefore, the only ones which should be taken actually within the school. It is
my plan that other measurements should be taken by a physician, who either is, or is
preparing to be, a specialist in infant anthropology. In the meantime, I take these special
measurements myself.
[Pg 76]
 The examination made by the physician must necessarily be complex, and to facilitate and
regulate the taking of these measurements I have designed and had printed biological charts,
of which I here give an example. [Pg 77]
 As will be seen, these charts are very simple. I made them so because I wished the doctor [Pg 78]
and the schoolmistress to be able to use them freely and independently.
By this method the anthropometrical records are arranged in an orderly way, while the
simplicity of the mechanism, and the clearness of the charts, guarantee the making of such
observations as I have considered fundamental. Referring to the physician's biographical
chart, I advise that once a year the following measurements be taken: Circumference of the
head; the two greater diameters of the head; the circumference of the chest; and the cephalic,
ponderal, and stature indices. Further information concerning the selection of these
measurements may be found in my treatise, "Antropologia Pedagogica." The physician is
asked to take these measurements during the week, or at least within the month, in which the
child completes a year of his age, and, if it is possible, on the birthday itself. In this way the
task of the physician will also be made easier, because of its regularity. We have, at the most,
fifty children in each of our schools, and the birthdays of these scattered over the 365 days of
the year make it possible for the physician to take his measurements from time to time, so
that the burden of his work is not heavy. It is the duty of the teacher to inform the doctor of
the birthdays of the children.
The taking of these anthropometrical measurements has also an educational side to it, for
the pupils, when they leave the "Children's House," know how to answer with clearness and
certainty the following questions:—
On what day of the week were you born?
On what day of the month?
When does your birthday come? [Pg 79]

And with all this they will have acquired habits of order, and, above all, they will have
formed the habit of observing themselves. Indeed, I may say here, that the children take a
great pleasure in being measured; at the first glance of the teacher and at the word stature, the
child begins instantly to take off his shoes, laughing and running to place himself upon the
platform of the anthropometer; placing himself of his own accord in the normal position so
perfectly that the teacher needs only to arrange the indicator and read the result.
Aside from the measurements which the physician takes with the ordinary instruments
(calipers and metal yard measure), he makes observations upon the children's colouring,
condition of their muscles, state of their lymphatic glands, the condition of the blood, etc. He
notices any malformations; describes any pathological conditions with care (any tendency to
rickets, infant paralysis, defective sight, etc.). This objective study of the child will guide the
doctor when he finds it advisable to talk with the parents concerning its condition. Following
this, when the doctor has found it desirable, he makes a thorough, sanitary inspection of the
home of the child, prescribing necessary treatment and eventually doing away with such
troubles as eczema, inflammation of the ear, feverish conditions, intestinal disturbances, etc.
This careful following of the case in hand is greatly assisted by the existence of the
dispensary within the house, which makes feasible direct treatment and continual
observation.
I have found that the usual question asked patients who present themselves at the clinics,
are not adapted for use in our schools, as the members of the families living in these
tenements are for the greater part perfectly normal.
I therefore encourage the directress of the school to gather from her conversations with the [Pg 80]
mothers information of a more practical sort. She informs herself as to the education of the
parents, their habits, the wages earned, the money spent for household purposes, etc., and
from all this she outlines a history of each family, much on the order of those used by Le-
Play. This method is, of course, practical only where the directress lives among the families
of her scholars.
In every case, however, the physician's advice to the mothers concerning the hygienic care
of each particular child, as well as his directions concerning hygiene in general, will prove
most helpful. The directress should act as the go-between in these matters, since she is in the
confidence of the mothers, and since from her, such advice comes naturally.

ENVIRONMENT: SCHOOLROOM FURNISHINGS

The method of observation must undoubtedly include the methodical observation of the
morphological growth of the pupils. But let me repeat that, while this element necessarily
enters, it is not upon this particular kind of observation that the method is established.
The method of observation is established upon one fundamental base—the liberty of the
pupils in their spontaneous manifestations.
With this in view, I first turned my attention to the question of environment, and this, of
course, included the furnishing of the schoolroom. In considering an ample playground with
space for a garden as an important part of this school environment, I am not suggesting
anything new.
The novelty lies, perhaps, in my idea for the use of this open-air space, which is to be in
direct communication with the schoolroom, so that the children may be free to go and come [Pg 81]
as they like, throughout the entire day. I shall speak of this more fully later on.
The principal modification in the matter of school furnishings is the abolition of desks,
and benches or stationary chairs. I have had tables made with wide, solid, octagonal legs,
spreading in such a way that the tables are at the same time solidly firm and very light, so
light, indeed, that two four-year-old children can easily carry them about. These tables are
rectangular and sufficiently large to accommodate two children on the long side, there being
room for three if they sit rather close together. There are smaller tables at which one child
may work alone.
I also designed and had manufactured little chairs. My first plan for these was to have
them cane seated, but experience has shown the wear on these to be so great, that I now have
chairs made entirely of wood. These are very light and of an attractive shape. In addition to
these, I have in each schoolroom a number of comfortable little armchairs, some of wood
and some of wicker.
Another piece of our school furniture consists of a little washstand, so low that it can be
used by even a three-year-old child. This is painted with a white waterproof enamel and,
besides the broad, upper and lower shelves which hold the little white enameled basins and
pitchers, there are small side shelves for the soap-dishes, nail-brushes, towels, etc. There is
also a receptacle into which the basins may be emptied. Wherever possible, a small cupboard
provides each child with a space where he may keep his own soap, nail-brush, tooth-brush,
etc.
In each of our schoolrooms we have provided a series of long low cupboards, especially
designed for the reception of the didactic materials. The doors of these cupboards open [Pg 82]
easily, and the care of the materials is confided to the children. The tops of these cases
furnish room for potted plants, small aquariums, or for the various toys with which the
children are allowed to play freely. We have ample blackboard space, and these boards are so
hung as to be easily used by the smallest child. Each blackboard is provided with a small
case in which are kept the chalk, and the white cloths which we use instead of the ordinary
erasers.
Above the blackboards are hung attractive pictures, chosen carefully, representing simple
scenes in which children would naturally be interested. Among the pictures in our
"Children's Houses" in Rome we have hung a copy of Raphael's "Madonna della Seggiola,"
and this picture we have chosen as the emblem of the "Children's Houses." For indeed, these
"Children's Houses" represent not only social progress, but universal human progress, and
are closely related to the elevation of the idea of motherhood, to the progress of woman and
to the protection of her offspring. In this beautiful conception, Raphael has not only shown
us the Madonna as a Divine Mother holding in her arms the babe who is greater than she, but
by the side of this symbol of all motherhood, he has placed the figure of St. John, who
represents humanity. So in Raphael's picture we see humanity rendering homage to
maternity,—maternity, the sublime fact in the definite triumph of humanity. In addition to
this beautiful symbolism, the picture has a value as being one of the greatest works of art of
Italy's greatest artist. And if the day shall come when the "Children's Houses" shall be
established throughout the world, it is our wish that this picture of Raphael's shall have its
place in each of the schools, speaking eloquently of the country in which they originated. [Pg 83]

The children, of course, cannot comprehend the symbolic significance of the "Madonna of
the Chair," but they will see something more beautiful than that which they feel in more
ordinary pictures, in which they see mother, father, and children. And the constant
companionship with this picture will awaken in their heart a religious impression.
This, then, is the environment which I have selected for the children we wish to educate.

I know the first objection which will present itself to the minds of persons accustomed to
the old-time methods of discipline;—the children in these schools, moving about, will
overturn the little tables and chairs, producing noise and disorder; but this is a prejudice
which has long existed in the minds of those dealing with little children, and for which there
is no real foundation.
Swaddling clothes have for many centuries been considered necessary to the new-born
babe, walking-chairs to the child who is learning to walk. So in the school, we still believe it
necessary to have heavy desks and chairs fastened to the floor. All these things are based
upon the idea that the child should grow in immobility, and upon the strange prejudice that,
in order to execute any educational movement, we must maintain a special position of the
body;—as we believe that we must assume a special position when we are about to pray.
Our little tables and our various types of chairs are all light and easily transported, and we
permit the child to select the position which he finds most comfortable. He can make himself
comfortable as well as seat himself in his own place. And this freedom is not only an [Pg 84]
external sign of liberty, but a means of education. If by an awkward movement a child upsets
a chair, which falls noisily to the floor, he will have an evident proof of his own incapacity;
the same movement had it taken place amid stationary benches would have passed unnoticed
by him. Thus the child has some means by which he can correct himself, and having done so
he will have before him the actual proof of the power he has gained: the little tables and
chairs remain firm and silent each in its own place. It is plainly seen that the child has
learned to command his movements.
In the old method, the proof of discipline attained lay in a fact entirely contrary to this;
that is, in the immobility and silence of the child himself. Immobility and silence which
hindered the child from learning to move with grace and with discernment, and left him so
untrained, that, when he found himself in an environment where the benches and chairs were
not nailed to the floor, he was not able to move about without overturning the lighter pieces
of furniture. In the "Children's Houses" the child will not only learn to move gracefully and
properly, but will come to understand the reason for such deportment. The ability to move
which he acquires here will be of use to him all his life. While he is still a child, he becomes
capable of conducting himself correctly, and yet, with perfect freedom.
 The Directress of the Casa dei Bambini at Milan constructed under one of the windows a
long, narrow shelf upon which she placed the little tables containing the metal geometric
forms used in the first lessons in design. But the shelf was too narrow, and it often happened
that the children in selecting the pieces which they wished to use would allow one of the [Pg 85]
little tables to fall to the floor, thus upsetting with great noise all the metal pieces which it
held. The directress intended to have the shelf changed, but the carpenter was slow in
coming, and while waiting for him she discovered that the children had learned to handle
these materials so carefully that in spite of the narrow and sloping shelf, the little tables no
longer fell to the floor.
The children, by carefully directing their movements, had overcome the defect in this
piece of furniture. The simplicity or imperfection of external objects often serves to develop
the activity and the dexterity of the pupils. This has been one of the surprises of our method
as applied in the "Children's Houses."
It all seems very logical, and now that it has been actually tried and put into words, it will
no doubt seem to everyone as simple as the egg of Christopher Columbus.
[7] Incidentally, I may say, that I have invented a means of bathing children
contemporaneously, without having a large bath. In order to manage this, I thought
of having a long trough with supports at the bottom, on which small, separate tubs
could rest, with rather large holes in the bottom. The little tubs are filled from the
large trough, into which the water runs and then goes into all the little tubs together,
by the law of the levelling of liquids, going through the holes in the bottom. When
the water is settled, it does not pass from tub to tub, and the children will each have
their own bath. The emptying of the trough brings with it the simultaneous emptying
of the little tubs, which being of light metal, will be easily moved from the bottom of
the big tub, in order to clean it. It is not difficult to imagine arranging a cork for the
hole at the bottom. These are only projects for the future!

[Pg 86]
CHAPTER V.
DISCIPLINE
The pedagogical method of observation has for its base the liberty of the child; and liberty
is activity.
Discipline must come through liberty. Here is a great principle which is difficult for
followers of common-school methods to understand. How shall one obtain discipline in a
class of free children? Certainly in our system, we have a concept of discipline very different
from that commonly accepted. If discipline is founded upon liberty, the discipline itself must
necessarily be active. We do not consider an individual disciplined only when he has been
rendered as artificially silent as a mute and as immovable as a paralytic. He is an individual
annihilated, not disciplined.
We call an individual disciplined when he is master of himself, and can, therefore, regulate
his own conduct when it shall be necessary to follow some rule of life. Such a concept of
active discipline is not easy either to comprehend or to apply. But certainly it contains a great
educational principle, very different from the old-time absolute and undiscussed coercion to
immobility.
 A special technique is necessary to the teacher who is to lead the child along such a path
of discipline, if she is to make it possible for him to continue in this way all his life,
advancing indefinitely toward perfect self-mastery. Since the child now learns to move rather
than to sit still, he prepares himself not for the school, but for life; for he becomes able, [Pg 87]
through habit and through practice, to perform easily and correctly the simple acts of social
or community life. The discipline to which the child habituates himself here is, in its
character, not limited to the school environment but extends to society.
The liberty of the child should have as its limit the collective interest; as its form, what we
universally consider good breeding. We must, therefore, check in the child whatever offends
or annoys others, or whatever tends toward rough or ill-bred acts. But all the rest,—every
manifestation having a useful scope,—whatever it be, and under whatever form it expresses
itself, must not only be permitted, but must be observed by the teacher. Here lies the
essential point; from her scientific preparation, the teacher must bring not only the capacity,
but the desire, to observe natural phenomena. In our system, she must become a passive,
much more than an active, influence, and her passivity shall be composed of anxious
scientific curiosity, and of absolute respect for the phenomenon which she wishes to observe.
The teacher must understand and feel her position of observer: the activity must lie in the
phenomenon.
Such principles assuredly have a place in schools for little children who are exhibiting the
first psychic manifestations of their lives. We cannot know the consequences of suffocating a
spontaneous action at the time when the child is just beginning to be active: perhaps we
suffocate life itself. Humanity shows itself in all its intellectual splendour during this tender
age as the sun shows itself at the dawn, and the flower in the first unfolding of the petals; and
we must respect religiously, reverently, these first indications of individuality. If any [Pg 88]
educational act is to be efficacious, it will be only that which tends to help toward the
complete unfolding of this life. To be thus helpful it is necessary rigorously to avoid the
arrest of spontaneous movements and the imposition of arbitrary tasks. It is of course
understood, that here we do not speak of useless or dangerous acts, for these must be
suppressed, destroyed.

Actual training and practice are necessary to fit for this method teachers who have not
been prepared for scientific observation, and such training is especially necessary to those
who have been accustomed to the old domineering methods of the common school. My
experiences in training teachers for the work in my schools did much to convince me of the
great distance between these methods and those. Even an intelligent teacher, who
understands the principle, finds much difficulty in putting it into practice. She can not
understand that her new task is apparently passive, like that of the astronomer who sits
immovable before the telescope while the worlds whirl through space. This idea, that life
acts of itself, and that in order to study it, to divine its secrets or to direct its activity, it is
necessary to observe it and to understand it without intervening—this idea, I say, is very
difficult for anyone to assimilate and to put into practice.
The teacher has too thoroughly learned to be the one free activity of the school; it has for
too long been virtually her duty to suffocate the activity of her pupils. When in the first days
in one of the "Children's Houses" she does not obtain order and silence, she looks about her
embarrassed as if asking the public to excuse her, and calling upon those present to testify to
her innocence. In vain do we repeat to her that the disorder of the first moment is necessary. [Pg 89]
And finally, when we oblige her to do nothing but watch, she asks if she had not better
resign, since she is no longer a teacher.
 But when she begins to find it her duty to discern which are the acts to hinder and which
are those to observe, the teacher of the old school feels a great void within herself and begins
to ask if she will not be inferior to her new task. In fact, she who is not prepared finds herself
for a long time abashed and impotent; whereas the broader the teacher's scientific culture and
practice in experimental psychology, the sooner will come for her the marvel of unfolding
life, and her interest in it.
Notari, in his novel, "My Millionaire Uncle," which is a criticism of modern customs,
gives with that quality of vividness which is peculiar to him, a most eloquent example of the
old-time methods of discipline. The "uncle" when a child was guilty of such a number of
disorderly acts that he practically upset the whole town, and in desperation he was confined
in a school. Here "Fufu," as he was called, experiences his first wish to be kind, and feels the
first moving of his soul when he is near to the pretty little Fufetta, and learns that she is
hungry and has no luncheon.
"He glanced around, looked at Fufetta, rose, took his little lunch basket, and without
saying a word placed it in her lap.
"Then he ran away from her, and, without knowing why he did so, hung his head and burst
into tears.
"My uncle did not know how to explain to himself the reason for this sudden outburst.
"He had seen for the first time two kind eyes full of sad tears, and he had felt moved
within himself, and at the same time a great shame had rushed over him; the shame of eating [Pg 90]
near to one who had nothing to eat.
"Not knowing how to express the impulse of his heart, nor what to say in asking her to
accept the offer of his little basket, nor how to invent an excuse to justify his offering it to
her, he remained the victim of this first deep movement of his little soul.
"Fufetta, all confused, ran to him quickly. With great gentleness she drew away the arm in
which he had hidden his face.
"'Do not cry, Fufu,' she said to him softly, almost as if pleading with him. She might have
been speaking to her beloved rag doll, so motherly and intent was her little face, and so full
of gentle authority, her manner.
"Then the little girl kissed him, and my uncle yielding to the influence which had filled his
heart, put his arms around her neck, and, still silent and sobbing, kissed her in return. At last,
sighing deeply, he wiped from his face and eyes the damp traces of his emotion, and smiled
again.
"A strident voice called out from the other end of the courtyard:
"'Here, here, you two down there—be quick with you; inside, both of you!'
"It was the teacher, the guardian. She crushed that first gentle stirring in the soul of a rebel
with the same blind brutality that she would have used toward two children engaged in a
fight.
"It was the time for all to go back into the school—and everybody had to obey the rule."
Thus I saw my teachers act in the first days of my practice school in the "Children's
Houses." They almost involuntarily recalled the children to immobility without observing [Pg 91]
and distinguishing the nature of the movements they repressed. There was, for example, a
little girl who gathered her companions about her and then, in the midst of them, began to
talk and gesticulate. The teacher at once ran to her, took hold of her arms, and told her to be
still; but I, observing the child, saw that she was playing at being teacher or mother to the
others, and teaching them the morning prayer, the invocation to the saints, and the sign of the
cross: she already showed herself as a director. Another child, who continually made
disorganised and misdirected movements, and who was considered abnormal, one day, with
an expression of intense attention, set about moving the tables. Instantly they were upon him
to make him stand still because he made too much noise. Yet this was one of the first
manifestations, in this child, of movements that were co-ordinated and directed toward a
useful end, and it was therefore an action that should have been respected. In fact, after this
the child began to be quiet and happy like the others whenever he had any small objects to
move about and to arrange upon his desk.
It often happened that while the directress replaced in the boxes various materials that had
been used, a child would draw near, picking up the objects, with the evident desire of
imitating the teacher. The first impulse was to send the child back to her place with the
remark, "Let it alone; go to your seat." Yet the child expressed by this act a desire to be
useful; the time, with her, was ripe for a lesson in order.
One day, the children had gathered themselves, laughing and talking, into a circle about a
basin of water containing some floating toys. We had in the school a little boy barely two and
a half years old. He had been left outside the circle, alone, and it was easy to see that he was [Pg 92]
filled with intense curiosity. I watched him from a distance with great interest; he first drew
near to the other children and tried to force his way among them, but he was not strong
enough to do this, and he then stood looking about him. The expression of thought on his
little face was intensely interesting. I wish that I had had a camera so that I might have
photographed him. His eye lighted upon a little chair, and evidently he made up his mind to
place it behind the group of children and then to climb up on it. He began to move toward
the chair, his face illuminated with hope, but at that moment the teacher seized him brutally
(or, perhaps, she would have said, gently) in her arms, and lifting him up above the heads of
the other children showed him the basin of water, saying, "Come, poor little one, you shall
see too!"
Undoubtedly the child, seeing the floating toys, did not experience the joy that he was
about to feel through conquering the obstacle with his own force. The sight of those objects
could be of no advantage to him, while his intelligent efforts would have developed his inner
powers.
The teacher hindered the child, in this case, from educating himself, without giving him
any compensating good in return. The little fellow had been about to feel himself a
conqueror, and he found himself held within two imprisoning arms, impotent. The
expression of joy, anxiety, and hope, which had interested me so much faded from his face
and left on it the stupid expression of the child who knows that others will act for him.
When the teachers were weary of my observations, they began to allow the children to do
whatever they pleased. I saw children with their feet on the tables, or with their fingers in [Pg 93]
their noses, and no intervention was made to correct them. I saw others push their
companions, and I saw dawn in the faces of these an expression of violence; and not the
slightest attention on the part of the teacher. Then I had to intervene to show with what
absolute rigour it is necessary to hinder, and little by little suppress, all those things which
we must not do, so that the child may come to discern clearly between good and evil.
If discipline is to be lasting, its foundations must be laid in this way and these first days
are the most difficult for the directress. The first idea that the child must acquire, in order to
be actively disciplined, is that of the difference between good and evil; and the task of the
educator lies in seeing that the child does not confound good with immobility, and evil with
activity, as often happens in the case of the old-time discipline. And all this because our aim
is to discipline for activity, for work, for good; not for immobility, not for passivity, not for
obedience.
A room in which all the children move about usefully, intelligently, and voluntarily,
without committing any rough or rude act, would seem to me a classroom very well
disciplined indeed.

To seat the children in rows, as in the common schools, to assign to each little one a place,
and to propose that they shall sit thus quietly observant of the order of the whole class as an
assemblage—this can be attained later, as the starting place of collective education. For also,
in life, it sometimes happens that we must all remain seated and quiet; when, for example,
we attend a concert or a lecture. And we know that even to us, as grown people, this costs no
little sacrifice. [Pg 94]

If we can, when we have established individual discipline, arrange the children, sending
each one to his own place, in order, trying to make them understand the idea that thus placed
they look well, and that it is a good thing to be thus placed in order, that it is a good and
pleasing arrangement in the room, this ordered and tranquil adjustment of theirs—then their
remaining in their places, quiet and silent, is the result of a species of lesson, not an
imposition. To make them understand the idea, without calling their attention too forcibly to
the practice, to have them assimilate a principle of collective order—that is the important
thing.
If, after they have understood this idea, they rise, speak, change to another place, they no
longer do this without knowing and without thinking, but they do it because they wish to
rise, to speak, etc.; that is, from that state of repose and order, well understood, they depart
in order to undertake some voluntary action; and knowing that there are actions which are
prohibited, this will give them a new impulse to remember to discriminate between good and
evil.
The movements of the children from the state of order become always more co-ordinated
and perfect with the passing of the days; in fact, they learn to reflect upon their own acts.
Now (with the idea of order understood by the children) the observation of the way in which
the children pass from the first disordered movements to those which are spontaneous and
ordered—this is the book of the teacher; this is the book which must inspire her actions; it is
the only one in which she must read and study if she is to become a real educator.
For the child with such exercises makes, to a certain extent, a selection of his own
tendencies, which were at first confused in the unconscious disorder of his movements. It is [Pg 95]
remarkable how clearly individual differences show themselves, if we proceed in this way;
the child, conscious and free, reveals himself.
There are those who remain quietly in their seats, apathetic, or drowsy; others who leave
their places to quarrel, to fight, or to overturn the various blocks and toys, and then there are
those others who set out to fulfil a definite and determined act—moving a chair to some
particular spot and sitting down in it, moving one of the unused tables and arranging upon it
the game they wish to play.
Our idea of liberty for the child cannot be the simple concept of liberty we use in the
observation of plants, insects, etc.
The child, because of the peculiar characteristics of helplessness with which he is born,
and because of his qualities as a social individual is circumscribed by bonds which limit his
activity.
An educational method that shall have liberty as its basis must intervene to help the child
to a conquest of these various obstacles. In other words, his training must be such as shall
help him to diminish, in a rational manner, the social bonds, which limit his activity.
Little by little, as the child grows in such an atmosphere, his spontaneous manifestations
will become more clear, with the clearness of truth, revealing his nature. For all these
reasons, the first form of educational intervention must tend to lead the child toward
independence.

INDEPENDENCE

No one can be free unless he is independent: therefore, the first, active manifestations of
the child's individual liberty must be so guided that through this activity he may arrive at [Pg 96]
independence. Little children, from the moment in which they are weaned, are making their
way toward independence.
What is a weaned child? In reality it is a child that has become independent of the
mother's breast. Instead of this one source of nourishment he will find various kinds of food;
for him the means of existence are multiplied, and he can to some extent make a selection of
his food, whereas he was at first limited absolutely to one form of nourishment.
Nevertheless, he is still dependent, since he is not yet able to walk, and cannot wash and
dress himself, and since he is not yet able to ask for things in a language which is clear and
easily understood. He is still in this period to a great extent the slave of everyone. By the age
of three, however, the child should have been able to render himself to a great extent
independent and free.
That we have not yet thoroughly assimilated the highest concept of the term
independence, is due to the fact that the social form in which we live is still servile. In an age
of civilisation where servants exist, the concept of that form of life which is independence
cannot take root or develop freely. Even so in the time of slavery, the concept of liberty was
distorted and darkened.
Our servants are not our dependents, rather it is we who are dependent upon them.
It is not possible to accept universally as a part of our social structure such a deep human
error without feeling the general effects of it in the form of moral inferiority. We often
believe ourselves to be independent simply because no one commands us, and because we
command others; but the nobleman who needs to call a servant to his aid is really a
dependent through his own inferiority. The paralytic who cannot take off his boots because [Pg 97]
of a pathological fact, and the prince who dare not take them off because of a social fact, are
in reality reduced to the same condition.
Any nation that accepts the idea of servitude and believes that it is an advantage for man
to be served by man, admits servility as an instinct, and indeed we all too easily lend
ourselves to obsequious service, giving to it such complimentary names as courtesy,
politeness, charity.
In reality, he who is served is limited in his independence. This concept will be the
foundation of the dignity of the man of the future; "I do not wish to be served, because I am
not an impotent." And this idea must be gained before men can feel themselves to be really
free.
 Any pedagogical action, if it is to be efficacious in the training of little children, must tend
to help the children to advance upon this road of independence. We must help them to learn
to walk without assistance, to run, to go up and down stairs, to lift up fallen objects, to dress
and undress themselves, to bathe themselves, to speak distinctly, and to express their own
needs clearly. We must give such help as shall make it possible for children to achieve the
satisfaction of their own individual aims and desires. All this is a part of education for
independence.
We habitually serve children; and this is not only an act of servility toward them, but it is
dangerous, since it tends to suffocate their useful, spontaneous activity. We are inclined to
believe that children are like puppets, and we wash them and feed them as if they were dolls.
We do not stop to think that the child who does not do, does not know how to do. He must,
nevertheless, do these things, and nature has furnished him with the physical means for [Pg 98]
carrying on these various activities, and with the intellectual means for learning how to do
them. And our duty toward him is, in every case, that of helping him to make a conquest of
such useful acts as nature intended he should perform for himself. The mother who feeds her
child without making the least effort to teach him to hold the spoon for himself and to try to
find his mouth with it, and who does not at least eat herself, inviting the child to look and see
how she does it, is not a good mother. She offends the fundamental human dignity of her
son,—she treats him as if he were a doll, when he is, instead, a man confided by nature to her
care.
Who does not know that to teach a child to feed himself, to wash and dress himself, is a
much more tedious and difficult work, calling for infinitely greater patience, than feeding,
washing and dressing the child one's self? But the former is the work of an educator, the
latter is the easy and inferior work of a servant. Not only is it easier for the mother, but it is
very dangerous for the child, since it doses the way and puts obstacles in the path of the life
which is developing.
The ultimate consequences of such an attitude on the part of the parent may be very
serious indeed. The grand gentleman who has too many servants not only grows constantly
more and more dependent upon them, until he is, finally, actually their slave, but his muscles
grow weak through inactivity and finally lose their natural capacity for action. The mind of
one who does not work for that which he needs, but commands it from others, grows heavy
and sluggish. If such a man should some day awaken to the fact of his inferior position and
should wish to regain once more his own independence, he would find that he had no longer [Pg 99]
the force to do so. These dangers should be presented to the parents of the privileged social
classes, if their children are to use independently and for right the special power which is
theirs. Needless help is an actual hindrance to the development of natural forces.
Oriental women wear trousers, it is true, and European women, petticoats; but the former,
even more than the latter, are taught as a part of their education the art of not moving. Such
an attitude toward woman leads to the fact that man works not only for himself, but for
woman. And the woman wastes her natural strength and activity and languishes in slavery.
She is not only maintained and served, she is, besides, diminished, belittled, in that
individuality which is hers by right of her existence as a human being. As an individual
member of society, she is a cypher. She is rendered deficient in all those powers and
resources which tend to the preservation of life. Let me illustrate this:
A carriage containing a father, mother, and child, is going along a country road. An armed
brigand stops the carriage with the well-known phrase, "Your money or your life." Placed in
this situation, the three persons in the carriage act in very different ways. The man, who is a
trained marksman, and who is armed with a revolver, promptly draws, and confronts the
assassin. The boy, armed only with the freedom and lightness of his own legs, cries out and
betakes himself to flight. The woman, who is not armed in any way whatever, neither
artificially nor naturally (since her limbs, not trained for activity, are hampered by her skirts),
gives a frightened gasp, and sinks down unconscious.
These three diverse reactions are in close relation to the state of liberty and independence [Pg
of each of the three individuals. The swooning woman is she whose cloak is carried for her 100]
by attentive cavaliers, who are quick to pick up any fallen object that she may be spared all
exertion.
The peril of servilism and dependence lies not only in that "useless consuming of life,"
which leads to helplessness, but in the development of individual traits which indicate all too
plainly a regrettable perversion and degeneration of the normal man. I refer to the
domineering and tyrannical behaviour with examples of which we are all only too familiar.
The domineering habit develops side by side with helplessness. It is the outward sign of the
state of feeling of him who conquers through the work of others. Thus it often happens that
the master is a tyrant toward his servant. It is the spirit of the task-master toward the slave.
Let us picture to ourselves a clever and proficient workman, capable, not only of
producing much and perfect work, but of giving advice in his workshop, because of his
ability to control and direct the general activity of the environment in which he works. The
man who is thus master of his environment will be able to smile before the anger of others,
showing that great mastery of himself which comes from consciousness of his ability to do
things. We should not, however, be in the least surprised to know that in his home this
capable workman scolded his wife if the soup was not to his taste, or not ready at the
appointed time. In his home, he is no longer the capable workman; the skilled workman here
is the wife, who serves him and prepares his food for him. He is a serene and pleasant man
where he is powerful through being efficient, but is domineering where he is served. Perhaps [Pg
if he should learn how to prepare his soup he might become a perfect man! The man who, 101]
through his own efforts, is able to perform all the actions necessary for his comfort and
development in life, conquers himself, and in doing so multiplies his abilities and perfects
himself as an individual.
We must make of the future generation, powerful men, and by that we mean men who are
independent and free.

ABOLITION OF PRIZES AND OF EXTERNAL

FORMS OF PUNISHMENT

Once we have accepted and established such principles, the abolition of prizes and
external forms of punishment will follow naturally. Man, disciplined through liberty, begins
to desire the true and only prize which will never belittle or disappoint him,—the birth of
human power and liberty within that inner life of his from which his activities must spring.
In my own experience I have often marvelled to see how true this is. During our first
months in the "Children's Houses," the teachers had not yet learned to put into practice the
pedagogical principles of liberty and discipline. One of them, especially, busied herself,
when I was absent, in remedying my ideas by introducing a few of those methods to which
she had been accustomed. So, one day when I came in unexpectedly, I found one of the most
intelligent of the children wearing a large Greek cross of silver, hung from his neck by a fine
piece of white ribbon, while another child was seated in an armchair which had been
conspicuously placed in the middle of the room.
The first child had been rewarded, the second was being punished. The teacher, at least
while I was present, did not interfere in any way, and the situation remained as I had found it. [Pg
I held my peace, and placed myself where I might observe quietly. 102]

The child with the cross was moving back and forth, carrying the objects with which he
had been working, from his table to that of the teacher, and bringing others in their place. He
was busy and happy. As he went back and forth he passed by the armchair of the child who
was being punished. The silver cross slipped from his neck and fell to the floor, and the child
in the armchair picked it up, dangled it on its white ribbon, looking at it from all sides, and
then said to his companion: "Do you see what you have dropped?" The child turned and
looked at the trinket with an air of indifference; his expression seemed to say; "Don't
interrupt me," his voice replied "I don't care." "Don't you care, really?" said the punished one
calmly. "Then I will put it on myself." And the other replied, "Oh, yes, put it on," in a tone
that seemed to add, "and leave me in peace!"
The boy in the armchair carefully arranged the ribbon so that the cross lay upon the front
of his pink apron where he could admire its brightness and its pretty form, then he settled
himself more comfortably in his little chair and rested his arms with evident pleasure upon
the arms of the chair. The affair remained thus, and was quite just. The dangling cross could
satisfy the child who was being punished, but not the active child, content and happy with
his work.
One day I took with me on a visit to another of the "Children's Houses" a lady who praised
the children highly and who, opening a box she had brought, showed them a number of
shining medals, each tied with a bright red ribbon. "The mistress," she said "will put these on [Pg
the breasts of those children who are the cleverest and the best." 103]

As I was under no obligation to instruct this visitor in my methods, I kept silence, and the
teacher took the box. At that moment, a most intelligent little boy of four, who was seated
quietly at one of the little tables, wrinkled his forehead in an act of protest and cried out over
and over again;—"Not to the boys, though, not to the boys!"
What a revelation! This little fellow already knew that he stood among the best and
strongest of his class, although no one had ever revealed this fact to him, and he did not wish
to be offended by this prize. Not knowing how to defend his dignity, he invoked the superior
quality of his masculinity!
As to punishments, we have many times come in contact with children who disturbed the
others without paying any attention to our corrections. Such children were at once examined
by the physician. When the case proved to be that of a normal child, we placed one of the
little tables in a corner of the room, and in this way isolated the child; having him sit in a
comfortable little armchair, so placed that he might see his companions at work, and giving
him those games and toys to which he was most attracted. This isolation almost always
succeeded in calming the child; from his position he could see the entire assembly of his
companions, and the way in which they carried on their work was an object lesson much
more efficacious than any words of the teacher could possibly have been. Little by little, he
would come to see the advantages of being one of the company working so busily before his
eyes, and he would really wish to go back and do as the others did. We have in this way led
back again to discipline all the children who at first seemed to rebel against it. The isolated [Pg
child was always made the object of special care, almost as if he were ill. I myself, when I 104]
entered the room, went first of all directly to him, caressing him, as if he were a very little
child. Then I turned my attention to the others, interesting myself in their work, asking
questions about it as if they had been little men. I do not know what happened in the soul of
these children whom we found it necessary to discipline, but certainly the conversion was
always very complete and lasting. They showed great pride in learning how to work and how
to conduct themselves, and always showed a very tender affection for the teacher and for me.
 THE BIOLOGICAL CONCEPT OF LIBERTY IN
PEDAGOGY

From a biological point of view, the concept of liberty in the education of the child in his
earliest years must be understood as demanding those conditions adapted to the most
favourable development of his entire individuality. So, from the physiological side as well as
from the mental side, this includes the free development of the brain. The educator must be
as one inspired by a deep worship of life, and must, through this reverence, respect, while he
observes with human interest, the development of the child life. Now, child life is not an
abstraction; it is the life of individual children. There exists only one real biological
manifestation: the living individual; and toward single individuals, one by one observed,
education must direct itself. By education must be understood the active help given to the
normal expansion of the life of the child. The child is a body which grows, and a soul which
develops,—these two forms, physiological and psychic, have one eternal font, life itself. We
must neither mar nor stifle the mysterious powers which lie within these two forms of [Pg
growth, but we must await from them the manifestations which we know will succeed one 105]
another.
Environment is undoubtedly a secondary factor in the phenomena of life; it can modify in
that it can help or hinder, but it can never create. The modern theories of evolution, from
Naegeli to De Vries, consider throughout the development of the two biological branches,
animal and vegetable, this interior factor as the essential force in the transformation of the
species and in the transformation of the individual. The origins of the development, both in
the species and in the individual, lie within. The child does not grow because he is
nourished, because he breathes, because he is placed in conditions of temperature to which
he is adapted; he grows because the potential life within him develops, making itself visible;
because the fruitful germ from which his life has come develops itself according to the
biological destiny which was fixed for it by heredity. Adolescence does not come because
the child laughs, or dances, or does gymnastic exercises, or is well nourished; but because he
has arrived at that particular physiological state. Life makes itself manifest,—life creates, life
gives:—and is in its turn held within certain limits and bound by certain laws which are
insuperable. The fixed characteristics of the species do not change,—they can only vary.
This concept, so brilliantly set forth by De Vries in his Mutation Theory, illustrates also
the limits of education. We can act on the variations which are in relation to the
environment, and whose limits vary slightly in the species and in the individual, but we
cannot act upon the mutations. The mutations are bound by some mysterious tie to the very [Pg
font of life itself, and their power rises superior to the modifying elements of the 106]
environment.
A species, for example, cannot mutate or change into another species through any
phenomenon of adaptation, as, on the other hand, a great human genius cannot be suffocated
by any limitation, nor by any false form of education.
The environment acts more strongly upon the individual life the less fixed and strong this
individual life may be. But environment can act in two opposite senses, favouring life, and
stifling it. Many species of palm, for example, are splendid in the tropical regions, because
the climatic conditions are favourable to their development, but many species of both
animals and plants have become extinct in regions to which they were not able to adapt
themselves.
Life is a superb goddess, always advancing, overthrowing the obstacles which
environment places in the way of her triumph. This is the basic or fundamental truth,—
whether it be a question of species or of individuals, there persists always the forward march
of those victorious ones in whom this mysterious life-force is strong and vital.
It is evident that in the case of humanity, and especially in the case of our civil humanity,
which we call society, the important and imperative question is that of the care, or perhaps
we might say, the culture of human life.

[Pg
CHAPTER VI 107]

HOW THE LESSONS SHOULD BE GIVEN

"Let all thy words be counted."
Dante, Inf., canto X.
Given the fact that, through the régime of liberty the pupils can manifest their natural
tendencies in the school, and that with this in view we have prepared the environment and
the materials (the objects with which the child is to work), the teacher must not limit her
action to observation, but must proceed to experiment.
In this method the lesson corresponds to an experiment. The more fully the teacher is
acquainted with the methods of experimental psychology, the better will she understand how
to give the lesson. Indeed, a special technique is necessary if the method is to be properly
applied. The teacher must at least have attended the training classes in the "Children's
Houses," in order to acquire a knowledge of the fundamental principles of the method and to
understand their application. The most difficult portion of this training is that which refers to
the method for discipline.
In the first days of the school the children do not learn the idea of collective order; this
idea follows and comes as a result of those disciplinary exercises through which the child
learns to discern between good and evil. This being the case, it is evident that, at the outset
the teacher cannot give collective lessons. Such lessons, indeed, will always be very rare,
since the children being free are not obliged to remain in their places quiet and ready to listen [Pg
to the teacher, or to watch what she is doing. The collective lessons, in fact, are of very 108]
secondary importance, and have been almost abolished by us.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE INDIVIDUAL

LESSONS:—CONCISENESS, SIMPLICITY,
OBJECTIVITY

The lessons, then, are individual, and brevity must be one of their chief characteristics.
Dante gives excellent advice to teachers when he says, "Let thy words be counted." The
more carefully we cut away useless words, the more perfect will become the lesson. And in
preparing the lessons which she is to give, the teacher must pay special attention to this
point, counting and weighing the value of the words which she is to speak.
Another characteristic quality of the lesson in the "Children's Houses" is its simplicity. It
must be stripped of all that is not absolute truth. That the teacher must not lose herself in
vain words, is included in the first quality of conciseness; this second, then, is closely related
to the first: that is, the carefully chosen words must be the most simple it is possible to find,
and must refer to the truth.
 The third quality of the lesson is its objectivity. The lesson must be presented in such a
way that the personality of the teacher shall disappear. There shall remain in evidence only
the object to which she wishes to call the attention of the child. This brief and simple lesson
must be considered by the teacher as an explanation of the object and of the use which the
child can make of it.
In the giving of such lessons the fundamental guide must be the method of observation, in
which is included and understood the liberty of the child. So the teacher shall observe
whether the child interests himself in the object, how he is interested in it, for how long, etc., [Pg
even noticing the expression of his face. And she must take great care not to offend the 109]
principles of liberty. For, if she provokes the child to make an unnatural effort, she will no
longer know what is the spontaneous activity of the child. If, therefore, the lesson rigorously
prepared in this brevity, simplicity and truth is not understood by the child, is not accepted
by him as an explanation of the object,—the teacher must be warned of two things:—first,
not to insist by repeating the lesson; and second, not to make the child feel that he has made
a mistake, or that he is not understood, because in doing so she will cause him to make an
effort to understand, and will thus alter the natural state which must be used by her in
making her psychological observation. A few examples may serve to illustrate this point.
Let us suppose, for example, that the teacher wishes to teach to a child the two colours,
red and blue. She desires to attract the attention of the child to the object. She says, therefore,
"Look at this." Then, in order to teach the colours, she says, showing him the red, "This is
red," raising her voice a little and pronouncing the word "red" slowly and clearly; then
showing him the other colour, "This is blue." In order to make sure that the child has
understood, she says to him, "Give me the red,"—"Give me the blue." Let us suppose that
the child in following this last direction makes a mistake. The teacher does not repeat and
does not insist; she smiles, gives the child a friendly caress and takes away the colours.
Teachers ordinarily are greatly surprised at such simplicity. They often say, "But
everybody knows how to do that!" Indeed, this again is a little like the egg of Christopher [Pg
Columbus, but the truth is that not everyone knows how to do this simple thing (to give a 110]
lesson with such simplicity). To measure one's own activity, to make it conform to these
standards of clearness, brevity and truth, is practically a very difficult matter. Especially is
this true of teachers prepared by the old-time methods, who have learned to labour to deluge
the child with useless, and often, false words. For example, a teacher who had taught in the
public schools often reverted to collectivity. Now in giving a collective lesson much
importance is necessarily given to the simple thing which is to be taught, and it is necessary
to oblige all the children to follow the teacher's explanation, when perhaps not all of them
are disposed to give their attention to the particular lesson in hand. The teacher has perhaps
commenced her lesson in this way:—"Children, see if you can guess what I have in my
hand!" She knows that the children cannot guess, and she therefore attracts their attention by
means of a falsehood. Then she probably says,—"Children, look out at the sky. Have you
ever looked at it before? Have you never noticed it at night when it is all shining with stars?
No! Look at my apron. Do you know what colour it is? Doesn't it seem to you the same
colour as the sky? Very well then, look at this colour I have in my hand. It is the same colour
as the sky and my apron. It is blue. Now look around you a little and see if you can find
something in the room which is blue. And do you know what colour cherries are, and the
colour of the burning coals in the fireplace, etc., etc."
Now in the mind of the child after he has made the useless effort of trying to guess there
revolves a confused mass of ideas,—the sky, the apron, the cherries, etc. It will be difficult
for him to extract from all this confusion the idea which it was the scope of the lesson to [Pg
make clear to him; namely, the recognition of the two colours, blue and red. Such a work of 111]
selection is almost impossible for the mind of a child who is not yet able to follow a long
discourse.
I remember being present at an arithmetic lesson where the children were being taught that
two and three make five. To this end, the teacher made use of a counting board having
coloured beads strung on its thin wires. She arranged, for example, two beads on the top line,
then on a lower line three, and at the bottom five beads. I do not remember very clearly the
development of this lesson, but I do know that the teacher found it necessary to place beside
the two beads on the upper wire a little cardboard dancer with a blue skirt, which she
christened on the spot the name of one of the children in the class, saying, "This is
Mariettina." And then beside the other three beads she placed a little dancer dressed in a
different colour, which she called "Gigina." I do not know exactly how the teacher arrived at
the demonstration of the same, but certainly she talked for a long time with these little
dancers, moving them about, etc. If I remember the dancers more clearly than I do the
arithmetic process, how must it have been with the children? If by such a method they were
able to learn that two and three make five, they must have made a tremendous mental effort,
and the teacher must have found it necessary to talk with the little dancers for a long time.
In another lesson a teacher wished to demonstrate to the children the difference between
noise and sound. She began by telling a long story to the children. Then suddenly someone
in league with her knocked noisily at the door. The teacher stopped and cried out—"What is
it! What's happened! What is the matter! Children, do you know what this person at the door [Pg
has done? I can no longer go on with my story, I cannot remember it any more. I will have to 112]
leave it unfinished. Do you know what has happened? Did you hear! Have you understood?
That was a noise, that is a noise. Oh! I would much rather play with this little baby (taking
up a mandolin which she had dressed up in a table cover). Yes, dear baby, I had rather play
with you. Do you see this baby that I am holding in my arms?" Several children replied, "It
isn't a baby." Others said, "It's a mandolin." The teacher went on—"No, no, it is a baby,
really a baby. I love this little baby. Do you want me to show you that it is a baby? Keep
very, very quiet then. It seems to me that the baby is crying. Or, perhaps it is talking, or
perhaps it is going to say papa or mamma." Putting her hand under the cover, she touched the
strings of the mandolin. "There! did you hear the baby cry! Did you hear it call out?" The
children cried out—"It's a mandolin, you touched the strings, you made it play." The teacher
then replied, "Be quiet, be quiet, children. Listen to what I am going to do." Then she
uncovered the mandolin and began to play on it, saying, "This is sound."
To suppose that the child from such a lesson as this shall come to understand the
difference between noise and sound is ridiculous. The child will probably get the impression
that the teacher wished to play a joke, and that she is rather foolish, because she lost the
thread of her discourse when she was interrupted by noise, and because she mistook a
mandolin for a baby. Most certainly, it is the figure of the teacher herself that is impressed
upon the child's mind through such a lesson, and not the object for which the lesson was [Pg
given. 113]

To obtain a simple lesson from a teacher who has been prepared according to the ordinary
methods, is a very difficult task. I remember that, after having explained the material fully
and in detail, I called upon one of my teachers to teach, by means of the geometric insets, the
difference between a square and a triangle. The task of the teacher was simply to fit a square
and a triangle of wood into the empty spaces made to receive them. She should then have
shown the child how to follow with his finger the contours of the wooden pieces and of the
frames into which they fit, saying, meanwhile, "This is a square—this is a triangle." The
teacher whom I had called upon began by having the child touch the square, saying, "This is
a line,—another,—another,—and another. There are four lines: count them with your little
finger and tell me how many there are. And the corners,—count the corners, feel them with
your little finger. See, there are four corners too. Look at this piece well. It is a square." I
corrected the teacher, telling her that in this way she was not teaching the child to recognise a
form, but was giving him an idea of sides, of angles, of number, and that this was a very
different thing from that which she was to teach in this lesson. "But," she said, trying to
justify herself, "it is the same thing." It is not, however, the same thing. It is the geometric
analysis and the mathematics of the thing. It would be possible to have an idea of the form of
the quadrilateral without knowing how to count to four, and, therefore, without appreciating
the number of sides and angles. The sides and the angles are abstractions which in
themselves do not exist; that which does exist is this piece of wood of a determined form. [Pg
The elaborate explanations of the teacher not only confused the child's mind, but bridged 114]
over the distance that lies between the concrete and the abstract, between the form of an
object and the mathematics of the form.
Let as suppose, I said to the teacher, that an architect shows you a dome, the form of
which interests you. He can follow one of two methods in showing you his work: he can call
attention to the beauty of line, the harmony of the proportions, and may then take you inside
the building and up into the cupola itself, in order that you may appreciate the relative
proportion of the parts in such a way that your impression of the cupola as a whole shall be
founded on general knowledge of its parts, or he can have you count the windows, the wide
or narrow cornices, and can, in fact, make you a design showing the construction; he can
illustrate for you the static laws and write out the algebraic formulæ necessary in the
calculation of such laws. In the first place, you will be able to retain in your mind the form of
the cupola; in the second, you will have understood nothing, and will come away with the
impression that the architect fancied himself speaking to a fellow engineer, instead of to a
traveller whose object was to become familiar with the beautiful things about him. Very
much the same thing happens if we, instead of saying to the child, "This is a square," and by
simply having him touch the contour establish materially the idea of the form, proceed rather
to a geometrical analysis of the contour.
Indeed, we should feel that we are making the child precocious if we taught him the
geometric forms in the plane, presenting at the same time the mathematical concept, but we [Pg
do not believe that the child is too immature to appreciate the simple form; on the contrary, it 115]
is no effort for a child to look at a square window or table,—he sees all these forms about
him in his daily life. To call his attention to a determined form is to clarify the impression he
has already received of it, and to fix the idea of it. It is very much as if, while we are looking
absent-mindedly at the shore of a lake, an artist should suddenly say to us—"How beautiful
the curve is that the shore makes there under the shade of that cliff." At his words, the view
which we have been observing almost unconsciously, is impressed upon our minds as if it
had been illuminated by a sudden ray of sunshine, and we experience the joy of having
crystallised an impression which we had before only imperfectly felt.
And such is our duty toward the child: to give a ray of light and to go on our way.
I may liken the effects of these first lessons to the impressions of one who walks quietly,
happily, through a wood, alone, and thoughtful, letting his inner life unfold freely. Suddenly,
the chime of a distant bell recalls him to himself, and in that awakening he feels more
strongly than before the peace and beauty of which he has been but dimly conscious.
To stimulate life,—leaving it then free to develop, to unfold,—herein lies the first task of
the educator. In such a delicate task, a great art must suggest the moment, and limit the
intervention, in order that we shall arouse no perturbation, cause no deviation, but rather that
we shall help the soul which is coming into the fulness of life, and which shall live from its
own forces. This art must accompany the scientific method. [Pg
116]
When the teacher shall have touched, in this way, soul for soul, each one of her pupils,
awakening and inspiring the life within them as if she were an invisible spirit, she will then
possess each soul, and a sign, a single word from her shall suffice; for each one will feel her
in a living and vital way, will recognise her and will listen to her. There will come a day
when the directress herself shall be filled with wonder to see that all the children obey her
with gentleness and affection, not only ready, but intent, at a sign from her. They will look
toward her who has made them live, and will hope and desire to receive from her, new life.
Experience has revealed all this, and it is something which forms the chief source of
wonder for those who visit the "Children's Houses." Collective discipline is obtained as if by
magic force. Fifty or sixty children from two and a half years to six years of age, all together,
and at a single time know how to hold their peace so perfectly that the absolute silence seems
that of a desert. And, if the teacher, speaking in a low voice, says to the children, "Rise, pass
several times around the room on the tips of your toes and then come back to your place in
silence" all together, as a single person, the children rise, and follow the order with the least
possible noise. The teacher with that one voice has spoken to each one; and each child hopes
from her intervention to receive some light and inner happiness. And feeling so, he goes
forth intent and obedient like an anxious explorer, following the order in his own way.

In this matter of discipline we have again something of the egg of Christopher Columbus.
A concert-master must prepare his scholars one by one in order to draw from their collective [Pg
work great and beautiful harmony; and each artist must perfect himself as an individual 117]
before he can be ready to follow the voiceless commands of the master's baton.
How different is the method which we follow in the public schools! It is as if a concert-
master taught the same monotonous and sometimes discordant rhythm contemporaneously to
the most diverse instruments and voices.
Thus we find that the most disciplined members of society are the men who are best
trained, who have most thoroughly perfected themselves, but this is the training or the
perfection acquired through contact with other people. The perfection of the collectivity
cannot be that material and brutal solidarity which comes from mechanical organisation
alone.
In regard to infant psychology, we are more richly endowed with prejudices than with
actual knowledge bearing upon the subject. We have, until the present day, wished to
dominate the child through force, by the imposition of external laws, instead of making an
interior conquest of the child, in order to direct him as a human soul. In this way, the children
have lived beside us without being able to make us know them. But if we cut away the
artificiality with which we have enwrapped them, and the violence through which we have
foolishly thought to discipline them, they will reveal themselves to us in all the truth of child
nature.
Their gentleness is so absolute, so sweet, that we recognise in it the infancy of that
humility which can remain oppressed by every form of yoke, by every injustice; and child
love and knowledge is such that it surpasses every other love and makes us think that in very [Pg
truth humanity must carry within it that passion which pushes the minds of men to the 118]
successive conquest of thought, making easier from century to century the yokes of every
form of slavery.

[Pg
 119]
CHAPTER VII
EXERCISES OF PRACTICAL LIFE
PROPOSED WINTER SCHEDULE OF HOURS IN
THE "CHILDREN'S HOUSES"

Opening at Nine O'clock—Closing at Four

O'clock
9-10. Entrance. Greeting. Inspection as to personal cleanliness. Exercises of practical life;
helping one another to take off and put on the aprons. Going over the room to see that
everything is dusted and in order. Language: Conversation period: Children give an
account of the events of the day before. Religious exercises.
10-11. Intellectual exercises. Objective lessons interrupted by short rest periods.
Nomenclature, Sense exercises.
11-11:30. Simple gymnastics: Ordinary movements done gracefully, normal position of the
body, walking, marching in line, salutations, movements for attention, placing of objects
gracefully.
11:30-12. Luncheon: Short prayer.
12-1. Free games.
1-2. Directed games, if possible, in the open air. During this period the older children in turn
go through with the exercises of practical life, cleaning the room, dusting, putting the
material in order. General inspection for cleanliness: Conversation.
2-3. Manual work. Clay modelling, design, etc. [Pg
120]
3-4. Collective gymnastics and songs, if possible in the open air. Exercises to develop
forethought: Visiting, and caring for, the plants and animals.
As soon as a school is established, the question of schedule arises. This must be
considered from two points of view; the length of the school-day and the distribution of
study and of the activities of life.
I shall begin by affirming that in the "Children's Houses," as in the school for deficients,
the hours may be very long, occupying the entire day. For poor children, and especially for
the "Children's Houses" annexed to workingmen's tenements, I should advise that the school-
day should be from nine in the morning to five in the evening in winter, and from eight to six
in summer. These long hours are necessary, if we are to follow a directed line of action
which shall be helpful to the growth of the child. It goes without saying, that in the case of
little children such a long school-day should be interrupted by at least an hour's rest in bed.
And here lies the great practical difficulty. At present we must allow our little ones to sleep
in their seats in a wretched position, but I foresee a time, not distant, when we shall be able
to have a quiet, darkened room where the children may sleep in low-swung hammocks. I
should like still better to have this nap taken in the open air.
In the "Children's Houses" in Rome we send the little ones to their own apartments for the
nap, as this can be done without their having to go out into the streets.
 It must be observed that these long hours include not only the nap, but the luncheon. This
must be considered in such schools as the "Children's Houses," whose aim is to help and to [Pg
direct the growth of children in such an important period of development as that from three 121]
to six years of age.
The "Children's House" is a garden of child culture, and we most certainly do not keep the
children for so many hours in school with the idea of making students of them!
The first step which we must take in our method is to call to the pupil. We call now to his
attention, now to his interior life, now to the life he leads with others. Making a comparison
which must not be taken in a literal sense,—it is necessary to proceed as in experimental
psychology or anthropology when one makes an experiment,—that is, after having prepared
the instrument (to which in this case the environment may correspond) we prepare the
subject. Considering the method as a whole, we must begin our work by preparing the child
for the forms of social life, and we must attract his attention to these forms.
In the schedule which we outlined when we established the first "Children's House," but
which we have never followed entirely, (a sign that a schedule in which the material is
distributed in arbitrary fashion is not adapted to the régime of liberty) we begin the day with
a series of exercises of practical life, and I must confess that these exercises were the only
part of the programme which proved thoroughly stationary. These exercises were such a
success that they formed the beginning of the day in all of the "Children's Houses." First:
Cleanliness.
Order.
Poise.
Conversation.
As soon as the children arrive at school we make an inspection for cleanliness. If possible, [Pg
this should be carried on in the presence of the mothers, but their attention should not be 122]
called to it directly. We examine the hands, the nails, the neck, the ears, the face, the teeth;
and care is given to the tidiness of the hair. If any of the garments are torn or soiled or
ripped, if the buttons are lacking, or if the shoes are not clean, we call the attention of the
child to this. In this way, the children become accustomed to observing themselves and take
an interest in their own appearance.
The children in our "Children's Houses" are given a bath in turn, but this, of course, can
not be done daily. In the class, however, the teacher, by using a little washstand with small
pitchers and basins, teaches the children to take a partial bath: for example, they learn how to
wash their hands and clean their nails. Indeed, sometimes we teach them how to take a foot-
bath. They are shown especially how to wash their ears and eyes with great care. They are
taught to brush their teeth and rinse their mouths carefully. In all of this, we call their
attention to the different parts of the body which they are washing, and to the different means
which we use in order to cleanse them: clear water for the eyes, soap and water for the
hands, the brush for the teeth, etc. We teach the big ones to help the little ones, and, so,
encourage the younger children to learn quickly to take care of themselves.
After this care of their persons, we put on the little aprons. The children are able to put
these on themselves, or, with the help of each other. Then we begin our visit about the
schoolroom. We notice if all of the various materials are in order and if they are clean. The [Pg
teacher shows the children how to clean out the little corners where dust has accumulated, 123]
and shows them how to use the various objects necessary in cleaning a room,—dust-cloths,
dust-brushes, little brooms, etc. All of this, when the children are allowed to do it by
themselves, is very quickly accomplished. Then the children go each to his own place. The
teacher explains to them that the normal position is for each child to be seated in his own
place, in silence, with his feet together on the floor, his hands resting on the table, and his
head erect. In this way she teaches them poise and equilibrium. Then she has them rise on
their feet in order to sing the hymn, teaching them that in rising and sitting down it is not
necessary to be noisy. In this way the children learn to move about the furniture with poise
and with care. After this we have a series of exercises in which the children learn to move
gracefully, to go and come, to salute each other, to lift objects carefully, to receive various
objects from each other politely. The teacher calls attention with little exclamations to a child
who is clean, a room which is well ordered, a class seated quietly, a graceful movement, etc.
From such a starting point we proceed to the free teaching. That is, the teacher will no
longer make comments to the children, directing them how to move from their seats, etc., she
will limit herself to correcting the disordered movements.
After the directress has talked in this way about the attitude of the children and the
arrangement of the room, she invites the children to talk with her. She questions them
concerning what they have done the day before, regulating her inquiries in such a way that
the children need not report the intimate happenings of the family but their individual [Pg
behaviour, their games, attitude to parents, etc. She will ask if they have been able to go up 124]
the stairs without getting them muddy, if they have spoken politely to their friends who
passed, if they have helped their mothers, if they have shown in their family what they have
learned at school, if they have played in the street, etc. The conversations are longer on
Monday after the vacation, and on that day the children are invited to tell what they have
done with the family; if they have gone away from home, whether they have eaten things not
usual for children to eat, and if this is the case we urge them not to eat these things and try to
teach them that they are bad for them. Such conversations as these encourage the unfolding
or development of language and are of great educational value, since the directress can
prevent the children from recounting happenings in the house or in the neighbourhood, and
can select, instead, topics which are adapted to pleasant conversation, and in this way can
teach the children those things which it is desirable to talk about; that is, things with which
we occupy ourselves in life, public events, or things which have happened in the different
houses, perhaps, to the children themselves—as baptism, birthday parties, any of which may
serve for occasional conversation. Things of this sort will encourage children to describe,
themselves. After this morning talk we pass to the various lessons.

[Pg
CHAPTER VIII 125]

REFECTION—THE CHILD'S DIET

In connection with the exercises of practical life, it may be fitting to consider the matter of
refection.
In order to protect the child's development, especially in neighbourhoods where standards
of child hygiene are not yet prevalent in the home, it would be well if a large part at least of
the child's diet could be entrusted to the school. It is well known to-day that the diet must be
adapted to the physical nature of the child; and as the medicine of children is not the
medicine of adults in reduced doses, so the diet must not be that of the adult in lesser
quantitative proportions. For this reason I should prefer that even in the "Children's Houses"
which are situated in tenements and from which little ones, being at home, can go up to eat
with the family, school refection should be instituted. Moreover, even in the case of rich
children, school refection would always be advisable until a scientific course in cooking shall
have introduced into the wealthier families the habit of specialising in children's food.
The diet of little children must be rich in fats and sugar: the first for reserve matter and the
second for plastic tissue. In fact, sugar is a stimulant to tissues in the process of formation.
As for the form of preparation, it is well that the alimentary substances should always be
minced, because the child has not yet the capacity for completely masticating the food, and [Pg
his stomach is still incapable of fulfilling the function of mincing food matter. 126]

Consequently, soups, purées, and meat balls, should constitute the ordinary form of dish
for the child's table.
The nitrogenous diet for a child from two or three years of age ought to be constituted
chiefly of milk and eggs, but after the second year broths are also to be recommended. After
three years and a half meat can be given; or, in the case of poor children, vegetables. Fruits
are also to be recommended for children.
Perhaps a detailed summary on child diet may be useful, especially for mothers.
Method of Preparing Broth for Little Children. (Age three to six; after that the child may
use the common broth of the family.) The quantity of meat should correspond to 1 gramme
for every cubic centimetre of broth and should be put in cold water. No aromatic herbs
should be used, the only wholesome condiment being salt. The meat should be left to boil for
two hours. Instead of removing the grease from the broth it is well to add butter to it, or, in
the case of the poor, a spoonful of olive oil; but substitutes for butter, such as margerine, etc.,
should never be used. The broth must be prepared fresh; it would be well, therefore, to put
the meat on the fire two hours before the meal, because as soon as broth is cool there begins
to take place a separation of chemical substances, which are injurious to the child and may
easily cause diarrhea.
Soups. A very simple soup, and one to be highly recommended for children, is bread
boiled in salt water or in broth and abundantly seasoned with oil. This is the classic soup of
poor children and an excellent means of nutrition. Very like this, is the soup which consists [Pg
of little cubes of bread toasted in butter and allowed to soak in the broth which is itself fat 127]
with butter. Soups of grated bread also belong in this class.

Pastine,[10] especially the glutinous pastine, which are of the same nature, are undoubtedly
superior to the others for digestibility, but are accessible only to the privileged social classes.
The poor should know how much more wholesome is a broth made from remnants of stale
bread, than soups of coarse spaghetti—often dry and seasoned with meat juice. Such soups
are most indigestible for little children.
Excellent soups are those consisting of purées of vegetables (beans, peas, lentils). To-day
one may find in the shops dried vegetables especially adapted for this sort of soups. Boiled in
salt water, the vegetables are peeled, put to cool and passed through a sieve (or simply
compressed, if they are already peeled). Butter is then added, and the paste is stirred slowly
into the boiling water, care being taken that it dissolves and leaves no lumps.
Vegetable soups can also be seasoned with pork. Instead of broth, sugared milk may be the
base of vegetable purées.
I strongly recommend for children a soup of rice boiled in broth or milk; also cornmeal
broth, provided it be seasoned with abundant butter, but not with cheese. (The porridge form
—polenta, really cornmeal mush, is to be highly recommended on account of the long
cooking.)
The poorer classes who have no meat-broth can feed their children equally well with [Pg
soups of boiled bread and porridge seasoned with oil. 128]

Milk and Eggs. These are foods which not only contain nitrogenous substances in an
eminently digestible form, but they have the so-called enzymes which facilitate assimilation
into the tissues, and, hence, in a particular way, favour the growth of the child. And they
answer so much the better this last most important condition if they are fresh and intact,
keeping in themselves, one may say, the life of the animals which produced them.
Milk fresh from the cow, and the egg while it is still warm, are assimilable to the highest
degree. Cooking, on the other hand, makes the milk and eggs lose their special conditions of
assimilability and reduces the nutritive power in them to the simple power of any
nitrogenous substance.
To-day, consequently, there are being founded special dairies for children where the milk
produced is sterile; the rigorous cleanliness of the surroundings in which the milk-producing
animals live, the sterilisation of the udder before milking, of the hands of the milker, and of
the vessels which are to contain the milk, the hermetic sealing of these last, and the
refrigerating bath immediately after the milking, if the milk is to be carried far,—otherwise it
is well to drink it warm, procure a milk free from bacteria which, therefore, has no need of
being sterilised by boiling, and which preserves intact its natural nutritive powers.
As much may be said of eggs; the best way of feeding them to a child is to take them still
warm from the hen and have him eat them just as they are, and then digest them in the open
air. But where this is not practicable, eggs must be chosen fresh, and barely heated in water, [Pg
that is to say, prepared à la coque. 129]

All other forms of preparation, milk-soup, omelettes, and so forth, do, to be sure, make of
milk and eggs an excellent food, more to be recommended than others; but they take away
the specific properties of assimilation which characterise them.
Meat. All meats are not adapted to children, and even their preparation must differ
according to the age of the child. Thus, for example, children from three to five years of age
ought to eat only more or less finely-ground meats, whereas at the age of five children are
capable of grinding meat completely by mastication; at that time it is well to teach the child
accurately how to masticate because he has a tendency to swallow food quickly, which may
produce indigestion and diarrhea.
This is another reason why school-refection in the "Children's Houses" would be a very
serviceable as well as convenient institution, as the whole diet of the child could then be
rationally cared for in connection with the educative system of the Houses.
The meats most adapted to children are so-called white meats, that is, in the first place,
chicken, then veal; also the light flesh of fish, (sole, pike, cod).
After the age of four, filet of beef may also be introduced into the diet, but never heavy
and fat meats like that of the pig, the capon, the eel, the tunny, etc., which are to be
absolutely excluded along with mollusks and crustaceans, (oysters, lobsters), from the child's
diet.
Croquettes made of finely ground meat, grated bread, milk, and beaten eggs, and fried in
butter, are the most wholesome preparation. Another excellent preparation is to mould into [Pg
balls the grated meat, with sweet fruit-preserve, and eggs beaten up with sugar. 130]

At the age of five, the child may be given breast of roast fowl, and occasionally veal cutlet
or filet of beef.
Boiled meat must never be given to the child, because meat is deprived of many
stimulating and even nutritive properties by boiling and rendered less digestible.
Nerve Feeding Substances. Besides meat a child who has reached the age of four may be
given fried brains and sweetbreads, to be combined, for example, with chicken croquettes.
Milk Foods. All cheeses are to be excluded from the child's diet.
The only milk product suitable to children from three to six years of age is fresh butter.
Custard. Custard is also to be recommended provided it be freshly prepared, that is
immediately before being eaten, and with very fresh milk and eggs: if such conditions cannot
be rigorously fulfilled, it is preferable to do without custard, which is not a necessity.
Bread. From what we have said about soups, it may be inferred that bread is an excellent
food for the child. It should be well selected; the crumb is not very digestible, but it can be
utilised, when it is dry, to make a bread broth; but if one is to give the child simply a piece of
bread to eat, it is well to offer him the crust, the end of the loaf. Bread sticks are excellent for
those who can afford them.
Bread contains many nitrogenous substances and is very rich in starches, but is lacking in
fats; and as the fundamental substances of diet are, as is well known, three in number,
namely, proteids, (nitrogenous substances), starches, and fats, bread is not a complete food; it [Pg
is necessary therefore to offer the child buttered bread, which constitutes a complete food 131]
and may be considered as a sufficient and complete breakfast.
Green Vegetables. Children must never eat raw vegetables, such as salads and greens, but
only cooked ones; indeed they are not to be highly recommended either cooked or raw, with
the exception of spinach which may enter with moderation into the diet of children.
Potatoes prepared in a purée with much butter form, however, an excellent complement of
nutrition for children.
Fruits. Among fruits there are excellent foods for children. They too, like milk and eggs, if
freshly gathered, retain a living quality which aids assimilation.
As this condition, however, is not easily attainable in cities, it is necessary to consider also
the diet of fruits which are not perfectly fresh and which, therefore, should be prepared and
cooked in various ways. All fruits are not to be advised for children; the chief properties to
be considered are the degree of ripeness, the tenderness and sweetness of the pulp, and its
acidity. Peaches, apricots, grapes, currants, oranges, and mandarins, in their natural state, can
be given to little children with great advantage. Other fruits, such as pears, apples, plums,
should be cooked or prepared in syrup.
Figs, pineapples, dates, melons, cherries, walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts, and chestnuts, are
excluded for various reasons from the diet of early childhood.
The preparation of fruit must consist in removing from it all indigestible parts, such as the
peel, and also such parts as the child inadvertently may absorb to his detriment, as, for
example, the seed.
Children of four or five should be taught early how carefully the seeds must be thrown [Pg
132]
away and how the fruits are peeled. Afterwards, the child so educated may be promoted to
the honour of receiving a fine fruit intact, and he will know how to eat it properly.
The culinary preparation of fruits consists essentially in two processes: cooking, and
seasoning with sugar.
Besides simple cooking, fruits may be prepared as marmalades and jellies, which are
excellent but are naturally within the reach of the wealthier classes only. While jellies and
marmalades may be allowed, candied fruits,—on the other hand,—marrons glacés, and the
like, are absolutely excluded from the child's diet.
Seasonings. An important phase of the hygiene of child diet concerns seasonings—with a
view to their rigorous limitation. As I have already indicated, sugar and some fat substances
along with kitchen salt (sodium chloride) should constitute the principal part of the
seasonings.
To these may be added organic acids (acetic acid, citric acid) that is, vinegar and lemon
juice; this latter can be advantageously used on fish, on croquettes, on spinach, etc.
Other condiments suitable to little children are some aromatic vegetables like garlic and
rue which disinfect the intestines and the lungs, and also have a direct anthelminthic action.
Spices, on the other hand, such as pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, and especially
mustard, are to be absolutely abolished.
Drinks. The growing organism of the child is very rich in water, and, hence, needs a
constant supply of moisture. Among the beverages, the best, and indeed the only one, to be
unreservedly advised is pure fresh spring water. To rich children might be allowed the so- [Pg
called table waters which are slightly alkaline, such as those of San Gemini, Acqua Claudia, 133]
etc., mixed with syrups, as, for example, syrup of black cherry.
It is now a matter of general knowledge that all fermented beverages, and those exciting to
the nervous system, are injurious to children; hence, all alcoholic and caffeic beverages are
absolutely eliminated from child diet. Not only liquors, but wine and beer, ought to be
unknown to the child's taste, and coffee and tea should be inaccessible to childhood.
The deleterious action of alcohol on the child organism needs no illustration, but in a
matter of such vital importance insistent repetition is never superfluous. Alcohol is a poison
especially fatal to organisms in the process of formation. Not only does it arrest their total
development (whence infantilism, idiocy), but also predisposes the child to nervous maladies
(epilepsy, meningitis), and to maladies of the digestive organs, and metabolism (cirrhosis of
the liver, dyspepsia, anæmia).
If the "Children's Houses" were to succeed in enlightening the people on such truths, they
would be accomplishing a very lofty hygienic work for the new generations.
Instead of coffee, children may be given roasted and boiled barley, malt, and especially
chocolate which is an excellent child food, particularly when mixed with milk.

DISTRIBUTION OF THE MEALS

Another chapter of child diet concerns the distribution of the meals. Here, one principle
must dominate, and must be diffused, among mothers, namely, that the children shall be kept
to rigorous meal hours in order that they may enjoy good health and have excellent [Pg
digestion. It is true that there prevails among the people (and it is one of the forms of 134]
maternal ignorance most fatal to children) the prejudice that children in order to grow well
must be eating almost continuously, without regularity, nibbling almost habitually a crust of
bread. On the contrary, the child, in view of the special delicacy of his digestive system, has
more need of regular meals than the adult has. It seems to me that the "Children's Houses"
with very prolonged programmes are, for this reason, suitable places for child culture, as
they can direct the child's diet. Outside of their regular meal hours, children should not eat.
In a "Children's House" with a long programme there ought to be two meals, a hearty one
about noon, and a light one about four in the afternoon.
At the hearty meal, there should be soup, a meat dish, and bread, and, in the case of rich
children, also fruits or custard, and butter on the bread.
At the four o'clock meal there should be prepared a light lunch, which from a simple piece
of bread can range to buttered bread, and to bread accompanied by a fruit marmalade,
chocolate, honey, custard, etc. Crisp crackers, biscuits, and cooked fruits, etc., might also be
usefully employed. Very suitably the lunch might consist of bread soaked in milk or an egg à
la coque with bread sticks, or else of a simple cup of milk in which is dissolved a spoonful of
Mellin's Food. I recommend Mellin's Food very highly, not only in infancy, but also much
later on account of its properties of digestibility and nutrition, and on account of its flavour,
which is so pleasing to children.
Mellin's Food is a powder prepared from barley and wheat, and containing in a
concentrated and pure state the nutritive substances proper to those cereals; the powder is [Pg
slowly dissolved in hot water in the bottom of the same cup which is to be used for drinking 135]
the mixture, and very fresh milk is then poured on top.
The child would take the other two meals in his own home, that is, the morning breakfast
and the supper, which latter must be very light for children so that shortly after they may be
ready to go to bed. On these meals it would be well to give advice to mothers, urging them to
help complete the hygienic work of the "Children's Houses," to the profit of their children.
The morning breakfast for the rich might be milk and chocolate, or milk and extract of
malt, with crackers, or, better, with toasted bread spread with butter or honey; for the poor, a
cup of fresh milk, with bread.
For the evening meal, a soup is to be advised (children should eat soups twice a day), and
an egg à la coque or a cup of milk; or rice soup with a base of milk, and buttered bread, with
cooked fruits, etc.
As for the alimentary rations to be calculated, I refer the reader to the special treatises on
hygiene: although practically such calculations are of no great utility.

In the "Children's Houses," especially in the case of the poor, I should make extensive use
of the vegetable soups and I should have cultivated in the garden plots vegetables which can
be used in the diet, in order to have them plucked in their freshness, cooked, and enjoyed. I
should try, possibly, to do the same for the fruits, and, by the raising of animals, to have fresh
eggs and pure milk. The milking of the goats could be done directly by the larger children,
after they had scrupulously washed their hands. Another important educative application [Pg
which school-refection in the "Children's Houses" has to offer, and which concerns "practical 136]
life," consists in the preparing of the table, arranging the table linen, learning its
nomenclature, etc. Later, I shall show how this exercise can gradually increase in difficulty
and constitute a most important didactic instrument.
It is sufficient to intimate here that it is very important to teach the children to eat with
cleanliness, both with respect to themselves and with respect to their surroundings (not to
soil the napkins, etc.), and to use the table implements (which, at least, for the little ones, are
limited to the spoon, and for the larger children extended to the fork and knife).
[10] Those very fine forms of vermicelli used in soups.

[Pg
CHAPTER IX 137]

MUSCULAR EDUCATION—GYMNASTICS
The generally accepted idea of gymnastics is, I consider, very inadequate. In the common
schools we are accustomed to describe as gymnastics a species of collective muscular
discipline which has as its aim that children shall learn to follow definite ordered movements
given in the form of commands. The guiding spirit in such gymnastics is coercion, and I feel
that such exercises repress spontaneous movements and impose others in their place. I do not
know what the psychological authority for the selection of these imposed movements is.
Similar movements are used in medical gymnastics in order to restore a normal movement to
a torpid muscle or to give back a normal movement to a paralysed muscle. A number of
chest movements which are given in the school are advised, for example, in medicine for
those who suffer from intestinal torpidity, but truly I do not well understand what office such
exercises can fulfil when they are followed by squadrons of normal children. In addition to
these formal gymnastics we have those which are carried on in a gymnasium, and which are
very like the first steps in the training of an acrobat. However, this is not the place for
criticism of the gymnastics used in our common schools. Certainly in our case we are not
considering such gymnastics. Indeed, many who hear me speak of gymnastics for infant
schools very plainly show disapprobation and they will disapprove more heartily when they [Pg
hear me speak of a gymnasium for little children. Indeed, if the gymnastic exercises and the 138]
gymnasium were those of the common schools, no one would agree more heartily than I in
the disapproval expressed by these critics.
We must understand by gymnastics and in general by muscular education a series of
exercises tending to aid the normal development of physiological movements (such as
walking, breathing, speech), to protect this development, when the child shows himself
backward or abnormal in any way, and to encourage in the children those movements which
are useful in the achievement of the most ordinary acts of life; such as dressing, undressing,
buttoning their clothes and lacing their shoes, carrying such objects as balls, cubes, etc. If
there exists an age in which it is necessary to protect a child by means of a series of
gymnastic exercises, between three and six years is undoubtedly the age. The special
gymnastics necessary, or, better still, hygienic, in this period of life, refer chiefly to walking.
A child in the general morphological growth of his body is characterised by having a torso
greatly developed in comparison with the lower limbs. In the new-born child the length of
the torso, from the top of the head to the curve of the groin, is equal to 68 per cent of the
total length of the body. The limbs then are barely 32 per cent of the stature. During growth
these relative proportions change in a most noticeable way; thus, for example, in the adult
the torso is fully half of the entire stature and, according to the individual, corresponds to 51
or 52 per cent of it.
This morphological difference between the new-born child and the adult is bridged so
slowly during growth that in the first years of the child's life the torso still remains [Pg
139]
tremendously developed as compared with the limbs. In one year the height of the torso
corresponds to 65 per cent of the total stature, in two years to 63, in three years to 62.
At the age when a child enters the infant school his limbs are still very short as compared
with his torso; that is, the length of his limbs barely corresponds to 38 per cent of the stature.
Between the years of six and seven the proportion of the torso to the stature is from 57 to 56
per cent In such a period therefore the child not only makes a noticeable growth in height,
(he measures indeed at the age of three years about 0.85 metre and at six years 1.05 metres)
but, changing so greatly the relative proportions between the torso and the limbs, the latter
make a most decided growth. This growth is related to the layers of cartilage which still exist
at the extremity of the long bones and is related in general to the still incomplete ossification
of the entire skeleton. The tender bones of the limbs must therefore sustain the weight of the
torso which is then disproportionately large. We cannot, if we consider all these things, judge
the manner of walking in little children by the standard set for our own equilibrium. If a
child is not strong, the erect posture and walking are really sources of fatigue for him, and
the long bones of the lower limbs, yielding to the weight of the body, easily become
deformed and usually bowed. This is particularly the case among the badly nourished
children of the poor, or among those in whom the skeleton structure, while not actually
showing the presence of rickets, still seems to be slow in attaining normal ossification.
We are wrong then if we consider little children from this physical point of view as little [Pg
men. They have, instead, characteristics and proportions that are entirely special to their age. 140]
The tendency of the child to stretch out on his back and kick his legs in the air is an
expression of physical needs related to the proportions of his body. The baby loves to walk
on all fours just because, like the quadruped animals, his limbs are short in comparison with
his body. Instead of this, we divert these natural manifestations by foolish habits which we
impose on the child. We hinder him from throwing himself on the earth, from stretching,
etc., and we oblige him to walk with grown people and to keep up with them; and excuse
ourselves by saying that we don't want him to become capricious and think he can do as he
pleases! It is indeed a fatal error and one which has made bow-legs common among little
children. It is well to enlighten the mothers on these important particulars of infant hygiene.
Now we, with the gymnastics, can, and, indeed, should, help the child in his development by
making our exercises correspond to the movement which he needs to make, and in this way
save his limbs from fatigue.
One very simple means for helping the child in his activity was suggested to me by my
observation of the children themselves. The teacher was having the children march, leading
them about the courtyard between the walls of the house and the central garden. This garden
was protected by a little fence made of strong wires which were stretched in parallel lines,
and were supported at intervals by wooden palings driven into the ground. Along the fence,
ran a little ledge on which the children were in the habit of sitting down when they were tired
of marching. In addition to this, I always brought out little chairs, which I placed against the
wall. Every now and then, the little ones of two and one half and three years would drop out [Pg
from the marching line, evidently being tired; but instead of sitting down on the ground or on 141]
the chairs, they would run to the little fence and catching hold of the upper line of wire they
would walk along sideways, resting their feet on the wire which was nearest the ground. That
this gave them a great deal of pleasure, was evident from the way in which they laughed as,
with bright eyes, they watched their larger companions who were marching about. The truth
was that these little ones had solved one of my problems in a very practical way. They
moved themselves along on the wires, pulling their bodies sideways. In this way, they moved
their limbs without throwing upon them the weight of the body. Such an apparatus placed in
the gymnasium for little children, will enable them to fulfil the need which they feel of
throwing themselves on the floor and kicking their legs in the air; for the movements they
make on the little fence correspond even more correctly to the same physical needs.
Therefore, I advise the manufacture of this little fence for use in children's playrooms. It can
be constructed of parallel bars supported by upright poles firmly fixed on to the heavy base.
The children, while playing upon this little fence, will be able to look out and see with, great
pleasure what the other children are doing in the room.
Other pieces of gymnasium apparatus can be constructed upon the same plan, that is,
having as their aim the furnishing of the child with a proper outlet for his individual
activities. One of the things invented by Séguin to develop the lower limbs, and especially to
strengthen the articulation of the knee in weak children, is the trampolino. [Pg
142]
This is a kind of swing, having a very wide seat, so wide, indeed, that the limbs of the
child stretched out in front of him are entirely supported by this broad seat. This little chair is
hung from strong cords and is left swinging. The wall in front of it is reinforced by a strong
smooth board against which the children press their feet in pushing themselves back and
forth in the swing. The child seated in this swing exercises his limbs, pressing his feet
against the board each time that he swings toward the wall. The board against which he
swings may be erected at some distance from the wall, and may be so low that the child can
see over the top of it. As he swings in this chair, he strengthens his limbs through the species
of gymnastics limited to the lower limbs, and this he does without resting the weight of his
body upon his legs. Other pieces of gymnastic apparatus, less important from the hygienic
standpoint, but very amusing to the children, may be described briefly. "The Pendulum," a
game which may be played by one child or by several, consists of rubber balls hung on a
cord. The children seated in their little armchairs strike the ball, sending it from one to
another. It is an exercise for the arms and for the spinal column, and is at the same time an
exercise in which the eye gauges the distance of bodies in motion. Another game, called
"The Cord," consists of a line, drawn on the earth with chalk, along which the children walk.
This helps to order and to direct their free movements in a given direction. A game like this
is very pretty, indeed, after a snowfall, when the little path made by the children shows the
regularity of the line they have traced, and encourages a pleasant war among them in which
each one tries to make his line in the snow the most regular. [Pg
143]
The little round stair is another game, in which a little wooden stairway, built on the plan
of the spiral, is used. This little stair is enclosed on one side by a balustrade on which the
children can rest their hands. The other side is open and circular. This serves to habituate the
children to climbing and descending stairs without holding on to the balustrade, and teaches
them to move up and down with movements that are poised and self-controlled. The steps
must be very low and very shallow. Going up and down on this little stair, the very smallest
children can learn movements which they cannot follow properly in climbing ordinary
stairways in their homes, in which the proportions are arranged for adults.
Another piece of gymnasium apparatus, adapted for the broad-jump, consists of a low
wooden platform painted with various lines, by means of which the distance jumped may be
gauged. There is a small flight of stairs which may be used in connection with this plane,
making it possible to practise and to measure the high-jump.
I also believe that rope-ladders may be so adapted as to be suitable for use in schools for
little children. Used in pairs, these would, it seems to me, help to perfect a great variety of
movements, such as kneeling, rising, bending forward and backward, etc.; movements which
the child, without the help of the ladder, could not make without losing his equilibrium. All
of these movements are useful in that they help the child to acquire, first, equilibrium, then
that co-ordination of the muscular movements necessary to him. They are, moreover, helpful
in that they increase the chest expansion. Besides all this, such movements as I have
described, reinforce the hand in its most primitive and essential action, prehension;—the
movement which necessarily precedes all the finer movements of the hand itself. Such [Pg
apparatus was successfully used by Séguin to develop the general strength and the movement 144]
of prehension in his idiotic children.
The gymnasium, therefore, offers a field for the most varied exercises, tending to establish
the co-ordination of the movements common in life, such as walking, throwing objects,
going up and down stairs, kneeling, rising, jumping, etc.

FREE GYMNASTICS

By free gymnastics I mean those which are given without any apparatus. Such gymnastics
are divided into two classes: directed and required exercises, and free games. In the first
class, I recommend the march, the object of which should be not rhythm, but poise only.
When the march is introduced, it is well to accompany it with the singing of little songs,
because this furnishes a breathing exercise very helpful in strengthening the lungs. Besides
the march, many of the games of Froebel which are accompanied by songs, very similar to
those which the children constantly play among themselves, may be used. In the free games,
we furnish the children with balls, hoops, bean bags and kites. The trees readily offer
themselves to the game of "Pussy wants a corner," and many simple games of tag.

DR. MONTESSORI IN THE GARDEN OF

THE SCHOOL AT VIA GIUSTI

EDUCATIONAL GYMNASTICS

Under the name of educational gymnastics, we include two series of exercises which
really form a part of other school work, as, for instance, the cultivation of the earth, the care
of plants and animals (watering and pruning the plants, carrying the grain to the chickens,
etc.). These activities call for various co-ordinated movements, as, for example, in hoeing, in [Pg
getting down to plant things, and in rising; the trips which children make in carrying objects 145]
to some definite place, and in making a definite practical use of these objects, offer a field for
very valuable gymnastic exercises. The scattering of minute objects, such as corn and oats, is
valuable, and also the exercise of opening and closing the gates to the garden and to the
chicken yard. All of these exercises are the more valuable in that they are carried on in the
open air. Among our educational gymnastics we have exercises to develop co-ordinated
movements of the fingers, and these prepare the children for the exercises of practical life,
such as dressing and undressing themselves. The didactic material which forms the basis of
these last named gymnastics is very simple, consisting of wooden frames, each mounted
with two pieces of cloth, or leather, to be fastened and unfastened by means of the buttons
and buttonholes, hooks and eyes, eyelets and lacings, or automatic fastenings.

(A) CHILDREN THREE AND ONE-

HALF AND FOUR YEARS OLD
LEARNING TO BUTTON AND LACE.
(B) RIBBON AND BUTTON FRAMES.
These are among the earliest exercises.
In our "Children's Houses" we use ten of these frames, so constructed that each one of
them illustrates a different process in dressing or undressing.
One: mounted with heavy pieces of wool which are to be fastened by means of large bone
buttons—corresponds to children's dresses.
Two: mounted with pieces of linen to be fastened with pearl buttons—corresponds to a
child's underwear.
Three: leather pieces mounted with shoe buttons—in fastening these leather pieces the
children make use of the button-hook—corresponds to a child's shoes.
 Four: pieces of leather which are laced together by means of eyelets and shoe laces.
Five: two pieces of cloth to be laced together. (These pieces are boned and therefore [Pg
correspond to the little bodices worn by the peasants in Italy.) 146]

Six: two pieces of stuff to be fastened by means of large hooks and eyes.
Seven: two pieces of linen, to be fastened by means of small hooks and worked eyelets.
Eight: two pieces of cloth to be fastened by means of broad coloured ribbon, which is to
be tied into bows.
Nine: pieces of cloth laced together with round cord, on the same order as the fastenings
on many of the children's underclothes.
Ten: two pieces to be fastened together by means of the modern automatic fasteners.
Through the use of such toys, the children can practically analyse the movements
necessary in dressing and undressing themselves, and can prepare themselves separately for
these movements by means of repeated exercises. We succeed in teaching the child to dress
himself without his really being aware of it, that is, without any direct or arbitrary command
we have led him to this mastery. As soon as he knows how to do it, he begins to wish to
make a practical application of his ability, and very soon he will be proud of being sufficient
unto himself, and will take delight in an ability which makes his body free from the hands of
others, and which leads him the sooner to that modesty and activity which develops far too
late in those children of to-day who are deprived of this most practical form of education.
The fastening games are very pleasing to the little ones, and often when ten of them are
using the frames at the same time, seated around the little tables, quiet and serious, they give
the impression of a workroom filled with tiny workers.
[Pg
RESPIRATORY GYMNASTICS 147]

The purpose of these gymnastics is to regulate the respiratory movements: in other words,
to teach the art of breathing. They also help greatly the correct formation of the child's
speech habits. The exercises which we use were introduced into school literature by
Professor Sala. We have chosen the simple exercises described by him in his treatise, "Cura
della Balbuzie."[11] These include a number of respiratory gymnastic exercises with which
are co-ordinated muscular exercises. I give here an example:
Mouth wide open, tongue held flat, hands on hips.
Breathe deeply, lift the shoulders rapidly, lowering the diaphragm.
Expel breath slowly, lowering shoulders slowly, returning to normal position.
The directress should select or devise simple breathing exercises, to be accompanied with
arm movements, etc.
Exercises for proper use of lips, tongue, and teeth. These exercises teach the movements
of the lips and tongue in the pronunciation of certain fundamental consonant sounds,
reinforcing the muscles, and making them ready for these movements. These gymnastics
prepare the organs used in the formation of language.
In presenting such exercises we begin with the entire class, but finish by testing the
children individually. We ask the child to pronounce, aloud and with force, the first syllable
of a word. When all are intent upon putting the greatest possible force into this, we call each
child separately, and have him repeat the word. If he pronounces it correctly, we send him to [Pg
the right, if badly, to the left. Those who have difficulty with the word, are then encouraged 148]
to repeat it several times. The teacher takes note of the age of the child, and of the particular
defects in the movements of the muscles used in articulating. She may then touch the
muscles which should be used, tapping, for example, the curve of the lips, or even taking
hold of the child's tongue and placing it against the dental arch, or showing him clearly the
movements which she herself makes when pronouncing the syllable. She must seek in every
way to aid the normal development of the movements necessary to the exact articulation of
the word.
As the basis for these gymnastics we have the children pronounce the words: pane—fame
—tana—zina—stella—rana—gatto.
In the pronunciation of pane, the child should repeat with much force, pa, pa, pa, thus
exercising the muscles producing orbicular contraction of the lips.
In fame repeating fa, fa, fa, the child exercises the movements of the lower lip against the
upper dental arch.
In tana, having him repeat ta, ta, ta, we cause him to exercise the movement of the tongue
against the upper dental arch.
In zina, we provoke the contact of the upper and lower dental arches.
With stella we have him repeat the whole word, bringing the teeth together, and holding
the tongue (which has a tendency to protrude) close against the upper teeth.
In rana we have him repeat r, r, r, thus exercising the tongue in the vibratory movements.
In gatto we hold the voice upon the guttural g.
[11] "Cura della Balbuzie e del Difetti di Pronunzia." Sala. Ulrico Hoepli, publisher,
Milan, Italy.

[Pg
CHAPTER X 149]

NATURE IN EDUCATION—AGRICULTURAL LABOUR:

CULTURE OF PLANTS AND ANIMALS
Itard, in a remarkable pedagogical treatise: "Des premiers développements du jeune
sauvage de l'Aveyron," expounds in detail the drama of a curious, gigantic education which
attempted to overcome the psychical darkness of an idiot and at the same time to snatch a
man from primitive nature.
The savage of the Aveyron was a child who had grown up in the natural state: criminally
abandoned in a forest where his assassins thought they had killed him, he was cured by
natural means, and had survived for many years free and naked in the wilderness, until,
captured by hunters, he entered into the civilised life of Paris, showing by the scars with
which his miserable body was furrowed the story of the struggles with wild beasts, and of
lacerations caused by falling from heights.
The child was, and always remained, mute; his mentality, diagnosed by Pinel as idiotic,
remained forever almost inaccessible to intellectual education.
To this child are due the first steps of positive pedagogy. Itard, a physician of deaf-mutes
and a student of philosophy, undertook his education with methods which he had already
partially tried for treating defective hearing—believing at the beginning that the savage
showed characteristics of inferiority, not because he was a degraded organism, but for want [Pg
of education. He was a follower of the principles of Helvetius: "Man is nothing without the 150]
work of man"; that is, he believed in the omnipotence of education, and was opposed to the
pedagogical principle which Rousseau had promulgated before the Revolution: "Tout est
bien sortant des mains de l'Auteur des choses, tout dégénère dans les mains de l'homme,"—
that is, the work of education is deleterious and spoils the man.
The savage, according to the erroneous first impression of Itard, demonstrated
experimentally by his characteristics the truth of the former assertion. When, however, he
perceived, with the help of Pinel, that he had to do with an idiot, his philosophical theories
gave place to the most admirable, tentative, experimental pedagogy.
Itard divides the education of the savage into two parts. In the first, he endeavours to lead
the child from natural life to social life; and in the second, he attempts the intellectual
education of the idiot. The child in his life of frightful abandonment had found one
happiness; he had, so to speak, immersed himself in, and unified himself with, nature, taking
delight in it—rains, snow, tempests, boundless space, had been his sources of entertainment,
his companions, his love. Civil life is a renunciation of all this: but it is an acquisition
beneficent to human progress. In Itard's pages we find vividly described the moral work
which led the savage to civilisation, multiplying the needs of the child and surrounding him
with loving care. Here is a sample of the admirably patient work of Itard as observer of the
spontaneous expressions of his pupil: it can most truly give teachers, who are to prepare for
the experimental method, an idea of the patience and the self-abnegation necessary in [Pg
dealing with a phenomenon which is to be observed: 151]

"When, for example, he was observed within his room, he was seen to be lounging with
oppressive monotony, continually directing his eyes toward the window, with his gaze
wandering in the void. If on such occasions a sudden storm blew up, if the sun, hidden
behind the clouds, peeped out of a sudden, lighting the atmosphere brilliantly, there were
loud bursts of laughter and almost convulsive joy. Sometimes, instead of these expressions of
joy, there was a sort of frenzied rage: he would twist his arms, put his clenched fists upon his
eyes, gnashing his teeth and becoming dangerous to those about him.
"One morning, when the snow fell abundantly while he was still in bed, he uttered a cry of
joy upon awaking, leaped from his bed, ran to the window and then to the door; went and
came impatiently from one to the other; then ran out undressed as he was into the garden.
There, giving vent to his joy with the shrillest of cries, he ran, rolled in the snow, gathered it
up in handfuls, and swallowed it with incredible avidity.
"But his sensations at sight of the great spectacles of nature did not always manifest
themselves in such a vivid and noisy manner. It is worthy of note that in certain cases they
were expressed by a quiet regret and melancholy. Thus, it was when the rigour of the
weather drove everybody from the garden that the savage of the Aveyron chose to go there.
He would walk around it several times and finally sit down upon the edge of the fountain.
"I have often stopped for whole hours, and with indescribable pleasure, to watch him as he
sat thus—to see how his face, inexpressive or contracted by grimaces, gradually assumed an
expression of sadness, and of melancholy reminiscence, while his eyes were fixed upon the [Pg
surface of the water into which from time to time he would throw a few dead leaves. 152]
 "If when there was a full moon, a sheaf of mild beams penetrated into his room, he rarely
failed to wake and to take his place at the window. He would remain there for a large part of
the night, erect, motionless, with his head thrust forward, his eyes fixed on the countryside
lighted by the moon, plunged in a sort of contemplative ecstasy, the immobility and silence
of which were only interrupted at long intervals by a breath as deep as a sigh, which died
away in a plaintive sound of lamentation."
Elsewhere, Itard relates that the boy did not know the walking gait which we use in
civilised life, but only the running gait, and tells how he, Itard, ran after him at the
beginning, when he took him out into the streets of Paris, rather than violently check the
boy's running.
The gradual and gentle leading of the savage through all the manifestations of social life,
the early adaptation of the teacher to the pupil rather than of the pupil to the teacher, the
successive attraction to a new life which was to win over the child by its charms, and not be
imposed upon him violently so that the pupil should feel it as a burden and a torture, are as
many precious educative expressions which may be generalised and applied to the education
of children.
I believe that there exists no document which offers so poignant and so eloquent a contrast
between the life of nature and the life of society, and which so graphically shows that society
is made up solely of renunciations and restraints. Let it suffice to recall the run, checked to a
walk, and the loud-voiced cry, checked to the modulations of the ordinary speaking voice. [Pg
153]
And, yet, without any violence, leaving to social life the task of charming the child little
by little, Itard's education triumphs. It is true that civilised life is made by renunciation of the
life of nature; it is almost the snatching of a man from the lap of earth; it is like snatching the
new-born child from its mother's breast; but it is also a new life.
In Itard's pages we see the final triumph of the love of man over the love of nature: the
savage of the Aveyron ends by feeling and preferring the affection of Itard, the caresses, the
tears shed over him, to the joy of immersing himself voluptuously in the snow, and of
contemplating the infinite expanse of the sky on a starry night: one day after an attempted
escape into the country, he returns of his own accord, humble and repentant, to find his good
soup and his warm bed.
It is true that man has created enjoyments in social life and has brought about a vigorous
human love in community life. But nevertheless he still belongs to nature, and, especially
when he is a child, he must needs draw from it the forces necessary to the development of
the body and of the spirit. We have intimate communications with nature which have an
influence, even a material influence, on the growth of the body. (For example, a physiologist,
isolating young guinea pigs from terrestrial magnetism by means of insulators, found that
they grew up with rickets.)
In the education of little children Itard's educative drama is repeated: we must prepare
man, who is one among the living creatures and therefore belongs to nature, for social life,
because social life being his own peculiar work, must also correspond to the manifestation of
his natural activity. [Pg
154]
But the advantages which we prepare for him in this social life, in a great measure escape
the little child, who at the beginning of his life is a predominantly vegetative creature.
To soften this transition in education, by giving a large part of the educative work to
nature itself, is as necessary as it is not to snatch the little child suddenly and violently from
its mother and to take him to school; and precisely this is done in the "Children's Houses,"
which are situated within the tenements where the parents live, where the cry of the child
reaches the mother and the mother's voice answers it.
Nowadays, under the form of child hygiene, this part of education is much cultivated:
children are allowed to grow up in the open air, in the public gardens, or are left for many
hours half naked on the seashore, exposed to the rays of the sun. It has been understood,
through the diffusion of marine and Apennine colonies, that the best means of invigorating
the child is to immerse him in nature.
Short and comfortable clothing for children, sandals for the feet, nudity of the lower
extremities, are so many liberations from the oppressive shackles of civilisation.
It is an obvious principle that we should sacrifice to natural liberties in education only as
much as is necessary for the acquisition of the greater pleasures which are offered by
civilisation without useless sacrifices.
But in all this progress of modern child education, we have not freed ourselves from the
prejudice which denies children spiritual expression and spiritual needs, and makes us
consider them only as amiable vegetating bodies to be cared for, kissed, and set in motion.
The education which a good mother or a good modern teacher gives to-day to the child who, [Pg
for example, is running about in a flower garden is the counsel not to touch the flowers, not 155]
to tread on the grass; as if it were sufficient for the child to satisfy the physiological needs of
his body by moving his legs and breathing fresh air.
But if for the physical life it is necessary to have the child exposed to the vivifying forces
of nature, it is also necessary for his psychical life to place the soul of the child in contact
with creation, in order that he may lay up for himself treasure from the directly educating
forces of living nature. The method for arriving at this end is to set the child at agricultural
labour, guiding him to the cultivation of plants and animals, and so to the intelligent
contemplation of nature.
Already, in England Mrs. Latter has devised the basis for a method of child education by
means of gardening and horticulture. She sees in the contemplation of developing life the
bases of religion, since the soul of the child may go from the creature to the Creator. She sees
in it also the point of departure for intellectual education, which she limits to drawing from
life as a step toward art, to the ideas about plants, insects, and seasons, which spring from
agriculture, and to the first notions of household life, which spring from the cultivation and
the culinary preparation of certain alimentary products that children later serve upon the
table, providing afterwards also for the washing of the utensils and tableware.
Mrs. Latter's conception is too one-sided; but her institutions, which continue to spread in
England, undoubtedly complete the natural education which, up to this time limited to the
physical side, has already been so efficacious in invigorating the bodies of English children.
Moreover, her experience offers a positive corroboration of the practicability of agricultural [Pg
teaching in the case of little children. 156]

As for deficients, I have seen agriculture applied on a large scale to their education at Paris
by the means which the kindly spirit of Baccelli tried to introduce into the elementary
schools when he attempted to institute the "little educative gardens." In every little garden
are sown different agricultural products, demonstrating practically the proper method and the
proper time for seeding and for crop gathering, and the period of development of the various
products; the manner of preparing the soil, of enriching it with natural or chemical manures,
etc. The same is done for ornamental plants and for gardening, which is the work yielding
the best income for deficients, when they are of an age to practise a profession.
 But this side of education, though it contains, in the first place, an objective method of
intellectual culture, and, in addition, a professional preparation, is not, in my opinion, to be
taken into serious consideration for child education. The educational conception of this age
must be solely that of aiding the psycho-physical development of the individual; and, this
being the case, agriculture and animal culture contain in themselves precious means of moral
education which can be analysed far more than is done by Mrs. Latter, who sees in them
essentially a method of conducting the child's soul to religious feeling. Indeed, in this
method, which is a progressive ascent, several gradations can be distinguished: I mention
here the principal ones:
First. The child is initiated into observation of the phenomena of life. He stands with
respect to the plants and animals in relations analogous to those in which the observing
teacher stands towards him. Little by little, as interest and observation grow, his zealous care [Pg
for the living creatures grows also, and in this way, the child can logically be brought to 157]
appreciate the care which the mother and the teacher take of him.
Second. The child is initiated into foresight by way of auto-education; when he knows that
the life of the plants that have been sown depends upon his care in watering them, and that of
the animals, upon his diligence in feeding them, without which the little plant dries up and
the animals suffer hunger, the child becomes vigilant, as one who is beginning to feel a
mission in life. Moreover, a voice quite different from that of his mother and his teacher
calling him to his duties, is speaking here, exhorting him never to forget the task he has
undertaken. It is the plaintive voice of the needy life which lives by his care. Between the
child and the living creatures which he cultivates there is born a mysterious correspondence
which induces the child to fulfil certain determinate acts without the intervention of the
teacher, that is, leads him to an auto-education.
The rewards which the child reaps also remain between him and nature: one fine day after
long patient care in carrying food and straw to the brooding pigeons, behold the little ones!
behold a number of chickens peeping about the setting hen which yesterday sat motionless in
her brooding place! behold one day the tender little rabbits in the hutch where formerly dwelt
in solitude the pair of big rabbits to which he had not a few times lovingly carried the green
vegetables left over in his mother's kitchen!
I have not yet been able to institute in Rome the breeding of animals, but in the
"Children's Houses" at Milan there are several animals, among them a pair of pretty little
white American fowl that live in a diminutive and elegant chalet, similar in construction to a [Pg
Chinese pagoda: in front of it, a little piece of ground inclosed by a rampart is reserved for 158]
the pair. The little door of the chalet is locked at evening, and the children take care of it in
turn. With what delight they go in the morning to unlock the door, to fetch water and straw,
and with what care they watch during the day, and at evening lock the door after having
made sure that the fowl lack nothing! The teacher informs me that among all the educative
exercises this is the most welcome, and seems also the most important of all. Many a time
when the children are tranquilly occupied in tasks, each at the work he prefers, one, two, or
three, get up silently, and go out to cast a glance at the animals to see if they need care. Often
it happens that a child absents himself for a long time and the teacher surprises him watching
enchantedly the fish gliding ruddy and resplendent in the sunlight in the waters of the
fountain.
One day I received from the teacher in Milan a letter in which she spoke to me with great
enthusiasm of a truly wonderful piece of news. The little pigeons were hatched. For the
children it was a great festival. They felt themselves to some extent the parents of these little
ones, and no artificial reward which had flattered their vanity would ever have provoked such
a truly fine emotion. Not less great are the joys which vegetable nature provides. In one of
the "Children's Houses" at Rome, where there was no soil that could be cultivated, there have
been arranged, through the efforts of Signora Talamo, flower-pots all around the large
terrace, and climbing plants near the walls. The children never forget to water the plants with
their little watering-pots.
One day I found them seated on the ground, all in a circle, around a splendid red rose [Pg
which had bloomed in the night; silent and calm, literally immersed in mute contemplation. 159]

Third. The children are initiated into the virtue of patience and into confident expectation,
which is a form of faith and of philosophy of life.
When the children put a seed into the ground, and wait until it fructifies, and see the first
appearance of the shapeless plant, and wait for the growth and the transformations into
flower and fruit, and see how some plants sprout sooner and some later, and how the
deciduous plants have a rapid life, and the fruit-trees a slower growth, they end by acquiring
a peaceful equilibrium of conscience, and absorb the first germs of that wisdom which so
characterised the tillers of the soil in the time when they still kept their primitive simplicity.
Fourth. The children are inspired with a feeling for nature, which is maintained by the
marvels of creation—that creation which rewards with a generosity not measured by the
labour of those who help it to evolve the life of its creatures.
Even while at the work, a sort of correspondence arises between the child's soul and the
lives which are developed under his care. The child loves naturally the manifestations of life:
Mrs. Latter tells us how easily little ones are interested even in earthworms and in the
movement of the larvæ of insects in manure, without feeling that horror which we, who have
grown up isolated from nature, experience towards certain animals. It is well then, to develop
this feeling of trust and confidence in living creatures, which is, moreover, a form of love,
and of union with the universe.
But what most develops a feeling of nature is the cultivation of the living things, because [Pg
they by their natural development give back far more than they receive, and show something 160]
like infinity in their beauty and variety. When the child has cultivated the iris or the pansy,
the rose or the hyacinth, has placed in the soil a seed or a bulb and periodically watered it, or
has planted a fruit-bearing shrub, and the blossomed flower and the ripened fruit offer
themselves as a generous gift of nature, a rich reward for a small effort; it seems almost as if
nature were answering with her gifts to the feeling of desire, to the vigilant love of the
cultivator, rather than striking a balance with his material efforts.
It will be quite different when the child has to gather the material fruits of his labour:
motionless, uniform objects, which are consumed and dispersed rather than increased and
multiplied.
The difference between the products of nature and those of industry, between divine
products and human products—it is this that must be born spontaneously in the child's
conscience, like the determination of a fact.
But at the same time, as the plant must give its fruit, so man must give his labour.
Fifth. The child follows the natural way of development of the human race. In short, such
education makes the evolution of the individual harmonise with that of humanity. Man
passed from the natural to the artificial state through agriculture: when he discovered the
secret of intensifying the production of the soil, he obtained the reward of civilisation.
The same path must be traversed by the child who is destined to become a civilised man.
 The action of educative nature so understood is very practically accessible. Because, even
if the vast stretch of ground and the large courtyard necessary for physical education are [Pg
lacking, it will always be possible to find a few square yards of land that may be cultivated, 161]
or a little place where pigeons can make their nest, things sufficient for spiritual education.
Even a pot of flowers at the window can, if necessary, fulfil the purpose.
In the first "Children's House" in Rome we have a vast courtyard, cultivated as a garden,
where the children are free to run in the open air—and, besides, a long stretch of ground,
which is planted on one side with trees, has a branching path in the middle, and on the
opposite side, has broken ground for the cultivation of plants. This last, we have divided into
so many portions, reserving one for each child.
While the smaller children run freely up and down the paths, or rest in the shade of the
trees, the possessors of the earth (children from four years of age up), are sowing, or hoeing,
watering or examining, the surface of the soil watching for the sprouting of plants. It is
interesting to note the following fact: the little reservations of the children are placed along
the wall of the tenement, in a spot formerly neglected because it leads to a blind road; the
inhabitants of the house, therefore, had the habit of throwing from those windows every kind
of offal, and at the beginning our garden was thus contaminated.
But, little by little, without any exhortation on our part, solely through the respect born in
the people's mind for the children's labour, nothing more fell from the windows, except the
loving glances and smiles of the mothers upon the soil which was the beloved possession of
their little children.

[Pg
CHAPTER XI 162]

MANUAL LABOUR—THE POTTER'S ART AND

BUILDING
Manual labour is distinguished from manual gymnastics by the fact that the object of the
latter is to exercise the hand, and the former, to accomplish a determinate work, being, or
simulating, a socially useful object. The one perfects the individual, the other enriches the
world; the two things are, however, connected because, in general, only one who has
perfected his own hand can produce a useful product.
I have thought wise, after a short trial, to exclude completely Froebel's exercises, because
weaving and sewing on cardboard are ill adapted to the physiological state of the child's
visual organs where the powers of the accommodation of the eye have not yet reached
complete development; hence, these exercises cause an effort of the organ which may have a
fatal influence on the development of the sight. The other little exercises of Froebel, such as
the folding of paper, are exercises of the hand, not work.
There is still left plastic work,—the most rational among all the exercises of Froebel,—
which consists in making the child reproduce determinate objects in clay.
In consideration, however, of the system of liberty which I proposed, I did not like to
make the children copy anything, and, in giving them clay to fashion in their own manner, I
did not direct the children to produce useful things; nor was I accomplishing an educative
result, inasmuch as plastic work, as I shall show later, serves for the study of the psychic [Pg
individuality of the child in his spontaneous manifestations, but not for his education. 163]

I decided therefore to try in the "Children's Houses" some very interesting exercises which
I had seen accomplished by an artist, Professor Randone, in the "School of Educative Art"
founded by him. This school had its origin along with the society for young people, called
Giovinezza Gentile, both school and society having the object of educating youth in
gentleness towards their surroundings—that is, in respect for objects, buildings, monuments:
a really important part of civil education, and one which interested me particularly on
account of the "Children's Houses," since that institution has, as its fundamental aim, to teach
precisely this respect for the walls, for the house, for the surroundings.
Very suitably, Professor Randone had decided that the society of Giovinezza Gentile could
not be based upon sterile theoretical preachings of the principles of citizenship, or upon
moral pledges taken by the children; but that it must proceed from an artistic education
which should lead the youth to appreciate and love, and consequently respect, objects and
especially monuments and historic buildings. Thus the "School of Educative Art" was
inspired by a broad artistic conception including the reproduction of objects which are
commonly met in the surroundings; the history and pre-history of their production, and the
illustration of the principal civic monuments which, in Rome, are in large measure composed
of archæological monuments. In order the more directly to accomplish his object, Professor
Randone founded his admirable school in an opening in one of the most artistic parts of the
walls of Rome, namely, the wall of Belisarius, overlooking the Villa Umberto Primo—a wall [Pg
which has been entirely neglected by the authorities and by no means respected by the 164]
citizens, and upon which Randone lavished care, decorating it with graceful hanging gardens
on the outside, and locating within it the School of Art which was to shape the Giovinezza
Gentile.
Here Randone has tried, very fittingly, to rebuild and revive a form of art which was once
the glory of Italy and of Florence—the potter's art, that is, the art of constructing vases.
The archæological, historical, and artistic importance of the vase is very great, and may be
compared with the numismatic art. In fact the first object of which humanity felt the need
was the vase, which came into being with the utilisation of fire, and before the discovery of
the production of fire. Indeed the first food of mankind was cooked in a vase.
One of the things most important, ethnically, in judging the civilisation of a primitive
people is the grade of perfection attained in pottery; in fact, the vase for domestic life and the
axe for social life are the first sacred symbols which we find in the prehistoric epoch, and are
the religious symbols connected with the temples of the gods and with the cult of the dead.
Even to-day, religious cults have sacred vases in their Sancta Sanctorum.
People who have progressed in civilisation show their feeling for art and their æsthetic
feeling also in vases which are multiplied in almost infinite form, as we see in Egyptian,
Etruscan, and Greek art.
The vase then comes into being, attains perfection, and is multiplied in its uses and its
forms, in the course of human civilisation; and the history of the vase follows the history of
humanity itself. Besides the civil and moral importance of the vase, we have another and [Pg
practical one, its literal adaptability to every modification of form, and its susceptibility to 165]
the most diverse ornamentation; in this, it gives free scope to the individual genius of the
artist.
Thus, when once the handicraft leading to the construction of vases has been learned (and
this is the part of the progress in the work, learned from the direct and graduated instruction
of the teacher), anyone can modify it according to the inspiration of his own æsthetic taste
and this is the artistic, individual part of the work. Besides this, in Randone's school the use
of the potter's wheel is taught, and also the composition of the mixture for the bath of
majolica ware, and baking the pieces in the furnace, stages of manual labour which contain
an industrial culture.
Another work in the School of Educative Art is the manufacture of diminutive bricks, and
their baking in the furnace, and the construction of diminutive walls built by the same
processes which the masons use in the construction of houses, the bricks being joined by
means of mortar handled with a trowel. After the simple construction of the wall,—which is
very amusing for the children who build it, placing brick on brick, superimposing row on
row,—the children pass to the construction of real houses,—first, resting on the ground, and,
then, really constructed with foundations, after a previous excavation of large holes in the
ground by means of little hoes and shovels. These little houses have openings corresponding
to windows and doors, and are variously ornamented in their façades by little tiles of bright
and multi-coloured majolica: the tiles themselves being manufactured by the children. [Pg
166]
Thus the children learn to appreciate the objects and constructions which surround them,
while a real manual and artistic labour gives them profitable exercise.
Such is the manual training which I have adopted in the "Children's Houses"; after two or
three lessons the little pupils are already enthusiastic about the construction of vases, and
they preserve very carefully their own products, in which they take pride. With their plastic
art they then model little objects, eggs or fruits, with which they themselves fill the vases.
One of the first undertakings is the simple vase of red clay filled with eggs of white clay;
then comes the modelling of the vase with one or more spouts, of the narrow-mouthed vase,
of the vase with a handle, of that with two or three handles, of the tripod, of the amphora.
For children of the age of five or six, the work of the potter's wheel begins. But what most
delights the children is the work of building a wall with little bricks, and seeing a little
house, the fruit of their own hands, rise in the vicinity of the ground in which are growing
plants, also cultivated by them. Thus the age of childhood epitomises the principal primitive
labours of humanity, when the human race, changing from the nomadic to the stable
condition, demanded of the earth its fruit, built itself shelter, and devised vases to cook the
foods yielded by the fertile earth.

[Pg
CHAPTER XII 167]

EDUCATION OF THE SENSES

In a pedagogical method which is experimental the education of the senses must
undoubtedly assume the greatest importance. Experimental psychology also takes note of
movements by means of sense measurements.
Pedagogy, however, although it may profit by psychometry is not designed to measure the
sensations, but educate the senses. This is a point easily understood, yet one which is often
confused. While the proceedings of esthesiometry are not to any great extent applicable to
little children, the education of the senses is entirely possible.
We do not start from the conclusions of experimental psychology. That is, it is not the
knowledge of the average sense conditions according to the age of the child which leads us
to determine the educational applications we shall make. We start essentially from a method,
and it is probable that psychology will be able to draw its conclusions from pedagogy so
understood, and not vice versa.
The method used by me is that of making a pedagogical experiment with a didactic object
and awaiting the spontaneous reaction of the child. This is a method in every way analogous
to that of experimental psychology.
I make use of a material which, at first glance, may be confused with psychometric
material. Teachers from Milan who had followed the course in the Milan school of [Pg
experimental psychology, seeing my material exposed, would recognise among it, measures 168]
of the perception of colour, hardness, and weight, and would conclude that, in truth, I
brought no new contribution to pedagogy since these instruments were already known to
them.
But the great difference between the two materials lies in this: The esthesiometer carries
within itself the possibility of measuring; my objects on the contrary, often do not permit a
measure, but are adapted to cause the child to exercise the senses.
In order that an instrument shall attain such a pedagogical end, it is necessary that it shall
not weary but shall divert the child. Here lies the difficulty in the selection of didactic
material. It is known that the psychometric instruments are great consumers of energy—for
this reason, when Pizzoli wished to apply them to the education of the senses, he did not
succeed because the child was annoyed by them, and became tired. Instead, the aim of
education is to develop the energies.
Psychometric instruments, or better, the instruments of esthesiometry, are prepared in their
differential gradations upon the laws of Weber, which were in truth drawn from experiments
made upon adults.
With little children, we must proceed to the making of trials, and must select the didactic
materials in which they show themselves to be interested.
This I did in the first year of the "Children's Houses" adopting a great variety of stimuli,
with a number of which I had already experimented in the school for deficients.
Much of the material used for deficients is abandoned in the education of the normal child
—and much that is used has been greatly modified. I believe, however, that I have arrived at [Pg
a selection of objects (which I do not here wish to speak of in the technical language of 169]
psychology as stimuli) representing the minimum necessary to a practical sense education.
These objects constitute the didactic system (or set of didactic materials) used by me. They
are manufactured by the House of Labour of the Humanitarian Society at Milan.
A description of the objects will be given as the educational scope of each is explained.
Here I shall limit myself to the setting forth of a few general considerations.
First. The difference in the reaction between deficient and normal children, in the
presentation of didactic material made up of graded stimuli. This difference is plainly seen
from the fact that the same didactic material used with deficients makes education possible,
while with normal children it provokes auto-education.
This fact is one of the most interesting I have met with in all my experience, and it
inspired and rendered possible the method of observation and liberty.
Let us suppose that we use our first object,—a block in which solid geometric forms are
set. Into corresponding holes in the block are set ten little wooden cylinders, the bases
diminishing gradually about the millimetres. The game consists in taking the cylinders out of
their places, putting them on the table, mixing them, and then putting each one back in its
own place. The aim is to educate the eye to the differential perception of dimensions.
With the deficient child, it would be necessary to begin with exercises in which the stimuli
were much more strongly contrasted, and to arrive at this exercise only after many others had [Pg
preceded it. 170]

With normal children, this is, on the other hand, the first object which we may present, and
out of all the didactic material this is the game preferred by the very little children of two and
a half and three years. Once we arrived at this exercise with a deficient child, it was
necessary continually and actively to recall his attention, inviting him to look at the block
and showing him the various pieces. And if the child once succeeded in placing all the
cylinders properly, he stopped, and the game was finished. Whenever the deficient child
committed an error, it was necessary to correct it, or to urge him to correct it himself, and
when he was able to correct an error he was usually quite indifferent.
Now the normal child, instead, takes spontaneously a lively interest in this game. He
pushes away all who would interfere, or offer to help him, and wishes to be alone before his
problem.
It had already been noted that little ones of two or three years take the greatest pleasure in
arranging small objects, and this experiment in the "Children's Houses" demonstrates the
truth of this assertion.
Now, and here is the important point, the normal child attentively observes the relation
between the size of the opening and that of the object which he is to place in the mould, and
is greatly interested in the game, as is clearly shown by the expression of attention on the
little face.
If he mistakes, placing one of the objects in an opening that is small for it, he takes it
away, and proceeds to make various trials, seeking the proper opening. If he makes a
contrary error, letting the cylinder fall into an opening that is a little too large for it, and then [Pg
collects all the successive cylinders in openings just a little too large, he will find himself at 171]
the last with the big cylinder in his hand while only the smallest opening is empty. The
didactic material controls every error. The child proceeds to correct himself, doing this in
various ways. Most often he feels the cylinders or shakes them, in order to recognise which
are the largest. Sometimes, he sees at a glance where his error lies, pulls the cylinders from
the places where they should not be, and puts those left out where they belong, then replaces
all the others. The normal child always repeats the exercise with growing interest.
Indeed, it is precisely in these errors that the educational importance of the didactic
material lies, and when the child with evident security places each piece in its proper place,
he has outgrown the exercise, and this piece of material becomes useless to him.
This self-correction leads the child to concentrate his attention upon the differences of
dimensions, and to compare the various pieces. It is in just this comparison that the psycho-
sensory exercise lies.
There is, therefore, no question here of teaching the child the knowledge of the
dimensions, through the medium of these pieces. Neither is it our aim that the child shall
know how to use, without an error, the material presented to him thus performing the
exercises well.
That would place our material on the same basis as many others, for example that of
Froebel, and would require again the active work of the teacher, who busies herself
furnishing knowledge, and making haste to correct every error in order that the child may
learn the use of the objects. [Pg
172]
Here instead it is the work of the child, the auto-correction, the auto-education which acts,
for the teacher must not interfere in the slightest way. No teacher can furnish the child with
the agility which he acquires through gymnastic exercises: it is necessary that the pupil
perfect himself through his own efforts. It is very much the same with the education of the
senses.
It might be said that the same thing is true of every form of education; a man is not what
he is because of the teachers he has had, but because of what he has done.
One of the difficulties of putting this method into practice with teachers of the old school,
lies in the difficulty of preventing them from intervening when the little child remains for
some time puzzled before some error, and with his eyebrows drawn together and his lips
puckered, makes repeated efforts to correct himself. When they see this, the old-time
teachers are seized with pity, and long, with an almost irresistible force, to help the child.
When we prevent this intervention, they burst into words of compassion for the little scholar,
but he soon shows in his smiling face the joy of having surmounted an obstacle.
Normal children repeat such exercises many times. This repetition varies according to the
individual. Some children after having completed the exercise five or six times are tired of it.
Others will remove and replace the pieces at least twenty times, with an expression of evident
interest. Once, after I had watched a little one of four years repeat this exercise sixteen times,
I had the other children sing in order to distract her, but she continued unmoved to take out
the cylinders, mix them up and put them back in their places.
An intelligent teacher ought to be able to make most interesting individual psychological
observations, and, to a certain point, should be able to measure the length of time for which [Pg
the various stimuli held the attention. 173]

In fact, when the child educates himself, and when the control and correction of errors is
yielded to the didactic material, there remains for the teacher nothing but to observe. She
must then be more of a psychologist than a teacher, and this shows the importance of a
scientific preparation on the part of the teacher.
Indeed, with my methods, the teacher teaches little and observes much, and, above all, it is
her function to direct the psychic activity of the children and their physiological
development. For this reason I have changed the name of teacher into that of directress.
At first this name provoked many smiles, for everyone asked whom there was for this
teacher to direct, since she had no assistants, and since she must leave her little scholars in
liberty. But her direction is much more profound and important than that which is commonly
understood, for this teacher directs the life and the soul.
Second. The education of the senses has, as its aim, the refinement of the differential
perception of stimuli by means of repeated exercises.
There exists a sensory culture, which is not generally taken into consideration, but which
is a factor in esthesiometry.
For example, in the mental tests which are used in France, or in a series of tests which De
Sanctis has established for the diagnosis of the intellectual status, I have often seen used
cubes of different sizes placed at varying distances. The child was to select the smallest and
the largest, while the chronometer measured the time of reaction between the command and
the execution of the act. Account was also taken of the errors. I repeat that in such [Pg
experiments the factor of culture is forgotten and by this I mean sensory culture. 174]

Our children have, for example, among the didactic material for the education of the
senses, a series of ten cubes. The first has a base of ten centimetres, and the others decrease,
successively, one centimetre as to base, the smallest cube having a base of one centimetre.
The exercise consists in throwing the blocks, which are pink in colour, down upon a green
carpet, and then building them up into a little tower, placing the largest cube as the base, and
then placing the others in order of size until the little cube of one centimetre is placed at the
top.
The little one must each time select, from the blocks scattered upon the green carpet, "the
largest" block. This game is most entertaining to the little ones of two years and a half, who,
as soon as they have constructed the little tower, tumble it down with little blows of the
hand, admiring the pink cubes as they lie scattered upon the green carpet. Then, they begin
again the construction, building and destroying a definite number of times.
If we were to place before these tests one of my children from three to four years, and one
of the children from the first elementary (six or seven years old), my pupil would
undoubtedly manifest a shorter period of reaction, and would not commit errors. The same
may be said for the tests of the chromatic sense, etc.
This educational method should therefore prove interesting to students of experimental
psychology as well as to teachers.
In conclusion, let me summarize briefly: Our didactic material renders auto-education
possible, permits a methodical education of the senses. Not upon the ability of the teacher
does such education rest, but upon the didactic system. This presents objects which, first, [Pg
attract the spontaneous attention of the child, and, second, contain a rational gradation of 175]
stimuli.
We must not confuse the education of the senses, with the concrete ideas which may be
gathered from our environment by means of the senses. Nor must this education of the
senses be identical in our minds with the language through which is given the nomenclature
corresponding to the concrete idea, nor with the acquisition of the abstract idea of the
exercises.
Let us consider what the music master does in giving instruction in piano playing. He
teaches the pupil the correct position of the body, gives him the idea of the notes, shows him
the correspondence between the written notes and the touch and the position of the fingers,
and then he leaves the child to perform the exercise by himself. If a pianist is to be made of
this child, there must, between the ideas given by the teacher and the musical exercises,
intervene long and patient application to those exercises which serve to give agility to the
articulation of the fingers and of the tendons, in order that the co-ordination of special
muscular movements shall become automatic, and that the muscles of the hand shall become
strong through their repeated use.
The pianist must, therefore, act for himself, and the more his natural tendencies lead him
to persist in these exercises the greater will be his success. However, without the direction of
the master the exercise will not suffice to develop the scholar into a true pianist.
The directress of the "Children's House" must have a clear idea of the two factors which
enter into her work—the guidance of the child, and the individual exercise.
Only after she has this concept clearly fixed in her mind, may she proceed to the [Pg
application of a method to guide the spontaneous education of the child and to impart 176]
necessary notions to him.
 In the opportune quality and in the manner of this intervention lies the personal art of the
educator.
For example, in the "Children's House" in the Prati di Castello, where the pupils belong to
the middle-class, I found, a month after the opening of the school, a child of five years who
already knew how to compose any word, as he knew the alphabet perfectly—he had learned
it in two weeks. He knew how to write on the blackboard, and in the exercises in free design
he showed himself not only to be an observer, but to have some intuitive idea of perspective,
drawing a house and chair very cleverly. As for the exercises of the chromatic sense, he
could mix together the eight gradations of the eight colours which we use, and from this
mass of sixty-four tablets, each wound with silk of a different colour or shade, he could
rapidly separate the eight groups. Having done this, he would proceed with ease to arrange
each colour series in perfect gradation. In this game the child would almost cover one of the
little tables with a carpet of finely-shaded colours. I made the experiment, taking him to the
window and showing him in full daylight one of the coloured tablets, telling him to look at it
well, so that he might be able to remember it. I then sent him to the table on which all the
gradations were spread out, and asked him to find the tablet like the one at which he had
looked. He committed only very slight errors, often choosing the exact shade but more often
the one next it, rarely a tint two grades removed from the right one. This boy had then a
power of discrimination and a colour memory which were almost prodigious. Like all the
other children, he was exceedingly fond of the colour exercises. But when I asked the name [Pg
of the white colour spool, he hesitated for a long time before replying uncertainly "white." 177]
Now a child of such intelligence should have been able, even without the special intervention
of the teacher, to learn the name of each colour.
The directress told me that having noticed that the child had great difficulty in retaining
the nomenclature of the colours, she had up until that time left him to exercise himself freely
with the games for the colour sense. At the same time he had developed rapidly a power over
written language, which in my method as presented through a series of problems to be
solved. These problems are presented as sense exercises. This child was, therefore, most
intelligent. In him the discriminative sensory perceptions kept pace with great intellectual
activities—attention and judgment. But his memory for names was inferior.
The directress had thought best not to interfere, as yet, in the teaching of the child.
Certainly, the education of the child was a little disordered, and the directress had left the
spontaneous explanation of his mental activities excessively free. However desirable it may
be to furnish a sense education as a basis for intellectual ideas, it is nevertheless advisable at
the same time to associate the language with these perceptions.
In this connection I have found excellent for use with normal children the three periods of
which the lesson according to Séguin consists:
First Period. The association of the sensory perception with the name.
For example, we present to the child, two colours, red and blue. Presenting the red, we say
simply, "This is red," and presenting the blue, "This is blue." Then, we lay the spools upon [Pg
the table under the eyes of the child. 178]

Second Period. Recognition of the object corresponding to the name. We Say to the child,
"Give me the red," and then, "Give me the blue."
Third Period. The remembering of the name corresponding to the object. We ask the child,
showing him the object, "What is this?" and he should respond, "Red."
Séguin insists strongly upon these three periods, and urges that the colours be left for
several instants under the eyes of the child. He also advises us never to present the colour
singly, but always two at a time, since the contrast helps the chromatic memory. Indeed, I
have proved that there cannot be a better method for teaching colour to the deficients, who,
with this method were able to learn the colours much more perfectly than normal children in
the ordinary schools who have had a haphazard sense education. For normal children
however there exists a period preceding the Three Periods of Séguin—a period which
contains the real sense education. This is the acquisition of a fineness of differential
perception, which can be obtained only through auto-education.
This, then, is an example of the great superiority of the normal child, and of the greater
effect of education which such pedagogical methods may exercise upon the mental
development of normal as compared with deficient children.
The association of the name with the stimulus is a source of great pleasure to the normal
child. I remember, one day, I had taught a little girl, who was not yet three years old, and
who was a little tardy in the development of language, the names of three colours. I had the
children place one of their little tables near a window, and seating myself in one of the little [Pg
chairs, I seated the little girl in a similar chair at my right. 179]

I had, on the table, six of the colour spools in pairs, that is two reds, two blues, two
yellows. In the First Period, I placed one of the spools before the child, asking her to find the
one like it. This I repeated for all three of the colours, showing her how to arrange them
carefully in pairs. After this I passed to the Three Periods of Séguin. The little girl learned to
recognise the three colours and to pronounce the name of each.
She was so happy that she looked at me for a long time, and then began to jump up and
down. I, seeing her pleasure, said to her, laughing, "Do you know the colours?" and she
replied, still jumping up and down, "Yes! YES!" Her delight was inexhaustible; she danced
about me, waiting joyously for me to ask her the same question, that she might reply with the
same enthusiasm, "Yes! Yes!"
Another important particular in the technique of sense education lies in isolating the sense,
whenever this is possible. So, for example, the exercises on the sense of hearing can be given
more successfully in an environment not only of silence, but even of darkness.
For the education of the senses in general, such as in the tactile, thermic, baric, and
stereognostic exercises, we blindfold the child. The reasons for this particular technique have
been fully set forth by psychology. Here, it is enough to note that in the case of normal
children the blindfold greatly increases their interest, without making the exercises
degenerate into noisy fun, and without having the child's attention attracted more to the
bandage than to the sense-stimuli upon which we wish to focus the attention. [Pg
180]
For example, in order to test the acuteness of the child's sense of hearing (a most
important thing for the teacher to know), I use an empiric test which is coming to be used
almost universally by physicians in the making of medical examinations. This test is made
by modulating the voice, reducing it to a whisper. The child is blindfolded, or the teacher
may stand behind him, speaking his name, in a whisper and from varying distances. I
establish a solemn silence in the schoolroom, darken the windows, have the children bow
their heads upon their hands which they hold in front of their eyes. Then I call the children
by name, one by one, in a whisper, lighter for those who are nearer me, and more clearly for
those farther away. Each child awaits, in the darkness, the faint voice which calls him,
listening intently, ready to run with keenest joy toward the mysterious and much, desired
call.
The normal child may be blindfolded in the games where, for example, he is to recognise
various weights, for this does help him to intensify and concentrate his attention upon the
baric stimuli which he is to test. The blindfold adds to his pleasure, since he is proud of
having been able to guess.
The effect of these games upon deficient children is very different. When placed in
darkness, they often go to sleep, or give themselves up to disordered acts. When the
blindfold is used, they fix their attention upon the bandage itself, and change the exercise
into a game, which does not fulfil the end we have in view with the exercise.
We speak, it is true, of games in education, but it must be made clear that we understand
by this term a free activity, ordered to a definite end; not disorderly noise, which distracts the
attention. [Pg
181]
The following pages of Itard give an idea of the patient experiments made by this pioneer
in pedagogy. Their lack of success was due largely to errors which successive experiments
have made it possible to correct, and in part to the mentality of his subject.
"IV: In this last experiment it was not necessary, as in the one preceding, to demand that
the pupil repeat the sounds which he perceived. This double work, distributing his attention,
was outside the plane of my purpose, which was to educate each organ separately. I,
therefore, limited myself to following the simple perception of sounds. To be certain of this
result, I placed my pupil in front of me with his eyes blinded, his fists closed, and had him
extend a finger every time that I made a sound. He understood this arrangement, and as soon
as the sound reached his ear, the finger was raised, with a species of impetuosity, and often,
with demonstrations of joy which left no doubt as to the pleasure the pupil took in these
bizarre lessons. Indeed, whether it be that he found a real pleasure in the sound of the human
voice, or that he had at last conquered the annoyance he at first felt on being deprived of the
light for so long a time, the fact remains that more than once, during the intervals of rest, he
came to me with his blindfold in his hand, holding it over his eyes, and jumping with joy
when he felt my hands tying it about his head.
"V: Having thoroughly assured myself, through such experiments as the one described
above, that all sounds of the voice, whatever their intensity, were perceived by Vittorio, I
proceeded to the attempt of making him compare these sounds. It was no longer a case of
simply noting the sounds of the voice, but of perceiving the differences and of appreciating
all these modifications and varieties of tone which go to make up the music of the word. [Pg
Between this task and the preceding there stretched a prodigious difference, especially for a 182]
being whose development was dependent upon gradual effort, and who advanced toward
civilisation only because I led thitherward so gently that he was unconscious of the progress.
Facing the difficulty now presented, I had need to arm myself more strongly than ever with
patience and gentleness, encouraged by the hope that once I had surmounted this obstacle all
would have been done for the sense of hearing.
"We began with the comparison of the vowel sounds, and here, too, made use of the hand
to assure ourselves as to the result of our experiments. Each one of the fingers was made the
sign of one of the five vowels. Thus the thumb represented A and was to be raised whenever
this vowel was pronounced; the index finger was the sign for E; the middle finger for I; and
so on.
"VI: Not without fatigue, and not for a long time, was I able to give a distinct idea of the
vowels. The first to be clearly distinguished was O, and then followed A. The three others
presented much greater difficulty, and were for a long time confused. At last, however, the
ear began to perceive distinctly, and, then, there returned in all their vivacity, those
demonstrations of joy of which I have spoken. This continued until the pleasure taken in the
lessons began to be boisterous, the sounds became confused, and the finger was raised
indiscriminately. The outbursts of laughter became indeed so excessive that I lost patience!
As soon as I placed the blindfold over his eyes the shouts of laughter began."
Itard, finding it impossible to continue his educational work, decided to do away with the [Pg
blindfold, and, indeed, the shouts ceased, but now the child's attention was distracted by the 183]
slightest movement about him. The blindfold was necessary, but the boy had to be made to
understand that he must not laugh so much and that he was having a lesson. The corrective
means of Itard and their touching results are worth reporting here!
"I wished to intimidate him with my manner, not being able to do so with my glance. I
armed myself with a tambourine and struck it lightly whenever he made a mistake. But he
mistook this correction for a joke, and his joy became more noisy than ever. I then felt that I
must make the correction a little more severe. It was understood, and I saw, with a mixture of
pain and pleasure, revealed in the darkened face of this boy the fact that the feeling of injury
surpassed the unhappiness of the blow. Tears came from beneath the blindfold, he urged me
to take it off, but, whether from embarrassment or fear, or from some inner preoccupation,
when freed from the bandage he still kept his eyes tightly closed. I could not laugh at the
doleful expression of his face, the closed eyelids from between which trickled an occasional
tear! Oh, in this moment, as in many others, ready to renounce my task, and feeling that the
time I had consecrated to it was lost, how I regretted ever having known this boy, and bow
severely I condemned the barren and inhuman curiosity of the men who in order to make
scientific advancement had torn him away from a life, at least innocent and happy!"
Here also is demonstrated the great educative superiority of scientific pedagogy for normal
children.
Finally, one particular of the technique consists in the distribution of the stimuli. This will [Pg
be treated more fully in the description of the didactic system (materials) and of the sense 184]
education. Here it is enough to say that one should proceed from few stimuli strongly
contrasting, to many stimuli in gradual differentiation always more fine and imperceptible.
So, for example, we first present, together, red and blue; the shortest rod beside the longest;
the thinnest beside the thickest, etc., passing from these to the delicately differing tints, and
to the discrimination of very slight differences in length and size.

[Pg
CHAPTER XIII 185]

EDUCATION OF THE SENSES AND ILLUSTRATIONS OF

THE DIDACTIC MATERIAL: GENERAL SENSIBILITY;
THE TACTILE, THERMIC, BARIC, AND
STEREOGNOSTIC SENSES
The education of the tactile and the thermic senses go together, since the warm bath, and
heat in general, render the tactile sense more acute. Since to exercise the tactile sense it is
necessary to touch, bathing the hands in warm water has the additional advantage of teaching
the child a principle of cleanliness—that of not touching objects with hands that are not
clean. I therefore apply the general notions of practical life, regarding the washing of the
hands, care of the nails, to the exercises preparatory to the discrimination of tactile stimuli.
 The limitation of the exercises of the tactile sense to the cushioned tips of the fingers, is
rendered necessary by practical life. It must be made a necessary phase of education because
it prepares for a life in which man exercises and uses the tactile sense through the medium of
these finger tips. Hence, I have the child wash his hands carefully with soap, in a little basin;
and in another basin I have him rinse them in a bath of tepid water. Then I show him how to
dry and rub his hands gently, in this way preparing for the regular bath. I next teach the child
how to touch, that is, the manner in which he should touch surfaces. For this it is necessary
to take the finger of the child and to draw it very, very lightly over the surface. [Pg
186]
Another particular of the technique is to teach the child to hold his eyes closed while he
touches, encouraging him to do this by telling him that he will be able to feel the differences
better, and so leading him to distinguish, without the help of sight, the change of contact. He
will quickly learn, and will show that he enjoys the exercise. Often after the introduction of
such exercises, it is a common thing to have a child come to you, and, closing his eyes, touch
with great delicacy the palm of your hand or the cloth of your dress, especially any silken or
velvet trimmings. They do verily exercise the tactile sense. They enjoy keenly touching any
soft pleasant surface, and become exceedingly keen in discriminating between the
differences in the sandpaper cards.
The Didactic Material consists of; a—a rectangular wooden board divided into two equal
rectangles, one covered with very smooth paper, or having the wood polished until a smooth
surface is obtained; the other covered with sandpaper, b—a tablet like the preceding covered
with alternating strips of smooth paper and sandpaper.
I also make use of a collection of paper slips, varying through many grades from smooth,
fine cardboard to coarsest sandpaper. The stuffs described elsewhere are also used in these
lessons.

As to the Thermic Sense, I use a set of little metal bowls, which are filled with water at
different degrees of temperature. These I try to measure with a thermometer, so that there
may be two containing water of the same temperature.
 THE CLOISTER SCHOOL OF THE
FRANCISCAN NUNS IN ROME
Children playing a game with tablets of
coloured silk

[Pg
187]
 (A) GIRL TOUCHING A LETTER AND
BOY TELLING OBJECTS BY WEIGHT.
(B) ARRANGING TABLETS OF SILK IN
THEIR CHROMATIC ORDER. There are
eight colours, and eight shades of each
colour, making sixty-four gradations in all.
I have designed a set of utensils which are to be made of very light metal, and filled with
water. These have covers, and to each is attached a thermometer. The bowl touched from the
outside gives the desired impression of heat.
I also have the children put their hands into cold, tepid, and warm water, an exercise
which they find most diverting. I should like to repeat this exercise with the feet, but I have
not bad an opportunity to make the trial.
For the education of the baric sense (sense of weight), I use with great success little
wooden tablets, six by eight centimetres, having a thickness of 1/2 centimetre. These tablets
are in three different qualities of wood, wistaria, walnut, and pine. They weigh respectively,
24, 18, and 12 grammes, making them differ in weight by 6 grammes. These tablets should
be very smooth; if possible, varnished in such a way that every roughness shall be
eliminated, but so that the natural colour of the wood shall remain. The child, observing the
colour, knows that they are of differing weights, and this offers a means of controlling the
exercise. He takes two of the tablets in his hands, letting them rest upon the palm at the base
of his outstretched fingers. Then he moves his hands up and down in order to gauge the
weight. This movement should come to be, little by little, almost insensible. We lead the
child to make his distinction purely through the difference in weight, leaving out the guide of
the different colours, and closing his eyes. He learns to do this of himself, and takes great
interest in "guessing."
 The game attracts the attention of those near, who gather in a circle about the one who has
the tablets, and who take turns in guessing. Sometimes the children spontaneously make use [Pg
of the blindfold, taking turns, and interspersing the work with peals of joyful laughter. 188]

EDUCATION OF THE STEREOGNOSTIC SENSE

The education of this sense leads to the recognition of objects through feeling, that is,
through the simultaneous help of the tactile and muscular senses.
Taking this union as a basis, we have made experiments which have given marvellously
successful educational results. I feel that for the help of teachers these exercises should be
described.
The first didactic material used by us is made up of the bricks and cubes of Froebel. We
call the attention of the child to the form of the two solids, have him feel them carefully and
accurately, with his eyes open, repeating some phrase serving to fix his attention upon the
particulars of the forms presented. After this the child is told to place the cubes to the right,
the bricks to the left, always feeling them, and without looking at them. Finally the exercise
is repeated, by the child blindfolded. Almost all the children succeed in the exercise, and
after two or three times, are able to eliminate every error. There are twenty-four of the bricks
and cubes in all, so that the attention may be held for some time through this "game"—but
undoubtedly the child's pleasure is greatly increased by the fact of his being watched by a
group of his companions, all interested and eager.
One day a directress called my attention to a little girl of three years, one of our very
youngest pupils, who had repeated this exercise perfectly. We seated the little girl
comfortably in an armchair, close to the table. Then, placing the twenty-four objects before
her upon the table, we mixed them, and calling the child's attention to the difference in form, [Pg
told her to place the cubes to the right and the bricks to the left. When she was blindfolded 189]
she began the exercise as taught by us, taking an object in each hand, feeling each and
putting it in its right place. Sometimes she took two cubes, or two bricks, sometimes she
found a brick in the right hand, a cube in the left. The child had to recognise the form, and to
remember throughout the exercise the proper placing of the different objects. This seemed to
me very difficult for a child of three years.
But observing her I saw that she not only performed the exercise easily, but that the
movements with which we had taught her to feel the form were superfluous. Indeed the
instant she had taken the two objects in her hands, if it so happened that she had taken a cube
with the left hand and a brick in the right, she exchanged them immediately, and then began
the laborious feeling the form which we had taught and which she perhaps, believed to be
obligatory. But the objects had been recognised by her through the first light touch, that is,
the recognition was contemporaneous to the taking.
Continuing my study of the subject, I found that this little girl was possessed of a
remarkable functional ambidexterity—I should be very glad to make a wider study of this
phenomenon having in view the desirability of a simultaneous education of both hands.
I repeated the exercise with other children and found that they recognise the objects before
feeling their contours. This was particularly true of the little ones. Our educational methods
in this respect furnished a remarkable exercise in associative gymnastics, leading to a
rapidity of judgment which was truly surprising and had the advantage of being perfectly [Pg
adapted to very young children. 190]

These exercises of the stereognostic sense may be multiplied in many ways—they amuse
the children who find delight in the recognition of a stimulus, as in the thermic exercises; for
example—they may raise any small objects, toy soldiers, little balls, and, above all, the
various coins in common use. They come to discriminate between small forms varying very
slightly, such as corn, wheat, and rice.
They are very proud of seeing without eyes, holding out their hands and crying, "Here are
my eyes!" "I can see with my hands!" Indeed, our little ones walking in the ways we have
planned, make us marvel over their unforeseen progress, surprising us daily. Often, while
they are wild with delight over some new conquest,—we watch, in deepest wonder and
meditation.

EDUCATION OF THE SENSES OF TASTE AND

SMELL

This phase of sense education is most difficult, and I have not as yet had any satisfactory
results to record. I can only say that the exercises ordinarily used in the tests of psychometry
do not seem to me to be practical for use with young children.
The olfactory sense in children is not developed to any great extent, and this makes it
difficult to attract their attention by means of this sense. We have made use of one test which
has not been repeated often enough to form the basis of a method. We have the child smell
fresh violets, and jessamine flowers. We then blindfold him, saying, "Now we are going to
present you with flowers." A little friend then holds a bunch of violets under the child's nose,
that he may guess the name of the flower. For greater or less intensify we present fewer
flowers, or even one single blossom.
Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir

(A) DRAWING TABLE AND INSET. (B)

 WOODEN TABLETS. These are partly
covered with sandpaper to give rough and
smooth surfaces. (C) SOLID INSETS.
With these the child, working by himself,
learns to differentiate objects according to
thickness, height, and size.

[Pg
Copyright, 1912 by Carl R. Byoir 191]

(A) BROAD STAIR. (B) LONG STAIR. (C) TOWER.

Blocks by which children are taught thickness, length, size.
But this part of education, like that of the sense of taste, can be obtained by the child
during the luncheon hour;—when he can learn to recognise various odours.
As to taste, the method of touching the tongue with various solutions, bitter or acid, sweet,
salty, is perfectly applicable. Children of four years readily lend themselves to such games,
which serve as a reason for showing them how to rinse their mouths perfectly. The children
enjoy recognising various flavours, and learn, after each test, to fill a glass with tepid water,
and carefully rinse their months. In this way the exercise for the sense of taste is also an
exercise in hygiene.

EDUCATION OF THE SENSE OF VISION

I. Differential Visual Perception of Dimensions

First. Solid Insets: This material consists of three solid blocks of wood each 55
centimetres long, 6 centimetres high and 8 centimetres wide. Each block contains ten
wooden pieces, set into corresponding holes. These pieces are cylindrical in shape and are to
be handled by means of a little wooden or brass button which is fixed in the centre of the top.
The cases of cylinders are in appearance much like the cases of weights used by chemists. In
the first set of the series, the cylinders are all of equal height (55 millimetres) but differ in
diameter. The smallest cylinder has a diameter of 1 centimetre, and the others increase in
diameter at the rate of 1/2 centimetre. In the second set, the cylinders are all of equal
diameter, corresponding to half the diameter of the largest cylinder in the preceding series—
(27 millimetres). The cylinders in this set differ in height, the first being merely a little disk [Pg
192]
only a centimetre high, the others increase 5 millimetres each, the tenth one being 55
millimetres high. In the third set, the cylinders differ both in height and diameter, the first
being 1 centimetre high and 1 centimetre in diameter and each succeeding one increasing 1/2
centimetre in height and diameter. With these insets, the child, working by himself, learns to
differentiate objects according to thickness, according to height, and according to size.
In the schoolroom, these three sets may be played with by three children gathered about a
table, an exchange of games adding variety. The child takes the cylinders out of the moulds,
mixes them upon the table, and then puts each back into its corresponding opening. These
objects are made of hard pine, polished and varnished.
Second. Large pieces in graded dimensions:—There are three sets of blocks which come
under this head, and it is desirable to have two of each of these sets in every school.
(a) Thickness: this set consists of objects which vary from thick to thin. There are ten
quadrilateral prisms, the largest of which has a base of 10 centimetres, the others decreasing
by 1 centimetre. The pieces are of equal length, 20 centimetres. These prisms are stained a
dark brown. The child mixes them, scattering them over the little carpet, and then puts them
in order, placing one against the other according to the graduations of thickness, observing
that the length shall correspond exactly. These blocks, taken from the first to the last, form a
species of stair, the steps of which grow broader toward the top. The child may begin with
the thinnest piece or with the thickest, as suits his pleasure. The control of the exercise is not [Pg
certain, as it was in the solid cylindrical insets. There, the large cylinders could not enter the 193]
small opening, the taller ones would project beyond the top of the block, etc. In this game of
the Big Stair, the eye of the child can easily recognise an error, since if he mistakes, the stair
is irregular, that is, there will be a high step, behind which, the step which should have
ascended, decreases.
(b) Length: Long and Short Objects:—This set consists of ten rods. These are four-sided,
each face being 3 centimetres. The first rod is a metre long, and the last a decimetre. The
intervening rods decrease, from first to last, 1 decimetre each. Each space of 1 decimetre is
painted alternately red or blue. The rods, when placed close to each other, must be so
arranged that the colours correspond, forming so many transverse stripes—the whole set
when arranged has the appearance of a rectangular triangle made up of organ pipes, which
decrease on the side of the hypothenuse.
The child arranges the rods which have first been scattered and mixed. He puts them
together according to the graduation of length, and observes the correspondence of colours.
This exercise also offers a very evident control of error, for the regularity of the decreasing
length of the stairs along the hypothenuse will be altered if the rods are not properly placed.
This most important set of blocks will have its principal application in arithmetic, as we
shall see. With it, one may count from one to ten and may construct the addition and other
tables, and it may constitute the first steps in the study of the decimal and metric system.
(c) Size: Objects, Larger and Smaller:—This set is made up of ten wooden cubes painted
in rose-coloured enamel. The largest cube has a base of 10 centimetres, the smallest, of 1 [Pg
centimetre, the intervening ones decrease 1 centimetre each. A little green cloth carpet goes 194]
with these blocks. This may be of oilcloth or cardboard. The game consists of building the
cubes up, one upon another, in the order of their dimensions, constructing a little tower of
which the largest cube forms the base and the smallest the apex. The carpet is placed on the
floor, and the cubes are scattered upon it. As the tower is built upon the carpet, the child goes
through the exercise of kneeling, rising, etc. The control is given by the irregularity of the
tower as it decreases toward the apex. A cube misplaced reveals itself, because it breaks the
line. The most common error made by the children in playing with these blocks at first, is
that of placing the second cube as the base and placing the first cube upon it, thus confusing
the two largest blocks. I have noted that the same error was made by deficient children in the
repeated trials I made with the tests of De Sanctis. At the question, "Which is the largest?"
the child would take, not the largest, but that nearest it in size.
Any of these three sets of blocks may be used by the children in a slightly different game.
The pieces may be mixed upon a carpet or table, and then put in order upon another table at
some distance. As he carries each piece, the child must walk without letting his attention
wander, since he must remember the dimensions of the piece for which he is to look among
the mixed blocks.
Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir

A FEW OF THE MANY GEOMETRIC

INSETS OF WOOD USED TO TEACH
FORM
The games played in this way are excellent for children of four or five years; while the
simple work of arranging the pieces in order upon the same carpet where they have been
mixed is more adapted to the little ones between three and four years of age. The
construction of the tower with the pink cubes is very attractive to little ones of less than three [Pg
years, who knock it down and build it up time after time. 195]

Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir

 (A) GEOMETRIC INSETS OF WOOD,
AND FRAME. The frame furnishes the
control necessary for exactness of work.
(B) CABINET. (For storing geometric inset
frames.)

II. Differential Visual Perception of Form and

Visual-tactile-muscular Perception
Didactic Material. Plane geometric insets of wood: The idea of these insets goes back to
Itard and was also applied by Séguin.
In the school for deficients I had made and applied these insets in the same form used by
my illustrious predecessors. In these there were two large tablets of wood placed one above
the other and fastened together. The lower board was left solid, while the upper one was
perforated by various geometric figures. The game consisted in placing in these openings the
corresponding wooden figures which, in order that they might be easily handled, were
furnished with a little brass knob.
In my school for deficients, I had multiplied the games calling for these insets, and
distinguished between those used to teach colour and those used to teach form. The insets for
teaching colour were all circles, those used for teaching form were all painted blue. I had
great numbers of these insets made in graduations of colour and in an infinite variety of
form. This material was most expensive and exceedingly cumbersome.
In many later experiments with normal children, I have, after many trials, completely
excluded the plane geometric insets as an aid to the teaching of colour, since this material
offers no control of errors, the child's task being that of covering the forms before him.
 I have kept the geometric insets, but have given them a new and original aspect. The form
in which they are now made was suggested to me by a visit to the splendid manual training [Pg
school in the Reformatory of St. Michael in Rome. I saw there wooden models of geometric 196]
figures, which could be set into corresponding frames or placed above corresponding forms.
The scope of these materials was to lead to exactness in the making of the geometric pieces
in regard to control of dimension and form; the frame furnishing the control necessary for
the exactness of the work.
This led me to think of making modifications in my geometric insets, making use of the
frame as well as of the inset I therefore made a rectangular tray, which measured 30x20
centimetres. This tray was painted a dark blue and was surrounded by a dark frame. It was
furnished with a cover so arranged that it would contain six of the square frames with their
insets. The advantage of this tray is that the forms may be changed, thus allowing us to
present any combination we choose. I have a number of blank wooden squares which make
it possible to present as few as two or three geometric forms at a time, the other spaces being
filled in by the blanks. To this material I have added a set of white cards, 10 centimetres
square. These cards form a series presenting the geometric forms in other aspects. In the first
of the series, the form is cut from blue paper and mounted upon the card. In the second box
of cards, the contour of the same figures is mounted in the same blue paper, forming an
outline one centimetre in width. On the third set of cards the contour of the geometric form is
outlined by a blank line. We have then the tray, the collection of small frames with their
corresponding insets, and the set of the cards in three series.
Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir

Some of the Card Forms used in the

exercises with the three series of cards.
I also designed a case containing six trays. The front of this box may be lowered when the [Pg
top is raised and the trays may be drawn out as one opens the drawers of a desk. Each 197]
drawer contains six of the small frames with their respective insets. In the first drawer I keep
the four plain wooden squares and two frames, one containing a rhomboid, and the other a
trapezoid. In the second, I have a series consisting of a square, and five rectangles of the
same length, but varying in width. The third drawer contains six circles which diminish in
diameter. In the fourth are six triangles, in the fifth, five polygons from a pentagon to a
decagon. The sixth drawer contains six curved figures (an ellipse, an oval, etc., and a flower-
like figure formed by four crossed arcs).
Exercise with the Insets. This exercise consists in presenting to the child the large frame or
tray in which we may arrange the figures as we wish to present them. We proceed to take out
the insets, mix them upon the table, and then invite the child to put them back in place. This
game may be played by even the younger children and holds the attention for a long period,
though not for so long a time as the exercise with the cylinders. Indeed, I have never seen a
child repeat this exercise more than five or six times. The child, in fact, expends much
energy upon this exercise. He must recognise the form and must look at it carefully.
At first many of the children only succeed in placing the insets after many attempts, trying
for example to place a triangle in a trapezoid, then in a rectangle, etc. Or when they have
taken a rectangle, and recognise where it should go, they will still place it with the long side
of the inset across the short side of the opening, and will only after many attempts, succeed
in placing it. After three or four successive lessons, the child recognises the geometric [Pg
figures with extreme facility and places the insets with a security which has a tinge of 198]
nonchalance, or of slight contempt for an exercise that is too easy. This is the moment in
which the child may be led to a methodical observation of the forms. We change the forms in
the frame and pass from contrasted frames to analogous ones. The exercise is easy for the
child, who habituates himself to placing the pieces in their frames without errors or false
attempts.
The first period of these exercises is at the time when the child is obliged to make repeated
trials with figures that are strongly contrasted in form. The recognition is greatly helped by
associating with the visual sense the muscular-tactile perception of the forms. I have the
child touch[12] the contour of the piece with the index finger of his right hand, and then have
him repeat this with the contour of the frame into which the pieces must fit. We succeed in
making this a habit with the child. This is very easily attained, since all children love to
touch things. I have already learned, through my work with deficient children, that among
the various forms of sense memory that of the muscular sense is the most precocious. Indeed,
many children who have not arrived at the point of recognising a figure by looking at it,
could recognise it by touching it, that is, by computing the movements necessary to the
following of its contour. The same is true of the greater number of normal children;—
confused as to where to place a figure, they turn it about trying in vain to fit it in, yet as soon
as they have touched the two contours of the piece and its frame, they succeed in placing it
perfectly. Undoubtedly, the association of the muscular-tactile sense with that of vision, aids [Pg
in a most remarkable way the perception of forms and fixes them in memory. 199]

In such exercises, the control is absolute, as it was in the solid insets. The figure can only
enter the corresponding frame. This makes it possible for the child to work by himself, and
to accomplish a genuine sensory auto-education, in the visual perception of form.
Exercise with the three series of cards. First series. We give the child the wooden forms
and the cards upon which the white figure is mounted. Then we mix the cards upon the table;
the child must arrange them in a line upon his table (which he loves to do), and then place
the corresponding wooden pieces upon the cards. Here the control lies in the eyes. The child
must recognise this figure, and place the wooden piece upon it so perfectly that it will cover
and hide the paper figure. The eye of the child here corresponds to the frame, which
materially led him at first to bring the two pieces together. In addition to covering the figure,
the child is to accustom himself to touching the contour of the mounted figures as a part of
the exercise (the child always voluntarily follows those movements); and after he has placed
the wooden inset he again touches the contour, adjusting with his finger the superimposed
piece until it exactly covers the form beneath.
Second Series. We give a number of cards to the child together with the corresponding
wooden insets. In this second series, the figures are repeated by an outline of blue paper. The
child through these exercises is passing gradually from the concrete to the abstract. At first,
he handled only solid objects. He then passed to a plane figure, that is, to the plane which in
itself does not exist. He is now passing to the line, but this line does not represent for him the [Pg
abstract contour of a plane figure. It is to him the path which he has so often followed with 200]
his index finger; this line is the trace of a movement. Following again the contour of the
figure with his finger, the child receives the impression of actually leaving a trace, for the
figure is covered by his finger and appears as he moves it. It is the eye now which guides the
movement, but it must be remembered that this movement was already prepared for when
the child touched the contours of the solid pieces of wood.
Third Series. We now present to the child the cards upon which the figures are drawn in
black, giving him, as before, the corresponding wooden pieces. Here, he has actually passed
to the line; that is, to an abstraction, yet here, too, there is the idea of the result of a
movement.
This cannot be, it is true, the trace left by the finger, but, for example, that of a pencil
which is guided by the hand in the same movements made before. These geometric figures in
simple outline have grown out of a gradual series of representations which were concrete to
vision and touch. These representations return to the mind of the child when he performs the
exercise of superimposing the corresponding wooden figures.
Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir
 (A) LACING. (B) SHOE BUTTONING.
(C) BUTTONING OF OTHER
GARMENTS. (D) HOOKS AND EYES.
Frames illustrating the different processes
of dressing and undressing.

III. Differential Visual Perception of Colours:

—Education of the Chromatic Sense
In many of our lessons on the colours, we make use of pieces of brightly-coloured stuffs,
and of balls covered with wool of different colours. The didactic material for the education
of the chromatic sense is the following, which I have established after a long series of tests
made upon normal children, (in the institute for deficients, I used as I have said above, the [Pg
geometric insets). The present material consists of small flat tablets, which are wound with 201]
coloured wool or silk. These tablets have a little wooden border at each end which prevents
the silk-covered card from touching the table. The child is also taught to take hold of the
piece by these wooden extremities, so that he need not soil the delicate colours. In this way,
we are able to use this material for a long time without having to renew it.
Copyright, 1912, by Carl R. Byoir
 TABLETS WOUND WITH COLOURED
SILK
Used for educating the chromatic sense.
The tablets are shown in the boxes in which
they are kept.
I have chosen eight tints, and each one has with it eight gradations of different intensity of
colour. There are, therefore, sixty-four colour-tablets in all. The eight tints selected are black
(from grey to white), red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet and brown. We have duplicate
boxes of these sixty-four colours, giving us two of each exercise. The entire set, therefore,
consists of one hundred twenty-eight tablets. They are contained in two boxes, each divided
into eight equal compartments so that one box may contain sixty-four tablets.
Exercises with the Colour-tablets. For the earliest of these exercises, we select three strong
colours: for example, red, blue, and yellow, in pairs. These six tablets we place upon the
table before the child. Showing him one of the colours, we ask him to find its duplicate
among the mixed tablets upon the table. In this way, we have him arrange the colour-tablets
in a column, two by two, pairing them according to colour.
The number of tablets in this game may be increased until the eight colours, or sixteen
tablets, are given at once. When the strongest tones have been presented, we may proceed to
the presentation of lighter tones, in the same way. Finally, we present two or three tablets of
the same colour, but of different tone, showing the child how to arrange these in order of [Pg
gradation. In this way, the eight gradations are finally presented. 202]

Following this, we place before the child the eight gradations of two different colours (red
and blue); he is shown how to separate the groups and then arrange each group in gradation.
As we proceed we offer groups of more nearly related colours; for example, blue and violet,
yellow and orange, etc.
 In one of the "Children's Houses," I have seen the following game played with the greatest
success and interest, and with surprising rapidity. The directress places upon a table, about
which the children are seated, as many colour groups as there are children, for example,
three. She then calls each child's attention to the colour each is to select, or which she assigns
to him. Then, she mixes the three groups of colours upon the table. Each child takes rapidly
from the mixed heap of tablets all the gradations of his colour, and proceeds to arrange the
tablets, which, when thus placed in a line, give the appearance of a strip of shaded ribbon.
In another "House," I have seen the children take the entire box, empty the sixty-four
colour-tablets upon the table and after carefully mixing them, rapidly collect them into
groups and arrange them in gradation, constructing a species of little carpet of delicately
coloured and intermingling tints. The children very quickly acquire an ability before which
we stand amazed. Children of three years are able to put all of the tints into gradation.
Experiments in Colour-memory. Experiments in colour-memory may be made by showing
the child a tint, allowing him to look at it as long as he will, and then asking him to go to a
distant table upon which all of the colours are arranged and to select from among them the
tint similar to the one at which he has looked. The children succeed in this game remarkably, [Pg
committing only slight errors. Children of five years enjoy this immensely, taking great 203]
pleasure in comparing the two spools and judging as to whether they have chosen correctly.
At the beginning of my work, I made use of an instrument invented by Pizzoli. This
consisted of a small brown disk having a half-moon shape opening at the top. Various
colours were made to pass behind this opening, by means of a rotary disk which was
composed of strips of various colours. The teacher called the attention of the child to a
certain colour, then turned the disk, asking him to indicate the same disk when it again
showed itself in the opening. This exercise rendered the child inactive, preventing him from
controlling the material. It is not, therefore, an instrument which can promote the education
of the senses.

EXERCISE FOR THE DISCRIMINATION OF

SOUNDS

It would be desirable to have in this connection the didactic material used for the
"auricular education" in the principal institutions for deaf mutes in Germany and America.
These exercises are an introduction to the acquisition of language, and serve in a very special
way to centre the children's discriminative attention upon the "modulations of the sound of
the human voice."
With very young children linguistic education must occupy a most important place.
Another aim of such exercises is to educate the ear of the child to noises so that he shall
accustom himself to distinguish every slight noise and compare it with sounds, coming to
resent harsh or disordered noises. Such sense education has a value in that it exercises
æsthetic taste, and may be applied in a most noteworthy way to practical discipline. We all [Pg
know how the younger children disturb the order of the room by shouts, and by the noise of 204]
over-turned objects.
The rigorous scientific education of the sense of hearing is not practically applicable to the
didactic method. This is true because the child cannot exercise himself through his own
activity as he does for the other senses. Only one child at a time can work with any
instrument producing the gradation of sounds. In other words, absolute silence is necessary
for the discrimination of sounds.
Signorina Maccheroni, Directress, first of the "Children's House" in Milan and later in the
one in Franciscan Convent at Rome, has invented and has had manufactured a series of
thirteen bells hung upon a wooden frame. These bells are to all appearances, identical, but
the vibrations brought about by a blow of a hammer produce the following thirteen notes:

The set consists of a double series of thirteen bells and there are four hammers. Having
struck one of the bells in the first series, the child must find the corresponding sound in the
second. This exercise presents grave difficulty, as the child does not know how to strike each
time with the same force, and therefore produces sounds which vary in intensity. Even when
the teacher strikes the bells, the children have difficulty in distinguishing between sounds. So
we do not feel that this instrument in its present form is entirely practical.
For the discrimination of sounds, we use Pizzoli's series of little whistles. For the
gradation of noises, we use small boxes filled with different substances, more or less fine [Pg
(sand or pebbles). The noises are produced by shaking the boxes. 205]

In the lessons for the sense of hearing I proceed as follows: I have the teachers establish
silence in the usual way and then I continue the work, making the silence more profound. I
say, "St! St!" in a series of modulations, now sharp and short, now prolonged and light as a
whisper. The children, little by little, become fascinated by this. Occasionally I say, "More
silent still—more silent."
I then begin the sibilant St! St! again, making it always lighter and repeating "More silent
still," in a barely audible voice. Then I say still in a low whisper, "Now, I hear the clock, now
I can hear the buzzing of a fly's wings, now I can hear the whisper of the trees in the garden."
The children, ecstatic with joy, sit in such absolute and complete silence that the room
seems deserted; then I whisper, "Let us close our eyes." This exercise repeated, so habituates
the children to immobility and to absolute silence that, when one of them interrupts, it needs
only a syllable, a gesture to call him back immediately to perfect order.
In the silence, we proceeded to the production of sounds and noises, making these at first
strongly contrasted, then, more nearly alike. Sometimes we present the comparisons between
noise and sound. I believe that the best results can be obtained with the primitive means
employed by Itard in 1805. He used the drum and the bell. His plan was a graduated series of
drums for the noises,—or, better, for the heavy harmonic sounds, since these belong to a
musical instrument,—and a series of bells. The diapason, the whistles, the boxes, are not
attractive to the child, and do not educate the sense of hearing as do these other instruments. [Pg
There is an interesting suggestion in the fact that the two great human institutions, that of 206]
hate (war), and that of love (religion), have adopted these two opposite instruments, the drum
and the bell.
I believe that after establishing silence it would be educational to ring well-toned bells,
now calm and sweet, now clear and ringing, sending their vibrations through the child's
whole body. And when, besides the education of the ear, we have produced a vibratory
education of the whole body, through these wisely selected sounds of the bells, giving a
peace that pervades the very fibres of his being, then I believe these young bodies would be
sensitive to crude noises, and the children would come to dislike, and to cease from making,
disordered and ugly noises.
 In this way one whose ear has been trained by a musical education suffers from strident or
discordant notes. I need give no illustration to make clear the importance of such education
for the masses in childhood. The new generation would be more calm, turning away from the
confusion and the discordant sounds, which strike the ear to-day in one of the vile tenements
where the poor live, crowded together, left by us to abandon themselves to the lower, more
brutal human instincts.
Musical Education
This must be carefully guided by method. In general, we see little children pass by the
playing of some great musicians as an animal would pass. They do not perceive the delicate
complexity of sounds. The street children gather about the organ grinder, crying out as if to
hail with joy the noises which will come instead of sounds.
For the musical education we must create instruments as well as music. The scope of such
an instrument in addition to the discrimination of sounds, is to awaken a sense of rhythm, [Pg
and, so to speak, to give the impulse toward calm and co-ordinate movements to those 207]
muscles already vibrating in the peace and tranquillity of immobility.
I believe that stringed instruments (perhaps some very much simplified harp) would be the
most convenient. The stringed instruments together with the drum and the bells form the trio
of the classic instruments of humanity. The harp is the instrument of "the intimate life of the
individual." Legend places it in the hand of Orpheus, folk-lore puts it into fairy hands, and
romance gives it to the princess who conquers the heart of a wicked prince.
The teacher who turns her back upon her scholars to play, (far too often badly), will never
be the educator of their musical sense.
The child needs to be charmed in every way, by the glance as well as by the pose. The
teacher who, bending toward them, gathering them about her, and leaving them free to stay
or go, touches the chords, in a simple rhythm, puts herself in communication with them, in
relation with their very souls. So much the better if this touch can be accompanied by her
voice, and the children left free to follow her, no one being obliged to sing. In this way she
can select as "adapted to education," those songs which were followed by all the children. So
she may regulate the complexity of rhythm to various ages, for she will see now only the
older children following the rhythm, now, also the little ones. At any rate, I believe that
simple and primitive instruments are the ones best adapted to the awakening of music in the
soul of the little child.
I have tried to have the Directress of the "Children's House" in Milan, who is a gifted
musician, make a number of trials, and experiments, with a view to finding out more about [Pg
the muscular capacity of young children. She has made many trials with the pianoforte, 208]
observing how the children are not sensitive to the musical tone, but only to the rhythm. On a
basis of rhythm she arranged simple little dances, with the intention of studying the influence
of the rhythm itself upon the co-ordination of muscular movements. She was greatly
surprised to discover the educational disciplinary effect of such music. Her children, who
had been led with great wisdom and art through liberty to a spontaneous ordering of their
acts and movements, had nevertheless lived in the streets and courts, and had an almost
universal habit of jumping.
Being a faithful follower of the method of liberty, and not considering that jumping was a
wrong act, she had never corrected them.
She now noticed that as she multiplied and repeated the rhythm exercises, the children
little by little left off their ugly jumping, until finally it was a thing of the past. The directress
one day asked for an explanation of this change of conduct. Several little ones looked at her
without saying anything. The older children gave various replies, whose meaning was the
same.
"It isn't nice to jump."
"Jumping is ugly."
"It's rude to jump."
This was certainly a beautiful triumph for our method!
This experience shows that it is possible to educate the child's muscular sense, and it
shows how exquisite the refinement of this sense may be as it develops in relation to the
muscular memory, and side by side with the other forms of sensory memory.
Tests for Acuteness of Hearing [Pg
209]
The only entirely successful experiments which we have made so far in the "Children's
Houses" are those of the clock, and of the lowered or whispered voice. The trial is purely
empirical, and does not lend itself to the measuring of the sensation, but it is, however, most
useful in that it helps us to an approximate knowledge of the child's auditory acuteness.
The exercise consists in calling attention, when perfect silence has been established, to the
ticking of the clock, and to all the little noises not commonly audible to the ear. Finally we
call the little ones, one by one from an adjoining room, pronouncing each name in a low
voice. In preparing for such an exercise it is necessary to teach the children the real meaning
of silence.
Toward this end I have several games of silence, which help in a surprising way to
strengthen the remarkable discipline of our children.
I call the children's attention to myself, telling them to see how silent I can be. I assume
different positions; standing, sitting, and maintain each pose silently, without movement. A
finger moving can produce a noise, even though it be imperceptible. We may breathe so that
we may be heard. But I maintain absolute silence, which is not an easy thing to do. I call a
child, and ask him to do as I am doing. He adjusts his feet to a better position, and this makes
a noise! He moves an arm, stretching it out upon the arm of his chair; it is a noise. His
breathing is not altogether silent, it is not tranquil, absolutely unheard as mine is.
During these manœuvres on the part of the child, and while my brief comments are [Pg
followed by intervals of immobility and silence, the other children are watching and 210]
listening. Many of them are interested in the fact, which they have never noticed before;
namely, that we make so many noises of which we are not conscious, and that there are
degrees of silence. There is an absolute silence where nothing, absolutely nothing moves.
They watch me in amazement when I stand in the middle of the room, so quietly that it is
really as if "I were not." Then they strive to imitate me, and to do even better. I call attention
here and there to a foot that moves, almost inadvertently. The attention of the child is called
to every part of his body in an anxious eagerness to attain to immobility.
When the children are trying in this way, there is established a silence very different from
that which we carelessly call by that name.
It seems as if life gradually vanishes, and that the room becomes, little by little, empty, as
if there were no longer anyone in it. Then we begin to hear the tick-tock of the clock, and
this sound seems to grow in intensity as the silence becomes absolute. From without, from
the court which before seemed silent, there come varied noises, a bird chirps, a child passes.
The children sit fascinated by that silence as if by some conquest of their own. "Here," says
the directress, "here there is no longer anyone; the children have all gone away."
Having arrived at that point, we darken the windows, and tell the children to close their
eyes, resting their heads upon their hands. They assume this position, and in the darkness the
absolute silence returns.
"Now listen," we say. "A soft voice is going to call your name." Then going to a room
behind the children, and standing within the open door, I call in a low voice, lingering over [Pg
the syllables as if I were calling from across the mountains. This voice, almost occult, seems 211]
to reach the heart and to call to the soul of the child. Each one as he is called, lifts his head,
opens his eyes as if altogether happy, then rises, silently seeking not to move the chair, and
walks on the tips of his toes, so quietly that he is scarcely heard. Nevertheless his step
resounds in the silence, and amid the immobility which persists.
Having reached the door, with a joyous face, he leaps into the room, choking back soft
outbursts of laughter. Another child may come to hide his face against my dress, another,
turning, will watch his companions sitting like statues silent and waiting. The one who is
called feels that he is privileged, that he has received a gift, a prize. And yet they know that
all will be called, "beginning with the most silent one in all the room." So each one tries to
merit by his perfect silence the certain call. I once saw a little one of three years try to
suffocate a sneeze, and succeed! She held her breath in her little breast, and resisted, coming
out victorious. A most surprising effort!
This game delights the little ones beyond measure. Their intent faces, their patient
immobility, reveal the enjoyment of a great pleasure. In the beginning, when the soul of the
child was unknown to me, I had thought of showing them sweetmeats and little toys,
promising to give them to the ones who were called, supposing that the gifts would be
necessary to persuade the child to make the necessary effort. But I soon found that this was
unnecessary.
The children, after they had made the effort necessary to maintain silence, enjoyed the
sensation, took pleasure in the silence itself. They were like ships safe in a tranquil harbour,
happy in having experienced something new, and to have won a victory over themselves. [Pg
This, indeed, was their recompense. They forgot the promise of sweets, and no longer cared 212]
to take the toys, which I had supposed would attract them. I therefore abandoned that useless
means, and saw, with surprise, that the game became constantly more perfect, until even
children of three years of age remained immovable in the silence throughout the time
required to call the entire forty children out of the room! It was then that I learned that the
soul of the child has its own reward, and its peculiar spiritual pleasures. After such exercises
it seemed to me that the children came closer to me, certainly they became more obedient,
more gentle and sweet. We had, indeed, been isolated from the world, and had passed several
minutes during which the communion between us was very close, I wishing for them and
calling to them, and they receiving in the perfect silence the voice which was directed
personally toward each one of them, crowning each in turn with happiness.
A Lesson in Silence
I am about to describe a lesson which proved most successful in teaching the perfect
silence to which it is possible to attain. One day as I was about to enter one of the "Children's
Houses," I met in the court a mother who held in her arms her little baby of four months. The
little one was swaddled, as is still the custom among the people of Rome—an infant thus in
the swaddling bands is called by us a pupa. This tranquil little one seemed the incarnation of
peace. I took her in my arms, where she lay quiet and good. Still holding her I went toward
the schoolroom, from which the children now ran to meet me. They always welcomed me
thus, throwing their arms about me, clinging to my skirts, and almost tumbling me over in [Pg
their eagerness. I smiled at them, showing them the "pupa." They understood and skipped 213]
about me looking at me with eyes brilliant with pleasure, but did not touch me through
respect for the little one that I held in my arms.
I went into the schoolroom with the children clustered about me. We sat down, I seating
myself in a large chair instead of, as usual, in one of their little chairs. In other words, I
seated myself solemnly. They looked at my little one with a mixture of tenderness and joy.
None of us had yet spoken a word. Finally I said to them, "I have brought you a little
teacher." Surprised glances and laughter. "A little teacher, yes, because none of you know
how to be quiet as she does." At this all the children changed their positions and became
quiet. "Yet no one holds his limbs and feet as quietly as she." Everyone gave closer attention
to the position of limbs and feet. I looked at them smiling, "Yes, but they can never be as
quiet as hers. You move a little bit, but she, not at all; none of you can be as quiet as she."
The children looked serious. The idea of the superiority of the little teacher seemed to have
reached them. Some of them smiled, and seemed to say with their eyes that the swaddling
bands deserved all the merit. "Not one of you can be silent, voiceless as she." General
silence. "It is not possible to be as silent as she, because,—listen to her breathing—how
delicate it is; come near to her on your tiptoes."
Several children rose, and came slowly forward on tiptoe, bending toward the baby. Great
silence. "None of you can breathe so silently as she." The children looked about amazed,
they had never thought that even when sitting quietly they were making noises, and that the
silence of a little babe is more profound than the silence of grown people. They almost [Pg
ceased to breathe. I rose. "Go out quietly, quietly," I said, "walk on the tips of your toes and 214]
make no noise." Following them I said, "And yet I still hear some sounds, but she, the baby,
walks with me and makes no sound. She goes out silently!" The children smiled. They
understood the truth and the jest of my words. I went to the open window, and placed the
baby in the arms of the mother who stood watching us.
The little one seemed to have left behind her a subtle charm which enveloped the souls of
the children. Indeed, there is in nature nothing more sweet than the silent breathing of a new-
born babe. There is an indescribable majesty about this human life which in repose and
silence gathers strength and newness of life. Compared to this, Wordsworth's description of
the silent peace of nature seems to lose its force. "What calm, what quiet! The one sound the
drip of the suspended oar." The children, too, felt the poetry and beauty in the peaceful
silence of a new-born human life.
[12] Here and elsewhere throughout the book the word "touch" is used not only to
express contact between the fingers and an object, but the moving of fingers or hand
over an object or its outline.

[Pg
CHAPTER XIV 215]

GENERAL NOTES ON THE EDUCATION OF THE

SENSES
I do not claim to have brought to perfection the method of sense training as applied to
young children. I do believe, however, that it opens a new field for psychological research,
promising rich and valuable results.
Experimental psychology has so far devoted its attention to perfecting the instruments by
which the sensations are measured. No one has attempted the methodical preparation of the
individual for the sensations. It is my belief that the development of psychometry will owe
more to the attention given to the preparation of the individual than to the perfecting of the
instrument.
But putting aside this purely scientific side of the question, the education of the senses
must be of the greatest pedagogical interest.
Our aim in education in general is two-fold, biological and social. From the biological side
we wish to help the natural development of the individual, from the social standpoint it is our
aim to prepare the individual for the environment. Under this last head technical education
may be considered as having a place, since it teaches the individual to make use of his
surroundings. The education of the senses is most important from both these points of view.
The development of the senses indeed precedes that of superior intellectual activity and the
child between three and seven years is in the period of formation. [Pg
216]
We can, then, help the development of the senses while they are in this period. We may
graduate and adapt the stimuli just as, for example, it is necessary to help the formation of
language before it shall be completely developed.
All education of little children must be governed by this principle—to help the natural
psychic and physical development of the child.
The other aim of education (that of adapting the individual to the environment) should be
given more attention later on when the period of intense development is past.
These two phases of education are always interlaced, but one or the other has prevalence
according to the age of the child. Now, the period of life between the ages of three and seven
years covers a period of rapid physical development. It is the time for the formation of the
sense activities as related to the intellect The child in this age develops his senses. His
attention is further attracted to the environment under the form of passive curiosity.
The stimuli, and not yet the reasons for things, attract his attention. This is, therefore, the
time when we should methodically direct the sense stimuli, in such a way that the sensations
which he receives shall develop in a rational way. This sense training will prepare the
ordered foundation upon which he may build up a clear and strong mentality.
It is, besides all this, possible with the education of the senses to discover and eventually
to correct defects which to-day pass unobserved in the school. Now the time comes when the
defect manifests itself in an evident and irreparable inability to make use of the forces of life [Pg
about him. (Such defects as deafness and near-sightedness.) This education, therefore, is 217]
physiological and prepares directly for intellectual education, perfecting the organs of sense,
and the nerve-paths of projection and association.
But the other part of education, the adaptation of the individual to his environment, is
indirectly touched. We prepare with our method the infancy of the humanity of our time. The
men of the present civilisation are preeminently observers of their environment because they
must utilise to the greatest possible extent all the riches of this environment.
The art of to-day bases itself, as in the days of the Greeks, upon observation of the truth.
The progress of positive science is based upon its observations and all its discoveries and
their applications, which in the last century have so transformed our civic environment, were
made by following the same line—that is, they have come through observation. We must
therefore prepare the new generation for this attitude, which has become necessary in our
modern civilised life. It is an indispensable means—man must be so armed if he is to
continue efficaciously the work of our progress.
We have seen the discovery of the Roentgen Rays born of observation. To the same
methods are due the discovery of Hertzian waves, and vibrations of radium, and we await
wonderful things from the Marconi telegraph. While there has been no period in which
thought has gained so much from positive study as the present century, and this same century
promises new light in the field of speculative philosophy and upon spiritual questions, the
theories upon the matter have themselves led to most interesting metaphysical concepts. We
may say that in preparing the method of observation, we have also prepared the way leading [Pg
to spiritual discovery. 218]

The education of the senses makes men observers, and not only accomplishes the general
work of adaptation to the present epoch of civilisation, but also prepares them directly for
practical life. We have had up to the present time, I believe, a most imperfect idea of what is
necessary in the practical living of life. We have always started from ideas, and have
proceeded thence to motor activities; thus, for example, the method of education has always
been to teach intellectually, and then to have the child follow the principles he has been
taught. In general, when we are teaching, we talk about the object which interests us, and
then we try to lead the scholar, when he has understood, to perform some kind of work with
the object itself; but often the scholar who has understood the idea finds great difficulty in
the execution of the work which we give him, because we have left out of his education a
factor of the utmost importance, namely, the perfecting of the senses. I may, perhaps,
illustrate this statement with a few examples. We ask the cook to buy only 'fresh fish.' She
understands the idea, and tries to follow it in her marketing, but, if the cook has not been
trained to recognise through sight and smell the signs which indicate freshness in the fish,
she will not know how to follow the order we have given her.
Such a lack will show itself much more plainly in culinary operations. A cook may be
trained in book matters, and may know exactly the recipes and the length of time advised in
her cook book; she may be able to perform all the manipulations necessary to give the
desired appearance to the dishes, but when it is a question of deciding from the odor of the [Pg
dish the exact moment of its being properly cooked, or with the eye, or the taste, the time at 219]
which she must put in some given condiment, then she will make a mistake if her senses
have not been sufficiently prepared.
She can only gain such ability through long practice, and such practice on the part of the
cook is nothing else than a belated education of the senses—an education which often can
never be properly attained by the adult. Thia is one reason why it is so difficult to find good
cooks.
Something of the same kind is true of the physician, the student of medicine who studies
theoretically the character of the pulse, and sits down by the bed of the patient with the best
will in the world to read the pulse, but, if his fingers do not know how to read the sensations
his studies will have been in vain. Before he can become a doctor, he must gain a capacity
for discriminating between sense stimuli.
The same may be said for the pulsations of the heart, which the student studies in theory,
but which the ear can learn to distinguish only through practice.
We may say the same for all the delicate vibrations and movements, in the reading of
which the hand of the physician is too often deficient. The thermometer is the more
indispensable to the physician the more his sense of touch is unadapted and untrained in the
gathering of the thermic stimuli. It is well understood that the physician may be learned, and
most intelligent, without being a good practitioner, and that to make a good practitioner long
practice is necessary. In reality, this long practice is nothing else than a tardy, and often
inefficient, exercise of the senses. After he has assimilated the brilliant theories, the
physician sees himself forced to the unpleasant labor of the semiography, that is to making a [Pg
record of the symptoms revealed by his observation of and experiments with the patients. He 220]
must do this if he is to receive from these theories any practical results.
Here, then, we have the beginner proceeding in a stereotyped way to tests of palpation,
percussion, and auscultation, for the purpose of identifying the throbs, the resonance, the
tones, the breathings, and the various sounds which alone can enable him to formulate a
diagnosis. Hence the deep and unhappy discouragement of so many young physicians, and,
above all, the loss of time; for it is often a question of lost years. Then, there is the
immorality of allowing a man to follow a profession of so great responsibility, when, as is
often the case, he is so unskilled and inaccurate in the taking of symptoms. The whole art of
medicine is based upon an education of the senses; the schools, instead, prepare physicians
through a study of the classics. All very well and good, but the splendid intellectual
development of the physician falls, impotent, before the insufficiency of his senses.
One day, I heard a surgeon giving, to a number of poor mothers, a lesson on the
recognition of the first deformities noticeable in little children from the disease of rickets. It
was his hope to lead these mothers to bring to him their children who were suffering from
this disease, while the disease was yet in the earliest stages, and when medical help might
still be efficacious. The mothers understood the idea, but they did not know how to recognise
these first signs of deformity, because they were lacking in the sensory education through
which they might discriminate between signs deviating only slightly from the normal.
Therefore those lessons were useless. If we think of it for a minute, we will see that almost [Pg
all the forms of adulteration in food stuffs are rendered possible by the torpor of the senses, 221]
which exists in the greater number of people. Fraudulent industry feeds upon the lack of
sense education in the masses, as any kind of fraud is based upon the ignorance of the victim.
We often see the purchaser throwing himself upon the honesty of the merchant, or putting his
faith in the company, or the label upon the box. This is because purchasers are lacking in the
capacity of judging directly for themselves. They do not know how to distinguish with their
senses the different qualities of various substances. In fact, we may say that in many cases
intelligence is rendered useless by lack of practice, and this practice is almost always sense
education. Everyone knows in practical life the fundamental necessity of judging with
exactness between various stimuli.
But very often sense education is most difficult for the adult, just as it is difficult for him
to educate his hand when he wishes to become a pianist. It is necessary to begin the
education of the senses in the formative period, if we wish to perfect this sense development
with the education which is to follow. The education of the senses should be begun
methodically in infancy, and should continue during the entire period of instruction which is
to prepare the individual for life in society.
Æsthetic and moral education are closely related to this sensory education. Multiply the
sensations, and develop the capacity of appreciating fine differences in stimuli, and we refine
the sensibility and multiply man's pleasures.
Beauty lies in harmony, not in contrast; and harmony is refinement; therefore, there must
be a fineness of the senses if we are to appreciate harmony. The æsthetic harmony of nature [Pg
222]
is lost upon him who has coarse senses. The world to him is narrow and barren. In life about
us, there exist inexhaustible fonts of æsthetic enjoyment, before which men pass as
insensible as the brutes seeking their enjoyment in those sensations which are crude and
showy, since they are the only ones accessible to them.
Now, from the enjoyment of gross pleasures, vicious habits very often spring. Strong
stimuli, indeed, do not render acute, but blunt the senses, so that they require stimuli more
and more accentuated and more and more gross.
Onanism, so often found among normal children of the lower classes, alcoholism,
fondness for watching sensual acts of adults—these things represent the enjoyment of those
unfortunate ones whose intellectual pleasures are few, and whose senses are blunted and
dulled. Such pleasures kill the man within the individual, and call to life the beast.
Indeed from the physiological
point of view, the importance of
the education of the senses is
evident from an observation of the
scheme of the diagrammatic arc
which represents the functions of
the nervous system. The external
stimulus acts upon the organ of
sense, and the impression is
transmitted along the centripetal
way to the nerve centre—the
corresponding motor impulse is
elaborated, and is transmitted
along the centrifugal path to the
organ of motion, provoking a
movement. Although the arc
represents diagrammatically the
mechanism of reflex spinal [Pg
actions, it may still be considered 223]
as a fundamental key explaining
S—Sense, C—Nerve centre, M—Motor. the phenomena of the more
complex nervous mechanisms.
Man, with the peripheral sensory system, gathers various stimuli from his environment. He
puts himself thus in direct communication with his surroundings. The psychic life develops,
therefore, in relation to the system of nerve centres; and human activity which is eminently
social activity, manifests itself through acts of the individual—manual work, writing, spoken
language, etc.—by means of the psychomotor organs.
Education should guide and perfect the development of the three periods, the two
peripheral and the central; or, better still, since the process fundamentally reduces itself to
the nerve centres, education should give to psychosensory exercises the same importance
which it gives to psychomotor exercises.
Otherwise, we isolate man from his environment. Indeed, when with intellectual culture
we believe ourselves to have completed education, we have but made thinkers, whose
tendency will be to live without the world. We have not made practical men. If, on the other
hand, wishing through education to prepare for practical life; we limit ourselves to exercising
the psychomotor phase, we lose sight of the chief end of education, which is to put man in
direct communication with the external world.
 Since professional work almost always requires man to make use of his surroundings, the
technical schools are not forced to return to the very beginnings of education, sense
exercises, in order to supply the great and universal lack.

[Pg
CHAPTER XV 224]

INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION
"... To lead the child from the education of the senses to
ideas."
Edward Séguin.
The sense exercises constitute a species of auto-education, which, if these exercises be
many times repeated, leads to a perfecting of the child's psychosensory processes. The
directress must intervene to lead the child from sensations to ideas—from the concrete to the
abstract, and to the association of ideas. For this, she should use a method tending to isolate
the inner attention of the child and to fix it upon the perceptions—as in the first lessons his
objective attention was fixed, through isolation, upon single stimuli.
The teacher, in other words, when she gives a lesson must seek to limit the field of the
child's consciousness to the object of the lesson, as, for example, during sense education she
isolated the sense which she wished the child to exercise.
For this, knowledge of a special technique is necessary. The educator must, "to the
greatest possible extent, limit his intervention; yet he must not allow the child to weary
himself in an undue effort of auto-education."
It is here, that the factor of individual limitation and differing degrees of perception are
most keenly felt in the teacher. In other words, in the quality of this intervention lies the art [Pg
which makes up the individuality of the teacher. 225]

A definite and undoubted part of the teacher's work is that of teaching an exact
nomenclature.
She should, in most cases, pronounce the necessary names and adjectives without adding
anything further. These words she should pronounce distinctly, and in a clear strong voice, so
that the various sounds composing the word may be distinctly and plainly perceived by the
child.
So, for example, touching the smooth and rough cards in the first tactile exercise, she
should say, "This is smooth. This is rough," repeating the words with varying modulations of
the voice, always letting the tones be clear and the enunciation very distinct. "Smooth,
smooth, smooth. Rough, rough, rough."
In the same way, when treating of the sensations of heat and cold, she must say, "This is
cold." "This is hot." "This is ice-cold." "This is tepid." She may then begin to use the generic
terms, "heat," "more heat," "less heat," etc.
First. "The lessons in nomenclature must consist simply in provoking the association of
the name with the object, or with the abstract idea which the name represents." Thus the
object and the name must be united when they are received by the child's mind, and this
makes it most necessary that no other word besides the name be spoken.
Second. The teacher must always test whether or not her lesson has attained the end she
had in view, and her tests must be made to come within the restricted field of consciousness,
provoked by the lesson on nomenclature.
The first test will be to find whether the name is still associated in the child's mind with the [Pg
object. She must allow the necessary time to elapse, letting a short period of silence 226]
intervene between the lesson and the test. Then she may ask the child, pronouncing slowly
and very clearly the name or the adjective she has taught: "Which is smooth? Which is
rough?"
The child will point to the object with his finger, and the teacher will know that he has
made the desired association. But if he has not done this, that is, if he makes a mistake, she
must not correct him, but must suspend her lesson, to take it up again another day. Indeed,
why correct him? If the child has not succeeded in associating the name with the object, the
only way in which to succeed would be to repeat both the action of the sense stimuli and the
name; in other words, to repeat the lesson. But when the child has failed, we should know
that he was not at that instant ready for the psychic association which we wished to provoke
in him, and we must therefore choose another moment.
If we should say, in correcting the child, "No, you have made a mistake," all these words,
which, being in the form of a reproof, would strike him more forcibly than others (such as
smooth or rough), would remain in the mind of the child, retarding the learning of the names.
On the contrary, the silence which follows the error leaves the field of consciousness clear,
and the next lesson may successfully follow the first. In fact, by revealing the error we may
lead the child to make an undue effort to remember, or we may discourage him, and it is our
duty to avoid as much as possible all unnatural effort and all depression.
Third. If the child has not committed any error, the teacher may provoke the motor activity
corresponding to the idea of the object: that is, to the pronunciation of the name. She may [Pg
ask him, "What is this?" and the child should respond, "Smooth." The teacher may then 227]
interrupt, teaching him how to pronounce the word correctly and distinctly, first, drawing a
deep breath and, then, saying in a rather loud voice, "Smooth." When he does this the teacher
may note his particular speech defect, or the special form of baby talk to which he may be
addicted.
In regard to the generalisation of the ideas received, and by that I mean the application of
these ideas to his environment, I do not advise any lessons of this sort for a certain length of
time, even for a number of months. There will be children who, after having touched a few
times the stuffs, or merely the smooth and rough cards, will quite spontaneously touch the
various surfaces about them, repeating "Smooth! Rough! It is velvet! etc." In dealing with
normal children, we must await this spontaneous investigation of the surroundings, or, as I
like to call it, this voluntary explosion of the exploring spirit. In such cases, the children
experience a joy at each fresh discovery. They are conscious of a sense of dignity and
satisfaction which encourages them to seek for new sensations from their environment and to
make themselves spontaneous observers.
The teacher should watch with the most solicitous care to see when and how the child
arrives at this generalisation of ideas. For example, one of our little four-year-olds while
running about in the court one day suddenly stood still and cried out, "Oh! the sky is blue!"
and stood for some time looking up into the blue expanse of the sky.
One day, when I entered one of the "Children's Houses," five or six little ones gathered
quietly about me and began caressing, lightly, my hands, and my clothing, saying, "It is [Pg
smooth." "It is velvet." "This is rough." A number of others came near and began with 228]
serious and intent faces to repeat the same words, touching me as they did so. The directress
wished to interfere to release me, but I signed to her to be quiet, and I myself did not move,
but remained silent, admiring this spontaneous intellectual activity of my little ones. The
greatest triumph of our educational method should always be this: to bring about the
spontaneous progress of the child.
One day, a little boy, following one of our exercises in design, had chosen to fill in with
coloured pencils the outline of a tree. To colour the trunk he laid hold upon a red crayon. The
teacher wished to interfere, saying, "Do you think trees have red trunks?" I held her back and
allowed the child to colour the tree red. This design was precious to us; it showed that the
child was not yet an observer of his surroundings. My way of treating this was to encourage
the child to make use of the games for the chromatic sense. He went daily into the garden
with the other children, and could at any time see the tree trunks. When the sense exercises
should have succeeded in attracting the child's spontaneous attention to colours about him,
then, in some happy moment he would become aware that the tree trunks were not red, just
as the other child during his play had become conscious of the fact that the sky was blue. In
fact, the teacher continued to give the child outlines of trees to fill in. He one day chose a
brown pencil with which to colour the trunk, and made the branches and leaves green. Later,
he made the branches brown, also, using green only for the leaves.
Thus we have the test of the child's intellectual progress. We can not create observers by
saying, "observe," but by giving them the power and the means for this observation, and [Pg
these means are procured through education of the senses. Once we have aroused such 229]
activity, auto-education is assured, for refined well-trained senses lead us to a closer
observation of the environment, and this, with its infinite variety, attracts the attention and
continues the psychosensory education.
If, on the other hand, in this matter of sense education we single out definite concepts of
the quality of certain objects, these very objects become associated with, or a part of, the
training, which is in this way limited to those concepts taken and recorded. So the sense
training remains unfruitful. When, for example, a teacher has given in the old way a lesson
on the names of the colours, she has imparted an idea concerning that particular quality, but
she has not educated the chromatic sense. The child will know these colours in a superficial
way, forgetting them from time to time; and at best his appreciation of them will lie within
the limits prescribed by the teacher. When, therefore, the teacher of the old methods shall
have provoked the generalisation of the idea, saying, for example, "What is the colour of this
flower!" "of this ribbon?" the attention of the child will in all probability remain torpidly
fixed upon the examples suggested by her.
We may liken the child to a clock, and may say that with the old-time way it is very much
as if we were to hold the wheels of the clock quiet and move the hands about the clock face
with our fingers. The hands will continue to circle the dial just so long as we apply, through
our fingers, the necessary motor force. Even so is it with that sort of culture which is limited
to the work which the teacher does with the child. The new method, instead, may be [Pg
compared to the process of winding, which sets the entire mechanism in motion. 230]

This motion is in direct relation with the machine, and not with the work of winding. So
the spontaneous psychic development of the child continues indefinitely and is in direct
relation to the psychic potentiality of the child himself, and not with the work of the teacher.
The movement, or the spontaneous psychic activity starts in our case from the education of
the senses and is maintained by the observing intelligence. Thus, for example, the hunting
dog receives his ability, not from the education given by his master, but from the special
acuteness of his senses; and as soon as this physiological quality is applied to the right
environment, the exercise of hunting, the increasing refinement of the sense perceptions,
gives the dog the pleasure and then the passion for the chase. The same is true of the pianist
who, refining at the same time his musical sense and the agility of his hand, comes to love
more and more to draw new harmonies from the instrument. Thia double perfection proceeds
until at last the pianist is launched upon a course which will be limited only by the
personality which lies within him. Now a student of physics may know all the laws of
harmony which form a part of his scientific culture, and yet he may not know how to follow
a most simple musical composition. His culture, however vast, will be bound by the definite
limits of his science. Our educational aim with very young children must be to aid the
spontaneous development of the mental, spiritual, and physical personality, and not to make
of the child a cultured individual in the commonly accepted sense of the term. So, after we
have offered to the child such didactic material as is adapted to provoke the development of
his senses, we must wait until the activity known as observation develops. And herein lies [Pg
the art of the educator; in knowing how to measure the action by which we help the young 231]
child's personality to develop. To one whose attitude is right, little children soon reveal
profound individual differences which call for very different kinds of help from the teacher.
Some of them require almost no intervention on her part, while others demand actual
teaching. It is necessary, therefore, that the teaching shall be rigorously guided by the
principle of limiting to the greatest possible point the active intervention of the educator.
Here are a number of games and problems which we have used effectively in trying to
follow this principle.

GAMES OF THE BLIND

The Games of the Blind are used for the most part as exercises in general sensibility as
follows:
The Stuffs. We have in our didactic material a pretty little chest composed of drawers
within which are arranged rectangular pieces of stuff in great variety. There are velvet, satin,
silk, cotton, linen, etc. We have the child touch each of these pieces, teaching the appropriate
nomenclature and adding something regarding the quality, as coarse, fine, soft. Then, we call
the child and seat him at one of the tables where he can be seen by his companions, blindfold
him, and offer him the stuffs one by one. He touches them, smooths them, crushes them
between his fingers and decides, "It is velvet,—It is fine linen,—It is rough cloth," etc. This
exercise provokes general interest. When we offer the child some unexpected foreign object,
as, for example, a sheet of paper, a veil, the little assembly trembles as it awaits his response.
Weight. We place the child in the same position, call his attention to the tablets used for the [Pg
education of the sense of weight, have him notice again the already well-known differences 232]
of weight, and then tell him to put all the dark tablets, which are the heavier ones, at the
right, and all the light ones, which are the lighter, to the left. We then blindfold him and he
proceeds to the game, taking each time two tablets. Sometimes he takes two of the same
colour, sometimes two of different colours, but in a position opposite to that in which he
must arrange them on his desk. These exercises are most exciting; when, for example, the
child has in his hands two of the dark tablets and changes them from one hand to the other
uncertain, and finally places them together on the right, the children watch in a state of
intense eagerness, and a great sigh often expresses their final relief. The shouts of the
audience when the entire game is followed without an error, gives the impression that their
little friend sees with his hands the colours of the tablets.
Dimension and Form. We use games similar to the preceding one, having the child
distinguish between different coins, the cubes and bricks of Froebel, and dry seeds, such as
beans and peas. But such games never awaken the intense interest aroused by the preceding
ones. They are, however, useful and serve to associate with the various objects those
qualities peculiar to them, and also to fix the nomenclature.

APPLICATION OF THE EDUCATION OF THE

VISUAL SENSE TO
THE OBSERVATION OF THE ENVIRONMENT

Nomenclature. This is one of the most important phases of education. Indeed,

nomenclature prepares for an exactness in the use of language which is not always met with
in our schools. Many children, for example, use interchangeably the words thick and big, [Pg
long and high. With the methods already described, the teacher may easily establish, by 233]
means of the didactic material, ideas which are very exact and clear, and may associate the
proper word with these ideas.
Method of Using the Didactic Material
Dimensions. The directress, after the child has played for a long time with the three sets of
solid insets and has acquired a security in the performance of the exercise, takes out all the
cylinders of equal height and places them in a horizontal position on the table, one beside the
other. Then she selects the two extremes, saying, "This is the thickest—This is the thinnest."
She places them side by side so that the comparison may be more marked, and then taking
them by the little button, she compares the bases, calling attention to the great difference.
She then places them again beside each other in a vertical position in order to show that they
are equal in height, and repeats several times, "thick—thin." Having done this, she should
follow it with the test, asking, "Give me the thickest—Give me the thinnest," and finally she
should proceed to the test of nomenclature, asking, "What is this?" In the lessons which
follow this, the directress may take away the two extreme pieces and may repeat the lesson
with the two pieces remaining at the extremities, and so on until she has used all the pieces.
She may then take these up at random, saying, "Give me one a little thicker than this one," or
"Give me one a little thinner than this one." With the second set of solid insets she proceeds
in the same way. Here she stands the pieces upright, as each one has a base sufficiently broad
to maintain it in this position, saying, "This is the highest" and "This is the lowest." Then [Pg
placing the two extreme pieces side by side she may take them out of the line and compare 234]
the bases, showing that they are equal. From the extremes she may proceed as before,
selecting each time the two remaining pieces most strongly contrasted.
With the third solid inset, the directress, when she has arranged the pieces in gradation,
calls the child's attention to the first one, saying, "This is the largest," and to the last one,
saying, "This is the smallest." Then she places them side by side and observes how they
differ both in height and in base. She then proceeds in the same way as in the other two
exercises.
Similar lessons may be given with the series of graduated prisms, of rods, and of cubes.
The prisms are thick and thin and of equal length. The rods are long and short and of equal
thickness. The cubes are big and little and differ in size and in height.
The application of these ideas to environment will come most easily when we measure the
children with the anthropometer. They will begin among themselves to make comparisons,
saying, "I am taller,—you are thicker." These comparisons are also made when the children
hold out their little hands to show that they are clean, and the directress stretches hers out
also, to show that she, too, has clean hands. Often the contrast between the dimensions of the
hands calls forth laughter. The children make a perfect game of measuring themselves. They
stand side by side; they look at each other; they decide. Often they place themselves beside
grown persons, and observe with curiosity and interest the great difference in height.
Form. When the child shows that he can with security distinguish between the forms of
the plane geometric insets, the directress may begin the lessons in nomenclature. She should [Pg
begin with two strongly-contrasted forms, as the square and the circle, and should follow the 235]
usual method, using the three periods of Séguin. We do not teach all the names relative to the
geometric figures, giving only those of the most familiar forms, such as square, circle,
rectangle, triangle, oval. We now call attention to the fact that there are rectangles which are
narrow and long, and others which are broad and short, while the squares are equal on all
sides and can be only big and little. These things are most easily shown with the insets, for,
though we turn the square about, it still enters its frame, while the rectangle, if placed across
the opening, will not enter. The child is much interested in this exercise, for which we
arrange in the frame a square and a series of rectangles, having the longest side equal to the
side of the square, the other side gradually decreasing in the five pieces.
In the same way we proceed to show the difference between the oval, the ellipse, and the
circle. The circle enters no matter how it is placed, or turned about; the ellipse does not enter
when placed transversely, but if placed lengthwise will enter even if turned upside down.
The oval, however, not only cannot enter the frame if placed transversely, but not even when
turned upside down; it must be placed with the large curve toward the large part of the
opening, and with the narrow curve toward the narrow portion of the opening.
The circles, big and little, enter their frames no matter how they are turned about. I do not
reveal the difference between the oval and the ellipse until a very late stage of the child's
education, and then not to all children, but only to those who show a special interest in the
forms by choosing the game often, or by asking about the differences. I prefer that such [Pg
differences should be recognised later by the child, spontaneously, perhaps in the elementary 236]
school.
It seems to many persons that in teaching these forms we are teaching geometry, and that
this is premature in schools for such young children. Others feel that, if we wish to present
geometric forms, we should use the solids, as being more concrete.
I feel that I should say a word here to combat such prejudices. To observe a geometric
form is not to analyse it, and in the analysis geometry begins. When, for example, we speak
to the child of sides and angles and explain these to him, even though with objective
methods, as Froebel advocates (for example, the square has four sides and can be constructed
with four sticks of equal length), then indeed we do enter the field of geometry, and I believe
that little children are too immature for these steps. But the observation of the form cannot be
too advanced for a child at this age. The plane of the table at which the child sits while eating
his supper is probably a rectangle; the plate which contains his food is a circle, and we
certainly do not consider that the child is too immature to be allowed to look at the table and
the plate.
The insets which we present simply call the attention to a given form. As to the name, it is
analogous to other names by which the child learns to call things. Why should we consider it
premature to teach the child the words circle, square, oval, when in his home he repeatedly
hears the word round used in connection with plates, etc. He will hear his parents speak of
the square table, the oval table, etc., and these words in common use will remain for a long [Pg
time confused in his mind and in his speech, if we do not interpose such help as that we give 237]
in the teaching of forms.
We should reflect upon the fact that many times a child, left to himself, makes an undue
effort to comprehend the language of the adults and the meaning of the things about him.
Opportune and rational instruction prevents such an effort, and therefore does not weary, but
relieves, the child and satisfies his desire for knowledge. Indeed, he shows his contentment
by various expressions of pleasure. At the same time, his attention is called to the word
which, if he is allowed to pronounce badly, develops in him an imperfect use of the
language.
This often arises from an effort on his part to imitate the careless speech of persons about
him, while the teacher, by pronouncing clearly the word referring to the object which arouses
the child's curiosity, prevents such effort and such imperfections.
Here, also, we face a widespread prejudice; namely, the belief that the child left to himself
gives absolute repose to his mind. If this were so he would remain a stranger to the world,
and, instead, we see him, little by little, spontaneously conquer various ideas and words. He
is a traveller through life, who observes the new things among which he journeys, and who
tries to understand the unknown tongue spoken by those about him. Indeed, he makes a great
and voluntary effort to understand and to imitate. The instruction given to little children
should be so directed as to lessen this expenditure of poorly directed effort, converting it
instead into the enjoyment of conquest made easy and infinitely broadened. We are the
guides of these travellers just entering the great world of human thought. We should see to it
that we are intelligent and cultured guides, not losing ourselves in vain discourse, but [Pg
illustrating briefly and concisely the work of art in which the traveller shows himself 238]
interested, and we should then respectfully allow him to observe it as long as he wishes to. It
is our privilege to lead him to observe the most important and the most beautiful things of
life in such a way that he does not lose energy and time in useless things, but shall find
pleasure and satisfaction throughout his pilgrimage.
I have already referred to the prejudice that it is more suitable to present the geometric
forms to the child in the solid rather than in the plane, giving him, for example, the cube, the
sphere, the prism. Let us put aside the physiological side of the question showing that the
visual recognition of the solid figure is more complex than that of the plane, and let us view
the question only from the more purely pedagogical standpoint of practical life.
The greater number of objects which we look upon every day present more nearly the
aspect of our plane geometric insets. In fact, doors, window-frames, framed pictures, the
wooden or marble top of a table, are indeed solid objects, but with one of the dimensions
greatly reduced, and with the two dimensions determining the form of the plane surface
made most evident.
When the plane form prevails, we say that the window is rectangular, the picture frame
oval, this table square, etc. Solids having a determined form prevailing in the plane surface
are almost the only ones which come to our notice. And such solids are clearly represented
by our plane geometric insets.
The child will very often recognise in his environment forms which he has learned in this
way, but he will rarely recognise the solid geometric forms. [Pg
239]
That the table leg is a prism, or a truncated cone, or an elongated cylinder, will come to his
knowledge long after he has observed that the top of the table upon which he places things is
rectangular. We do not, therefore, speak of the fact of recognising that a house is a prism or a
cube. Indeed, the pure solid geometric forms never exist in the ordinary objects about us;
these present, instead, a combination of forms. So, putting aside the difficulty of taking in at
a glance the complex form of a house, the child recognises in it, not an identity of form, but
an analogy.
He will, however, see the plane geometric forms perfectly represented in windows and
doors, and in the faces of many solid objects in use at home. Thus the knowledge of the
forms given him in the plane geometric insets will be for him a species of magic key,
opening the external world, and making him feel that he knows its secrets.
I was walking one day upon the Pincian Hill with a boy from the elementary school. He
had studied geometric design and understood the analysis of plane geometric figures. As we
reached the highest terrace from which we could see the Piazza del Popolo with the city
stretching away behind it, I stretched out my hand saying, "Look, all the works of man are a
great mass of geometric figures;" and, indeed, rectangles, ovals, triangles, and semicircles,
perforated, or ornamented, in a hundred different ways the grey rectangular façades of the
various buildings. Such uniformity in such an expanse of buildings seemed to prove the
limitation of human intelligence, while in an adjoining garden plot the shrubs and flowers
spoke eloquently of the infinite variety of forms in nature. [Pg
240]
The boy had never made these observations; he had studied the angles, the sides and the
construction of outlined geometric figures, but without thinking beyond this, and feeling only
annoyance at this arid work. At first he laughed at the idea of man's massing geometric
figures together, then he became interested, looked long at the buildings before him, and an
expression of lively and thoughtful interest came into his face. To the right of the Ponte
Margherita was a factory building in the process of construction, and its steel framework
delineated a series of rectangles. "What tedious work!" said the boy, alluding to the
workmen. And, then, as we drew near the garden, and stood for a moment in silence
admiring the grass and the flowers which sprang so freely from the earth, "It is beautiful!" he
said. But that word "beautiful" referred to the inner awakening of his own soul.
This experience made me think that in the observation of the plane geometric forms, and
in that of the plants which they saw growing in their own little gardens, there existed for the
children precious sources of spiritual as well as intellectual education. For this reason, I have
wished to make my work broad, leading the child, not only to observe the forms about him,
but to distinguish the work of man from that of nature, and to appreciate the fruits of human
labour.
(a) Free Design. I give the child a sheet of white paper and a pencil, telling him that he
may draw whatever he wishes to. Such drawings have long been of interest to experimental
psychologists. Their importance lies in the fact that they reveal the capacity of the child for
observing, and also show his individual tendencies. Generally, the first drawings are
unformed and confused, and the teacher should ask the child what he wished to draw, and [Pg
should write it underneath the design that it may be a record. Little by little, the drawings 241]
become more intelligible, and verily reveal the progress which the child makes in the
observation of the forms about him. Often the most minute details of an object have been
observed and recorded in the crude sketch. And, since the child draws what he wishes, he
reveals to us which are the objects that most strongly attract his attention.
(b) Design Consisting of the Filling in of Outlined Figures. These designs are most
important as they constitute "the preparation for writing." They do for the colour sense what
free design does for the sense of form. In other words, they reveal the capacity of the child in
the matter of observation of colours, as the free design showed us the extent to which he was
an observer of form in the objects surrounding him. I shall speak more fully of this work in
the chapter on writing. The exercises consist in filling in with coloured pencil, certain
outlines drawn in black. These outlines present the simple geometric figures and various
objects with which the child is familiar in the schoolroom, the home, and the garden. The
child must select his colour, and in doing so he shows us whether he has observed the
colours of the things surrounding him.
Free Plastic Work
 These exercises are analogous to those in free design and in the filling in of figures with
coloured pencils. Here the child makes whatever he wishes with clay; that is, he models
those objects which he remembers most distinctly and which have impressed him most
deeply. We give the child a wooden tray containing a piece of clay, and then we await his [Pg
work. We possess some very remarkable pieces of clay work done by our little ones. Some 242]
of them reproduce, with surprising minuteness of detail, objects which they have seen. And
what is most surprising, these models often record not only the form, but even the
dimensions of the objects which the child handled in school.
Many little ones model the objects which they have seen at home, especially kitchen
furniture, water-jugs, pots, and pans. Sometimes, we are shown a simple cradle containing a
baby brother or sister. At first it is necessary to place written descriptions upon these objects,
as it is necessary to do with the free design. Later on, however, the models are easily
recognisable, and the children learn to reproduce the geometric solids. These clay models are
undoubtedly very valuable material for the teacher, and make clear many individual
differences, thus helping her to understand her children more fully. In our method they are
also valuable as psychological manifestations of development according to age. Such designs
are precious guides also for the teacher in the matter of her intervention in the child's
education. The children who, in this work reveal themselves as observers, will probably
become spontaneous observers of all the world about them, and may be led toward such a
goal by the indirect help of exercises tending to fix and to make more exact the various
sensations and ideas.
These children will also be those who arrive most quickly at the act of spontaneous
writing. Those whose clay work remains unformed and indefinite will probably need the
direct revelation of the directress, who will need to call their attention in some material
manner to the objects around them.
Geometric Analysis of Figures; Sides, Angles, Centre, Base [Pg
243]
The geometric analysis of figures is not adapted to very young children. I have tried a
means for the introduction of such analysis, limiting this work to the rectangle and making
use of a game which includes the analysis without fixing the attention of the child upon it.
This game presents the concept most clearly.
The rectangle of which I make use is the plane of one of the children's tables, and the
game consists in laying the table for a meal. I have in each of the "Children's Houses" a
collection of toy table-furnishings, such as may be found in any toy-store. Among these are
dinner-plates, soup-plates, soup-tureen, saltcellars, glasses, decanters, little knives, forks,
spoons, etc. I have them lay the table for six, putting two places on each of the longer sides,
and one place on each of the shorter sides. One of the children takes the objects and places
them as I indicate. I tell him to place the soup tureen in the centre of the table; this napkin in
a corner. "Place this plate in the centre of the short side."
Then I have the child look at the table, and I say, "Something is lacking in this corner. We
want another glass on this side. Now let us see if we have everything properly placed on the
two longer sides. Is everything ready on the two shorter sides? Is there anything lacking in
the four corners?"
I do not believe that we may proceed to any more complex analysis than this before the
age of six years, for I believe that the child should one day take up one of the plane insets
and spontaneously begin to count the sides and the angles. Certainly, if we taught them such
ideas they would be able to learn them, but it would be a mere learning of formulæ, and not [Pg
applied experience. 244]
 Exercises in the Chromatic Sense
I have already indicated what colour exercises we follow. Here I wish to indicate more
definitely the succession of these exercises and to describe them more fully.
Designs and Pictures. We have prepared a number of outline drawings which the children
are to fill in with coloured pencil, and, later on, with a brush, preparing for themselves the
water-colour tints which they will use. The first designs are of flowers, butterflies, trees and
animals, and we then pass to simple landscapes containing grass, sky, houses, and human
figures.
These designs help us in our study of the natural development of the child as an observer
of his surroundings; that is, in regard to colour. The children select the colours and are left
entirely free in their work. If, for example, they colour a chicken red, or a cow green, this
shows that they have not yet become observers. But I have already spoken of this in the
general discussion of the method. These designs also reveal the effect of the education of the
chromatic sense. As the child selects delicate and harmonious tints, or strong and contrasting
ones, we can judge of the progress he has made in the refinement of his colour sense.
The fact that the child must remember the colour of the objects represented in the design
encourages him to observe those things which are about him. And then, too, he wishes to be
able to fill in more difficult designs. Only those children who know how to keep the colour
within the outline and to reproduce the right colours may proceed to the more ambitious
work. These designs are very easy, and often very effective, sometimes displaying real [Pg
artistic work. The directress of the school in Mexico, who studied for a long time with me, 245]
sent me two designs; one representing a cliff in which the stones were coloured most
harmoniously in light violet and shades of brown, trees in two shades of green, and the sky a
soft blue. The other represented a horse with a chestnut coat and black mane and tail.

[Pg
CHAPTER XVI 246]

METHODS FOR THE TEACHING OF READING AND

WRITING
Spontaneous Development of Graphic Language. While I was directress of the
Orthophrenic School at Rome, I had already began to experiment with various didactic
means for the teaching of reading and writing. These experiments were practically original
with me.
Itard and Séguin do not present any rational method through which writing may be
learned. In the pages above quoted, it may be seen how Itard proceeded in the teaching of the
alphabet and I give here what Séguin says concerning the teaching of writing.
"To have a child pass from design, to writing, which is its most immediate application, the
teacher need only call D, a portion of a circle, resting its extremities upon a vertical; A, two
obliques reunited at the summit and cut by a horizontal, etc., etc.
"We no longer need worry ourselves as to how the child shall learn to write: he designs,
then writes. It need not be said that we should have the child draw the letters according to the
laws of contrast and analogy. For instance, O beside I; B with P; T opposite L, etc."
 According to Séguin, then, we do not need to teach writing. The child who draws, will
write. But writing, for this author, means printed capitals! Nor does he, in any other place,
explain whether his pupil shall write in any other way. He instead, gives much space to the [Pg
description of the design which prepares for, and which includes writing. This method of 247]
design is full of difficulties and was only established by the combined attempts of Itard and
Séguin.
"Chapter XL: DESIGN. In design the first idea to be acquired is that of the plane destined to
receive the design. The second is that of the trace or delineation. Within these two concepts
lies all design, all linear creation.
"These two concepts are correlative, their relation generates the idea, or the capacity to
produce the lines in this sense; that lines may only be called such when they follow a
methodical and determined direction: the trace without direction is not a line; produced by
chance, it has no name.
"The rational sign, on the contrary, has a name because it has a direction and since all
writing or design is nothing other than a composite of the diverse directions followed by a
line, we must, before approaching what is commonly called writing, insist upon these
notions of plane and line. The ordinary child acquires these by instinct, but an insistence
upon them is necessary in order to render the idiot careful and sensitive in their application.
Through methodical design he will come into rational contact with all parts of the plane and
will, guided by imitation, produce lines at first simple, but growing more complicated.
"The pupil may be taught: First, to trace the diverse species of lines. Second, to trace them
in various directions and in different positions relative to the plane. Third, to reunite these
lines to form figures varying from simple to complex. We must therefore, teach the pupil to
distinguish straight lines from curves, vertical from horizontal, and from the various oblique [Pg
lines; and must finally make clear the principal points of conjunction of two or more lines in 248]
forming a figure.
"This rational analysis of design, from which writing will spring, is so essential in all its
parts, that a child who, before being confided to my care, already wrote many of the letters,
has taken six days to learn to draw a perpendicular or a horizontal line; he spent fifteen days
before imitating a curve and an oblique. Indeed the greater number of my pupils, are for a
long time incapable of even imitating the movements of my hand upon the paper, before
attempting to draw a line in a determined direction. The most imitative, or the least stupid
ones, produce a sign diametrically opposite to that which I show them and all of them
confound the points of conjunction of two lines no matter how evident this is. It is true that
the thorough knowledge I have given them of lines and of configuration helps them to make
the connection which must be established between the plane and the various marks with
which they must cover the surface, but in the study rendered necessary by the deficiency of
my pupils, the progression in the matter of the vertical, the horizontal, the oblique, and the
curve must be determined by the consideration of the difficulty of comprehension and of
execution which each offers to a torpid intelligence and to a weak unsteady hand.
"I do not speak here of merely having them perform a difficult thing, since I have them
surmount a series of difficulties and for this reason I ask myself if some of these difficulties
are not greater and some less, and if they do not grow one from the other, like theorems.
Here are the ideas which have guided me in this respect. [Pg
249]
"The vertical is a line which the eye and the hand follow directly, going up and down. The
horizontal line is not natural to the eye, nor to the hand, which lowers itself and follows a
curve (like the horizon from which it has taken its name), starting from the centre and going
to the lateral extremity of the plane.
 "The oblique line presupposes more complex comparative ideas, and the curve demands
such firmness and so many differences in its relation to the plane that we would only lose
time in taking up the study of these lines. The most simple line then, is the vertical, and this
is how I have given my pupils an idea of it.
"The first geometric formula is this: only straight lines may be drawn from one given point
to another.
"Starting from this axiom, which the hand alone can demonstrate, I have fixed two points
upon the blackboard and have connected them by means of a vertical. My pupils try to do the
same between the dots they have upon their paper, but with some the vertical descends to the
right of the point and with others, to the left, to say nothing of those whose hand diverges in
all directions. To arrest these various deviations which are often far more defects of the
intelligence and of the vision, than of the hand, I have thought it wise to restrict the field of
the plane, drawing two vertical lines to left and right of the points which the child is to join
by means of a parallel line half way between the two enclosing lines. If these two lines are
not enough, I place two rulers vertically upon the paper, which arrest the deviations of the
hand absolutely. These material barriers are not, however, useful for very long. We first
suppress the rulers and return to the two parallel lines, between which the idiot learns to
draw the third line. We then take away one of the guiding lines, and leave, sometimes that on [Pg
the right, sometimes that on the left, finally taking away this last line and at last, the dots, 250]
beginning by erasing the one at the top which indicates the starting point of the line and of
the hand. The child thus learns to draw a vertical without material control, without points of
comparison.
"The same method, the same difficulty, the same means of direction are used for the
straight horizontal lines. If, by chance, these lines begin well, we must await until the child
curves them, departing from the centre and proceeding to the extremity as nature commands
him, and because of the reason which I have explained. If the two dots do not suffice to
sustain the hand, we keep it from deviating by means of the parallel lines or of the rulers.
"Finally, have him trace a horizontal line, and by uniting with it a vertical ruler we form a
right angles. The child will begin to understand, in this way, what the vertical and horizontal
lines really are, and will see the relation of these two ideas as he traces a figure.
"In the sequence of the development of lines, it would seem that the study of the oblique
should immediately follow that of the vertical and the horizontal, but this is not so! The
oblique which partakes of the vertical in its inclination, and of the horizontal in its direction,
and which partakes of both in its nature (since it is a straight line), presents perhaps, because
of its relation to other lines, an idea too complex to be appreciated without preparation."
Thus Séguin goes on through many pages, to speak of the oblique in all directions, which
he has his pupils trace between two parallels. He then tells of the four curves which he has [Pg
them draw to right and left of a vertical and above and below a horizontal, and concludes: 251]
"So we find the solution of the problems for which we sought—the vertical line, the
horizontal, the oblique, and the four curves, whose union forms the circle, contain all
possible lines, all writing.
"Arrived at this point, Itard and I were for a long time at a standstill. The lines being
known, the next step was to have the child trace regular figures, beginning of course, with
the simplest. According to the general opinion, Itard had advised me to begin with the square
and I had followed this advice for three months, without being able to make the child
understand me."
After a long series of experiments, guided by his ideas of the genesis of geometric figures,
Séguin became aware that the triangle is the figure most easily drawn.
"When three lines meet thus, they always form a triangle, while four lines may meet in a
hundred different directions without remaining parallel and therefore without presenting a
perfect square.
"From these experiments and many others, I have deduced the first principles of writing
and of design for the idiot; principles whose application is too simple for me to discuss
further."
Such was the proceeding used by my predecessors in the teaching of writing to deficients.
As for reading, Itard proceeded thus: he drove nails into the wall and hung upon them,
geometric figures of wood, such as triangles, squares, circles. He then drew the exact imprint
of these upon the wall, after which he took the figures away and had the "boy of Aveyron"
replace them upon the proper nails, guided by the design. From this design Itard conceived
the idea of the plane geometric insets. He finally had large print letters made of wood and [Pg
proceeded in the same way as with the geometric figures, that is, using the design upon the 252]
wall and arranging the nails in such a way that the child might place the letters upon them
and then take them off again. Later, Séguin used the horizontal plane instead of the wall,
drawing the letters on the bottom of a box and having the child superimpose solid letters.
After twenty years, Séguin had not changed his method of procedure.
A criticism of the method used by Itard and Séguin for reading and writing seems to me
superfluous. The method has two fundamental errors which make it inferior to the methods
in use for normal children, namely: writing in printed capitals, and the preparation for
writing through a study of rational geometry, which we now expect only from students in the
secondary schools.
Séguin here confuses ideas in a most extraordinary way. He has suddenly jumped from the
psychological observation of the child and from his relation to his environment, to the study
of the origin of lines and their relation to the plane.
He says that the child will readily design a vertical line, but that the horizontal will soon
become a curve, because "nature commands it" and this command of nature is represented by
the fact that man sees the horizon as a curved line!
The example of Séguin serves to illustrate the necessity of a special education which shall
fit man for observation, and shall direct logical thought.
The observation must be absolutely objective, in other words, stripped of preconceptions.
Séguin has in this case the preconception that geometric design must prepare for writing, and
that hinders him from discovering the truly natural proceeding necessary to such preparation. [Pg
He has, besides, the preconception that the deviation of a line, as well as the inexactness with 253]
which the child traces it, are due to "the mind and the eye, not to the hand," and so he
wearies himself for weeks and months in explaining the direction of lines and in guiding the
vision of the idiot.
It seems as if Séguin felt that a good method must start from a superior point, geometry;
the intelligence of the child is only considered worthy of attention in its relation to abstract
things. And is not this a common defect?
Let us observe mediocre men; they pompously assume erudition and disdain simple
things. Let us study the clear thought of those whom we consider men of genius. Newton is
seated tranquilly in the open air; an apple falls from the tree, he observes it and asks, "Why?"
Phenomena are never insignificant; the fruit which falls and universal gravitation may rest
side by side in the mind of a genius.
 If Newton had been a teacher of children he would have led the child to look upon the
worlds on a starry night, but an erudite person might have felt it necessary first to prepare the
child to understand the sublime calculus which is the key to astronomy—Galileo Galilei
observed the oscillation of a lamp swung on high, and discovered the laws of the pendulum.
In the intellectual life simplicity consists in divesting one's mind of every preconception,
and this leads to the discovery of new things, as, in the moral life, humility and material
poverty guide us toward high spiritual conquests.
If we study the history of discoveries, we will find that they have come from real objective [Pg
observation and from logical thought. These are simple things, but rarely found in one man. 254]

Does it not seem strange, for instance, that after the discovery by Laveran of the malarial
parasite which invades the red blood-corpuscles, we did not, in spite of the fact that we know
the blood system to be a system of closed vessels, even so much as suspect the possibility
that a stinging insect might inoculate us with the parasite? Instead, the theory that the evil
emanated from low ground, that it was carried by the African winds, or that it was due to
dampness, was given credence. Yet these were vague ideas, while the parasite was a definite
biological specimen.
When the discovery of the malarial mosquito came to complete logically the discovery of
Laveran, this seemed marvellous, stupefying. Yet we know in biology that the reproduction
of molecular vegetable bodies is by scission with alternate sporation, and that of molecular
animals is by scission with alternate conjunction. That is, after a certain period in which the
primitive cell has divided and sub-divided into fresh cells, equal among themselves, there
comes the formation of two diverse cells, one male and one female, which must unite to
form a single cell capable of recommencing the cycle of reproduction by division. All this
being known at the time of Laveran, and the malarial parasite being known to be a
protozoon, it would have seemed logical to consider its segmentation in the stroma of the red
corpuscle as the phase of scission and to await until the parasite gave place to the sexual
forms, which must necessarily come in the phase succeeding scission. Instead, the division
was looked upon as spore-formation, and neither Laveran, nor the numerous scientists who [Pg
followed the research, knew how to give an explanation of the appearance of the sexual 255]
forms. Laveran expressed an idea, which was immediately received, that these two forms
were degenerate forms of the malarial parasite, and therefore incapable of producing the
changes determining the disease. Indeed, the malaria was apparently cured at the appearance
of the two sexual forms of the parasite, the conjunction of the two cells being impossible in
the human blood. The theory—then recent—of Morel upon human degeneration
accompanied by deformity and weakness, inspired Laveran in his interpretation, and
everybody found the idea of the illustrious pathologist a fortunate one, because it was
inspired by the great concepts of the Morellian theory.
Had anyone, instead, limited himself to reasoning thus: the original form of the malarial
insect is a protozoon; it reproduces itself by scission, under our eyes; when the scission is
finished, we see two diverse cells, one a half-moon, the other threadlike. These are the
feminine and masculine cells which must, by conjunction, alternate the scission,—such a
reasoner would have opened the way to the discovery. But so simple a process of reasoning
did not come. We might almost ask ourselves how great would be the world's progress if a
special form of education prepared men for pure observation and logical thought.
A great deal of time and intellectual force are lost in the world, because the false seems
great and the truth so small and insignificant.
I say all this to defend the necessity, which I feel we face, of preparing the coming
generations by means of more rational methods. It is from these generations that the world [Pg
awaits its progress. We have already learned to make use of our surroundings, but I believe 256]
that we have arrived at a time when the necessity presents itself for utilising human force,
through a scientific education.
To return to Séguin's method of writing, it illustrates another truth, and that is the tortuous
path we follow in our teaching. This, too, is allied to an instinct for complicating things,
analogous to that which makes us so prone to appreciate complicated things. We have Séguin
teaching geometry in order to teach a child to write; and making the child's mind exert itself
to follow geometrical abstractions only to come down to the simple effort of drawing a
printed D. After all, must the child not have to make another effort in order to forget the
print, and learn the script!
And even we in these days still believe that in order to learn to write the child must first
make vertical strokes. This conviction is very general. Yet it does not seem natural that to
write the letters of the alphabet, which are all rounded, it should be necessary to begin with
straight lines and acute angles.
In all good faith, we wonder that it should be difficult to do away with the angularity and
stiffness with which the beginner traces the beautiful curve of the O.[13] Yet, through what
effort on our part, and on his, was he forced to fill pages and pages with rigid lines and acute
angles! To whom is due this time-honoured idea that the first sign to be traced must be a
straight line? And why do we so avoid preparing for curves as well as angles?
Let us, for a moment, divest ourselves of such preconceptions and proceed in a more
simple way. We may be able to relieve future generations of all effort in the matter of [Pg
learning to write. 257]

Is it necessary to begin writing with the making of vertical strokes? A moment of clear and
logical thinking is enough to enable us to answer, no. The child makes too painful an effort
in following such an exercise. The first steps should be the easiest, and the up and down
stroke, is, on the contrary, one of the most difficult of all the pen movements. Only a
professional penman could fill a whole page and preserve the regularity of such strokes, but a
person who writes only moderately well would be able to complete a page of presentable
writing. Indeed, the straight line is unique, expressing the shortest distance between two
points, while any deviation from that direction signifies a line which is not straight. These
infinite deviations are therefore easier than that one trace which is perfection.
If we should give to a number of adults the order to draw a straight line upon the
blackboard, each person would draw a long line proceeding in a different direction, some
beginning from one side, some from another, and almost all would succeed in making the
line straight. Should we then ask that the line be drawn in a particular direction, starting
from a determined point, the ability shown at first would greatly diminish, and we would see
many more irregularities, or errors. Almost all the lines would be long—for the individual
must needs gather impetus in order to succeed in making his line straight.
Should we ask that the lines be made short, and included within precise limits, the errors
would increase, for we would thus impede the impetus which helps to conserve the definite
direction. In the methods ordinarily used in teaching writing, we add, to such limitations, the [Pg
further restriction that the instrument of writing must be held in a certain way, not as instinct 258]
prompts each individual.
Thus we approach in the most conscious and restricted way the first act of writing, which
should be voluntary. In this first writing we still demand that the single strokes be kept
parallel, making the child's task a difficult and barren one, since it has no purpose for the
child, who does not understand the meaning of all this detail.
 I had noticed in the note-books of the deficient children in France (and Voisin also
mentions this phenomenon) that the pages of vertical strokes, although they began as such,
ended in lines of C's. This goes to show that the deficient child, whose mind is less resistant
than that of the normal child, exhausts, little by little, the initial effort of imitation, and the
natural movement gradually comes to take the place of that which was forced or stimulated.
So the straight lines are transformed into curves, more and more like the letter C. Such a
phenomenon does not appear in the copy-books of normal children, for they resist, through
effort, until the end of the page is reached, and, thus, as often happens, conceal the didactic
error.
But let us observe the spontaneous drawings of normal children. When, for example,
picking up a fallen twig, they trace figures in the sandy garden path, we never see short
straight lines, but long and variously interlaced curves.
Séguin saw the same phenomenon when the horizontal lines he made his pupils draw
became curves so quickly instead. And he attributed the phenomenon to the imitation of the
horizon line!
That vertical strokes should prepare for alphabetical writing, seems incredibly illogical. [Pg
The alphabet is made up of curves, therefore we must prepare for it by learning to make 259]
straight lines.
"But," says someone, "in many letters of the alphabet, the straight line does exist," True,
but there is no reason why as a beginning of writing, we should select one of the details of a
complete form. We may analyse the alphabetical signs in this way, discovering straight lines
and curves, as by analysing discourse, we find grammatical rules. But we all speak
independently of such rules, why then should we not write independently of such analysis,
and without the separate execution of the parts constituting the letter?
It would be sad indeed if we could speak only after we had studied grammar! It would be
much the same as demanding that before we looked at the stars in the firmament, we must
study infinitesimal calculus; it is much the same thing to feel that before teaching an idiot to
write, we must make him understand the abstract derivation of lines and the problems of
geometry!
No less are we to be pitied if, in order to write, we must follow analytically the parts
constituting the alphabetical signs. In fact the effort which we believe to be a necessary
accompaniment to learning to write is a purely artificial effort, allied, not to writing, but to
the methods by which it is taught.
Let us for a moment cast aside every dogma in this connection. Let us take no note of
culture, or custom. We are not, here, interested in knowing how humanity began to write, nor
what may have been the origin of writing itself. Let us put away the conviction, that long
usage has given us, of the necessity of beginning writing by making vertical strokes; and let
us try to be as clear and unprejudiced in spirit as the truth which, we are seeking. [Pg
260]
"Let us observe an individual who is writing, and let us seek to analyse the acts he
performs in writing," that is, the mechanical operations which enter into the execution of
writing. This would be undertaking the philosophical study of writing, and it goes without
saying that we should examine the individual who writes, not the writing; the subject, not the
object. Many have begun with the object, examining the writing, and in this way many
methods have been constructed.
But a method starting from the individual would be decidedly original—very different
from other methods which preceded it. It would indeed signify a new era in writing, based
upon anthropology.
In fact, when I undertook my experiments with normal children, if I had thought of giving
a name to this new method of writing, I should have called it without knowing what the
results would be, the anthropological method. Certainly, my studies in anthropology inspired
the method, but experience has given me, as a surprise, another title which seems to me the
natural one, "the method of spontaneous writing."
While teaching deficient children I happened to observe the following fact: An idiot girl of
eleven years, who was possessed of normal strength and motor power in her hands, could not
learn to sew, or even to take the first step, darning, which consists in passing the needle first
over, then under the woof, now taking up, now leaving, a number of threads.
I set the child to weaving with the Froebel mats, in which a strip of paper is threaded
transversely in and out among vertical strips of paper held fixed at top and bottom. I thus [Pg
came to think of the analogy between the two exercises, and became much interested in my 261]
observation of the girl. When she had become skilled in the Froebel weaving, I led her back
again to the sewing, and saw with pleasure that she was now able to follow the darning.
From that time on, our sewing classes began with a regular course in the Froebel weaving.
I saw that the necessary movements of the hand in sewing had been prepared without
having the child sew, and that we should really find the way to teach the child how, before
making him execute a task. I saw especially that preparatory movements could be carried on,
and reduced to a mechanism, by means of repeated exercises not in the work itself but in that
which prepares for it. Pupils could then come to the real work, able to perform it without
ever having directly set their hands to it before.
I thought that I might in this way prepare for writing, and the idea interested me
tremendously. I marvelled at its simplicity, and was annoyed that I had not thought before of
the method which was suggested to me by my observation of the girl who could not sew.
In fact, seeing that I had already taught the children to touch the contours of the plane
geometric insets, I had now only to teach them to touch with their fingers the forms of the
letters of the alphabet.
I had a beautiful alphabet manufactured, the letters being in flowing script, the low letters
8 centimetres high, and the taller ones in proportion. These letters were in wood, 1/2
centimetre in thickness, and were painted, the consonants in blue enamel, the vowels in red.
The under side of these letter-forms, instead of being painted, were covered with bronze that
they might be more durable. We had only one copy of this wooden alphabet; but there were a [Pg
number of cards upon which the letters were painted in the same colours and dimensions as 262]
the wooden ones. These painted letters were arranged upon the cards in groups, according to
contrast, or analogy of form.
Corresponding to each letter of the alphabet, we had a picture representing some object the
name of which began, with the letter. Above this, the letter was painted in large script, and
near it, the same letter, much smaller and in its printed form. These pictures served to fix the
memory of the sound of the letter, and the small printed letter united to the one in script, was
to form the passage to the reading of books. These pictures do not, indeed, represent a new
idea, but they completed an arrangement which did not exist before. Such an alphabet was
undoubtedly most expensive and when made by hand the cost was fifty dollars.
The interesting part of my experiment was, that after I had shown the children how to
place the movable wooden letters upon those painted in groups upon the cards, I had them
touch them repeatedly in the fashion of flowing writing.
 I multiplied these exercises in various ways, and the children thus learned to make the
movements necessary to reproduce the form of the graphic signs without writing.
I was struck by an idea which had never before entered my mind—that in writing we
make two diverse forms of movement, for, besides the movement by which the form is
reproduced, there is also that of manipulating the instrument of writing. And, indeed, when
the deficient children had become expert in touching all the letters according to form, they [Pg
did not yet know how to hold a pencil. To hold and to manipulate a little stick securely, 263]
corresponds to the acquisition of a special muscular mechanism which is independent of the
writing movement; it must in fact go along with the motions necessary to produce all of the
various letter forms. It is, then, a distinct mechanism, which must exist together with the
motor memory of the single graphic signs. When I provoked in the deficients the movements
characteristic of writing by having them touch the letters with their fingers, I exercised
mechanically the psycho-motor paths, and fixed the muscular memory of each letter. There
remained the preparation of the muscular mechanism necessary in holding and managing the
instrument of writing, and this I provoked by adding two periods to the one already
described. In the second period, the child touched the letter, not only with the index finger of
his right hand, but with two, the index and the middle finger. In the third period, he touched
the letters with a little wooden stick, held as a pen in writing. In substance I was making him
repeat the same movements, now with, and now without, holding the instrument.
I have said that the child was to follow the visual image of the outlined letter. It is true that
his finger had already been trained through touching the contours of the geometric figures,
but this was not always a sufficient preparation. Indeed, even we grown people, when we
trace a design through glass or tissue paper, cannot follow perfectly the line which we see
and along which we should draw our pencil. The design should furnish some sort of control,
some mechanical guide, for the pencil, in order to follow with exactness the trace, sensible in
reality only to the eye. [Pg
264]
The deficients, therefore, did not always follow the design exactly with either the finger or
the stick. The didactic material did not offer any control in the work, or rather it offered only
the uncertain control of the child's glance, which could, to be sure, see if the finger continued
upon the sign, or not. I now thought that in order to have the pupil follow the movements
more exactly, and to guide the execution more directly, I should need to prepare letter forms
so indented, as to represent a furrow within which the wooden stick might run. I made the
designs for this material, but the work being too expensive I was not able to carry out my
plan.
After having experimented largely with this method, I spoke of it very fully to the teachers
in my classes in didactic methods at the State Orthophrenic School. These lectures were
printed, and I give below the words which, though they were placed in the hands of more
than 200 elementary teachers, did not draw from them a single helpful idea. Professor
Ferreri[14] in an article speaks with amazement of this fact.[15]
"At this point we present the cards bearing the vowels painted in red. The child sees
irregular figures painted in red. We give him the vowels in wood, painted red, and have him
superimpose these upon the letters painted on the card. We have him touch the wooden
vowels in the fashion of writing, and give him the name of each letter. The vowels are [Pg
arranged on the cards according to analogy of form: 265]

oea
i u
"We then say to the child, for example, 'Find o. Fat it in its place.' Then, 'What letter is
this?' We here discover that many children make mistakes in the letters if they only look at
the letter.
"They could however tell the letter by touching it. Most interesting observations may be
made, revealing various individual types: visual, motor.
"We have the child touch the letters drawn upon the cards,—using first the index finger
only, then the index with the middle finger,—then with a small wooden stick held as a pen.
The letter must be traced in the fashion of writing.
"The consonants are painted in blue, and are arranged upon the cards according to analogy
of form. To these cards are annexed a movable alphabet in blue wood, the letters of which
are to be placed upon the consonants as they were upon the vowels. In addition to these
materials there is another series of cards, where, besides the consonant, are painted one or
two figures the names of which begin with that particular letter. Near the script letter, is a
smaller printed letter painted in the same colour.
"The teacher, naming the consonant according to the phonetic method, indicates the letter,
and then the card, pronouncing the names of the objects painted there, and emphasizing the
first letter, as, for example, 'p-pear: give me the consonant p—put it in its place, touch it,' etc.
In all this we study the linguistic defects of the child. [Pg
266]
"Tracing the letter, in the fashion of writing, begins the muscular education which prepares
for writing. One of our little girls taught by this method has reproduced all the letters with
the pen, though she does not as yet recognise them all. She has made them about eight
centimetres high, and with surprising regularity. This child also does well in hand work. The
child who looks, recognises, and touches the letters in the manner of writing, prepares
himself simultaneously for reading and writing.
"Touching the letters and looking at them at the same time, fixes the image more quickly
through the co-operation of the senses. Later, the two facts separate; looking becomes
reading; touching becomes writing. According to the type of the individual, some learn to
read first, others to write."
I had thus, about the year 1899, initiated my method for reading and writing upon the
fundamental lines it still follows. It was with great surprise that I noted the facility with
which a deficient child, to whom I one day gave a piece of chalk, traced upon the
blackboard, in a firm hand, the letters of the entire alphabet, writing for the first time.
This had arrived much more quickly than I had supposed. As I have said, some of the
children wrote the letters with a pen and yet could not recognise one of them. I have noticed,
also, in normal children, that the muscular sense is most easily developed in infancy, and this
makes writing exceedingly easy for children. It is not so with reading, which requires a much
longer course of instruction, and which calls for a superior intellectual development, since it
treats of the interpretation of signs, and of the modulation of accents of the voice, in order [Pg
that the word may be understood. And all this is a purely mental task, while in writing, the 267]
child, under dictation, materially translates sounds into signs, and moves, a thing which is
always easy and pleasant for him. Writing develops in the little child with facility and
spontaneity, analogous to the development of spoken language—which is a motor translation
of audible sounds. Reading, on the contrary, makes part of an abstract intellectual culture,
which is the interpretation of ideas from graphic symbols, and is only acquired later on.
My first experiments with normal children were begun in the first half of the month of
November, 1907.
In the two "Children's Houses" in San Lorenzo, I had, from the date of their respective
inaugurations (January 6 in one and March 7 in the other), used only the games of practical
life, and of the education of the senses. I had not presented exercises for writing, because,
like everybody else, I held the prejudice that it was necessary to begin as late as possible the
teaching of reading and writing, and certainly to avoid it before the age of six.
But the children seemed to demand some conclusion of the exercises, which had already
developed them intellectually in a most surprising way. They knew how to dress and
undress, and to bathe, themselves; they knew how to sweep the floors, dust the furniture, put
the room in order, to open and close boxes, to manage the keys in the various locks; they
could replace the objects in the cupboards in perfect order, could care for the plants; they
knew how to observe things, and how to see objects with their hands. A number of them
came to us and frankly demanded to be taught to read and write. Even in the face of our
refusal several children came to school and proudly showed us that they knew how to make [Pg
an O on the blackboard. 268]

Finally, many of the mothers came to beg us as a favour to teach the children to write,
saying, "Here in the 'Children's Houses' the children are awakened, and learn so many things
easily that if you only teach reading and writing they will soon learn, and will then be spared
the great fatigue this always means in the elementary school." This faith of the mothers, that
their little ones would, from us, be able to learn to read and write without fatigue, made a
great impression upon me. Thinking upon the results I had obtained in the school for
deficients, I decided during the August vacation to make a trial upon the reopening of the
school in September. Upon second thought I decided that it would be better to take up the
interrupted work in September, and not to approach reading and writing until October, when
the elementary schools opened. This presented the added advantage of permitting us to
compare the progress of the children of the first elementary with that made by ours, who
would have begun the same branch of instruction at the same time.
In September, therefore, I began a search for someone who could manufacture didactic
materials, but found no one willing to undertake it. I wished to have a splendid alphabet
made, like the one used with the deficients. Giving this up, I was willing to content myself
with the ordinary enamelled letters used upon shop windows, but I could find them in script
form nowhere. My disappointments were many.
So passed the whole mouth of October. The children in the first elementary had already
filled pages of vertical strokes, and mine were still waiting. I then decided to cut out large [Pg
paper letters, and to have one of my teachers colour these roughly on one side with a blue 269]
tint. As for the touching of the letters, I thought of cutting the letters of the alphabet out of
sandpaper, and of gluing them upon smooth cards, thus making objects much like those used
in the primitive exercises for the tactile sense.
Only after I had made these simple things, did I become aware of the superiority of this
alphabet to that magnificent one I had used for my deficients, and in the pursuit of which I
had wasted two months! If I had been rich, I would have had that beautiful but barren
alphabet of the past! We wish the old things because we cannot understand the new, and we
are always seeking after that gorgeousness which belongs to things already on the decline,
without recognising in the humble simplicity of new ideas the germ which shall develop in
the future.
I finally understood that a paper alphabet could easily be multiplied, and could be used by
many children at one time, not only for the recognition of letters, but for the composition of
words. I saw that in the sandpaper alphabet I had found the looked-for guide for the fingers
which touched the letter. This was furnished in such a way that no longer the sight alone, but
the touch, lent itself directly to teaching the movement of writing with exactness of control.
 In the afternoon after school, the two teachers and I, with great enthusiasm, set about
cutting out letters from writing-paper, and others from sandpaper. The first, we painted blue,
the second, we mounted on cards, and, while we worked, there unfolded before my mind a
clear vision of the method in all its completeness, so simple that it made me smile to think I
had not seen it before.
The story of our first attempts is very interesting. One day one of the teachers was ill, and [Pg
I sent as a substitute a pupil of mine, Signorina Anna Fedeli, a professor of pedagogy in a 270]
Normal school. When I went to see her at the close of the day, she showed me two
modifications of the alphabet which she had made. One consisted in placing behind each
letter, a transverse strip of white paper, so that the child might recognise the direction of the
letter, which he often turned about and upside down. The other consisted in the making of a
cardboard case where each letter might be put away in its own compartment, instead of being
kept in a confused mass as at first. I still keep this rude case made from an old pasteboard
box, which Signorina Fedeli had found in the court and roughly sewed with white thread.
She showed it to me laughing, and excusing herself for the miserable work, but I was most
enthusiastic about it. I saw at once that the letters in the case were a precious aid to the
teaching. Indeed, it offered to the eye of the child the possibility of comparing all of the
letters, and of selecting those he needed. In this way the didactic material described below
had its origin.
I need only add that at Christmas time, less than a month and a half later, while the
children in the first elementary were laboriously working to forget their wearisome pothooks
and to prepare for making the curves of O and the other vowels, two of my little ones of four
years old, wrote, each one in the name of his companions, a letter of good wishes and thanks
to Signor Edoardo Talamo. These were written upon note paper without blot or erasure and
the writing was adjudged equal to that which is obtained in the third elementary grade.
[13] It will, of course, be understood that this is a criticism of the system in use in
Italian schools. A. E. G.
[14] G. Ferreri—Per l'insegnamento della scrittura (Sistema della Dott M. Montessori)
Bollettino dell' Associazione Romana per la cura medico—pedigogica dei fanciulli
anormali e deficienti poveri, anno 1, n. 4, ottobre 1907. Roma Tipografia delle Terme
Diocleziane.

[15] Riassunto delle lezion di didattica, della dott. Montessori anno 1900, Stab. lit.
Romano, via Frattina 62, Disp. 6a, pag. 46: "Lettura e Scrittura simultanee."

[Pg
CHAPTER XVII 271]

DESCRIPTION OF THE METHOD AND DIDACTIC

MATERIAL USED
FIRST PERIOD: EXERCISE TENDING TO
DEVELOP THE MUSCULAR MECHANISM
NECESSARY IN HOLDING AND USING THE
INSTRUMENT IN WRITING
 Design Preparatory to Writing.—Didactic Material. Small wooden tables; metal insets,
outline drawings, coloured pencils. I have among my materials two little wooden tables, the
tops of which form an inclined plane sloping toward a narrow cornice, which prevents
objects placed upon the table from slipping off. The top of each table is just large enough to
hold four of the square frames, into which the metal plane geometric insets are fitted, and is
so painted as to represent three of these brown frames, each containing a square centre of the
same dark blue as the centres of the metal insets.
The metal insets are in dimension and form a reproduction of the series of plane geometric
insets in wood already described.
Exercises. Placed side by side upon the teacher's desk, or upon one of the little tables
belonging to the children, these two little tables may have the appearance of being one long
table containing eight figures. The child may select one or more figures, taking at the same
time the frame of the inset. The analogy between these metal insets and the plane geometric
insets of wood is complete. But in this case, the child can freely use the pieces, where before, [Pg
he arranged them in the wooden frame. He first takes the metal frame, places it upon a sheet 272]
of white paper, and with a coloured pencil draws around the contour of the empty centre.
Then, he takes away the frame, and upon the paper there remains a geometric figure.
This is the first time that the child has reproduced through design, a geometric figure.
Until now, he has only placed the geometric insets above the figures delineated on the three
series of cards. He now places upon the figure, which he himself has drawn, the metal inset,
just as he placed the wooden inset upon the cards. His next act is to follow the contour of this
inset with a pencil of a different colour. Lifting the metal piece, he sees the figure reproduced
upon the paper, in two colours.
Here, for the first time is born the abstract concept of the geometric figure, for, from two
metal pieces so different in form as the frame and the inset, there has resulted the same
design, which is a line expressing a determined figure. This fact strikes the attention of the
child. He often marvels to find the same figure reproduced by means of two pieces so
different, and looks for a long time with evident pleasure at the duplicate design—almost as
if it were actually produced by the objects which serve to guide his hand.
Besides all this, the child learns to trace lines determining figures. There will come a day
in which, with still greater surprise and pleasure, he will trace graphic signs determining
words.
After this, he begins the work which directly prepares for the formation of the muscular
mechanism relative to the holding and manipulation of the instrument of writing. With a
coloured pencil of his own selection, held as the pen is held in writing, he fills in the figure [Pg
which he has outlined. We teach him not to pass outside the contour, and in doing so we 273]
attract his attention to this contour, and thus fix the idea that a line may determine a figure.
The exercise of filling in one figure alone, causes the child to perform repeatedly the
movement of manipulation which would be necessary to fill ten copy-book pages with
vertical strokes. And yet, the child feels no weariness, because, although he makes exactly
the muscular co-ordination which is necessary to the work, he does so freely and in any way
that he wishes, while his eyes are fixed upon a large and brightly coloured figure. At first, the
children fill pages and pages of paper with these big squares, triangles, ovals, trapezoids;
colouring them red, orange, green, blue, light blue, and pink.
Gradually they limit themselves to the use of the dark blue and brown, both in drawing the
figure and in filling it in, thus reproducing the appearance of the metal piece itself. Many of
the children, quite of their own accord, make a little orange-coloured circle in the centre of
the figure, in this way representing the little brass button by which the metal piece is to be
held. They take great pleasure in feeling that they have reproduced exactly, like true artists,
the objects which they see before them on the little shelf.
Observing the successive drawings of a child, there is revealed to us a duplicate form of
progression:
First. Little by little, the lines tend less and less to go outside the enclosing line until, at
last, they are perfectly contained within it, and both the centre and the frame are filled in with
close and uniform strokes.
Second. The strokes with which the child fills in the figures, from being at first short and [Pg
confused, become gradually longer, and more nearly parallel, until in many cases the figures 274]
are filled in by means of perfectly regular up and down strokes, extending from one side of
the figure to the other. In such a case, it is evident that the child is master of the pencil. The
muscular mechanism, necessary to the management of the instrument of writing, is
established. We may, therefore, by examining such designs, arrive at a clear idea of the
maturity of the child in the matter of holding the pencil or pen in hand. To vary these
exercises, we use the outline drawings already described. Through these designs, the
manipulation of the pencil is perfected, for they oblige the child to make lines of various
lengths, and make him more and more secure in his use of the pencil.
If we could count the lines made by a child in the filling in of these figures, and could
transform them into the signs used in writing, they would fill many, many copy-books!
Indeed, the security which our children attain is likened to that of children in our ordinary
third elementary grade. When for the first time they take a pen or a pencil in hand, they know
how to manage it almost as well as a person who has written for a long time.
I do not believe that any means can be found which will so successfully and, in so short a
space of time, establish this mastery. And with it all, the child is happy and diverted. My old
method for the deficients, that of following with a small stick the contours of raised letters,
was, when compared with this, barren and miserable!
Even when the children know how to write they continue these exercises, which furnish an
unlimited progression, since the designs may be varied and complicated. The children follow
in each design essentially the same movements, and acquire a varied collection of pictures [Pg
which grow more and more perfect, and of which they are very proud. For I not only 275]
provoke, but perfect, the writing through the exercises which we call preparatory. The control
of the pen is rendered more and more secure, not by repeated exercises in the writing, but by
means of these filled-in designs. In this way, my children perfect themselves in writing,
without actually writing.

SECOND PERIOD: EXERCISES TENDING TO

ESTABLISH THE VISUAL-MUSCULAR IMAGE OF
THE ALPHABETICAL SIGNS, AND TO
ESTABLISH THE MUSCULAR MEMORY OF THE
MOVEMENTS NECESSARY TO WRITING

Didactic Material. Cards upon which the single letters of the alphabet are mounted in
sandpaper; larger cards containing groups of the same letters.
The cards upon which the sandpaper letters are mounted are adapted in size and shape to
each letter. The vowels are in light-coloured sandpaper and are mounted upon dark cards, the
consonants and the groups of letters are in black sandpaper mounted upon white cards. The
grouping is so arranged as to call attention to contrasted, or analogous forms.
The letters are cut in clear script form, the shaded parts being made broader. We have
chosen to reproduce the vertical script in use in the elementary schools.
Exercises. In teaching the letters of the alphabet, we begin with the vowels and proceed to
the consonants, pronouncing the sound, not the name. In the case of the consonants, we
immediately unite the sound with one of the vowel sounds, repeating the syllable according
to the usual phonetic method. [Pg
276]
The teaching proceeds according to the three periods already illustrated.
First. Association of the visual and muscular-tactile sensation with the letter sound.
The directress presents to the child two of the cards upon which vowels are mounted (or
two of the consonants, as the case may be). Let us suppose that we present the letters i and o,
saying, "This is i! This is o!" As soon as we have given the sound of a letter, we have the
child trace it, taking care to show him how to trace it, and if necessary guiding the index
finger of his right hand over the sandpaper letter in the sense of writing.
"Knowing how to trace" will consist in knowing the direction in which a given graphic
sign must be followed.
The child learns quickly, and his finger, already expert in the tactile exercise, is led, by the
slight roughness of the fine sandpaper, over the exact track of the letter. He may then repeat
indefinitely the movements necessary to produce the letters of the alphabet, without the fear
of the mistakes of which a child writing with a pencil for the first time is so conscious. If he
deviates, the smoothness of the card immediately warns him of his error.
The children, as soon as they have become at all expert in this tracing of the letters, take
great pleasure in repeating it with closed eyes, letting the sandpaper lead them in following
the form which they do not see. Thus the perception will be established by the direct
muscular-tactile sensation of the letter. In other words, it is no longer the visual image of the
letter, but the tactile sensation, which guides the hand of the child in these movements,
which thus become fixed in the muscular memory.
There develop, contemporaneously, three sensations when the directress shows the letter
to the child and has him trace it; the visual sensation, the tactile sensation, and the muscular [Pg
sensation. In this way the image of the graphic sign is fixed in a much shorter space of time 277]
than when it was, according to ordinary methods, acquired only through the visual image. It
will be found that the muscular memory is in the young child the most tenacious and, at the
same time, the most ready. Indeed, he sometimes recognises the letters by touching them,
when he cannot do so by looking at them. These images are, besides all this,
contemporaneously associated with the alphabetical sound.
Second. Perception. The child should know how to compare and to recognise the figures,
when he hears the sounds corresponding to them.
The directress asks the child, for example, "Give me o!—Give me i!" If the child does not
recognise the letters by looking at them, she invites him to trace them, but if he still does not
recognise them, the lesson is ended, and may be resumed another day. I have already spoken
of the necessity of not revealing the error, and of not insisting in the teaching when the child
does not respond readily.
Third. Language. Allowing the letters to lie for some instants upon the table, the directress
asks the child, "What is this?" and he should respond, o, i.
 In teaching the consonants, the directress pronounces only the sound, and as soon as she
has done so unites with it a vowel, pronouncing the syllable thus formed and alternating this
little exercise by the use of different vowels. She must always be careful to emphasize the
sound of the consonant, repeating it by itself, as, for example, m, m, m, ma, me, mi, m, m.
When the child repeats the sound he isolates it, and then accompanies it with the vowel. [Pg
278]
It is not necessary to teach all the vowels before passing to the consonants, and as soon as
the child knows one consonant he may begin to compose words. Questions of this sort,
however, are left to the judgment of the educator.
I do not find it practical to follow a special rule in the teaching of the consonants. Often
the curiosity of the child concerning a letter leads us to teach that desired consonant; a name
pronounced may awaken in him a desire to know what consonants are necessary to compose
it, and this will, or willingness, of the pupil is a much more efficacious means than any rule
concerning the progression of the letters.
When the child pronounces the sounds of the consonants, he experiences an evident
pleasure. It is a great novelty for him, this series of sounds, so varied and yet so distinct,
presenting such enigmatic signs as the letters of the alphabet. There is mystery about all this,
which provokes most decided interest. One day I was on the terrace while the children were
having their free games; I had with me a little boy of two years and a half left with me, for a
moment, by his mother. Scattered about upon a number of chairs, were the alphabets which
we use in the school. These had become mixed, and I was putting the letters back into their
respective compartments. Having finished my work, I placed the boxes upon two of the little
chairs near me. The little boy watched me. Finally, he drew near to the box, and took one of
the letters in his hand. It chanced to be an f. At that moment the children, who were running
in single file, passed us, and, seeing the letter, called out in chorus the corresponding sound
and passed on. The child paid no attention to them, but put back the f and took up an r. The
children running by again, looked at him laughing, and then began to cry out "r, r, r! r, r, r!" [Pg
Little by little the baby understood that, when he took a letter in hand, the children, who 279]
were passing, cried out a sound. This amused him so much that I wished to observe how
long he would persist in this game without becoming tired. He kept it up for three-quarters
of an hour! The children had become interested in the child, and grouped themselves about
him, pronouncing the sounds in chorus, and laughing at his pleased surprise. At last, after he
had several times held up f, and had received from his public the same sound, he took the
letter again, showing it to me, and saying, "f, f, f!" He had learned this from out the great
confusion of sounds which he had heard; the long letter which had first arrested the attention
of the running children, had made a great impression upon him.
It is not necessary to show how the separate pronunciation of the alphabetical sounds
reveals the condition of the child's speech. Defects, which are almost all related to the
incomplete development of the language itself, manifest themselves, and the directress may
take note of them one by one. In this way she will be possessed of a record of the child's
progress, which will help her in her individual teaching, and will reveal much concerning the
development of the language in this particular child.
In the matter of correcting linguistic defects, we will find it helpful to follow the
physiological rules relating to the child's development, and to modify the difficulties in the
presentation of our lesson. When, however, the child's speech is sufficiently developed, and
when he pronounces all the sounds, it does not matter which of the letters we select in our
lessons.
Many of the defects which have become permanent in adults are due to functional errors [Pg
in the development of the language during the period of infancy. If, for the attention which 280]
we pay to the correction of linguistic defects in children in the upper grades, we would
substitute a direction of the development of the language while the child is still young, our
results would be much more practical and valuable. In fact, many of the defects in
pronunciation arise from the use of a dialect, and these it is almost impossible to correct after
the period of childhood. They may, however, be most easily removed through the use of
educational methods especially adapted to the perfecting of the language in little children.
We do not speak here of actual linguistic defects related to anatomical or physiological
weaknesses, or to pathological facts which alter the function of the nervous system. I speak
at present only of those irregularities which are due to a repetition of incorrect sounds, or to
the imitation of imperfect pronunciation. Such defects may show themselves in the
pronunciation of any one of the consonant sounds, and I can conceive of no more practical
means for a methodical correction of speech defects than this exercise in pronunciation,
which is a necessary part in learning the graphic language through my method. But such
important questions deserve a chapter to themselves.
Turning directly to the method used in teaching writing, I may call attention to the fact
that it is contained in the two periods already described. Such exercises have made it
possible for the child to learn, and to fix, the muscular mechanism necessary to the proper
holding of the pen, and to the making of the graphic signs. If he has exercised himself for a
sufficiently long time in these exercises, he will be potentially ready to write all the letters of [Pg
the alphabet and all of the simple syllables, without ever having taken chalk or pencil in his 281]
hand.
We have, in addition to this, begun the teaching of reading at the same time that we have
been teaching writing. When we present a letter to the child and enunciate its sound, he fixes
the image of this letter by means of the visual sense, and also by means of the muscular-
tactile sense. He associates the sound with its relative sign; that is, he relates the sound to the
graphic sign. But when he sees and recognises, he reads; and when he traces, he writes.
Thus his mind receives as one, two acts, which, later on, as he develops, will separate,
coming to constitute the two diverse processes of reading and writing. By teaching these two
acts contemporaneously, or, better, by their fusion, we place the child before a new form of
language without determining which of the acts constituting it should be most prevalent.
We do not trouble ourselves as to whether the child in the development of this process,
first learns to read or to write, or if the one or the other will be the easier. We must rid
ourselves of all preconceptions, and must await from experience the answer to these
questions. We may expect that individual differences will show themselves in the prevalence
of one or the other act in the development of different children. This makes possible the most
interesting psychological study of the individual, and should broaden the work of this
method, which is based upon the free expansion of individuality.

THIRD PERIOD: EXERCISES FOR THE

COMPOSITION OF WORDS

Didactic Material. This consists chiefly of alphabets. The letters of the alphabet used here
are identical in form and dimension with the sandpaper ones already described, but these are [Pg
cut out of cardboard and are not mounted. In this way each letter represents an object which 282]
can be easily handled by the child and placed wherever he wishes it. There are several
examples of each letter, and I have designed cases in which the alphabets may be kept. These
cases or boxes are very shallow, and are divided and subdivided into many compartments, in
each one of which I have placed a group of four copies of the same letter. The compartments
are not equal in size, but are measured according to the dimensions of the letters themselves.
At the bottom of each compartment is glued a letter which is not to be taken out. This letter
is made of black cardboard and relieves the child of the fatigue of hunting about for the right
compartment when he is replacing the letters in the case after he has used them. The vowels
are cut from blue cardboard, and the consonants from red.
In addition to these alphabets we have a set of the capital letters mounted in sandpaper
upon cardboard, and another, in which they are cut from cardboard. The numbers are treated
in the same way.

(A) TRAINING THE SENSE OF TOUCH.

Learning the difference between rough and
smooth by running fingers alternately over
sandpaper and smooth cardboard;
distinguishing different shapes by fitting
geometric insets into place; distinguishing
textures. (B) LEARNING TO WRITE
AND READ BY TOUCH. The child at the
left is tracing sandpaper letters and
learning to know them by touch. The boy
and girl are making words out of
cardboard letters.
Exercises. As soon as the child knows some of the vowels and the consonants we place
before him the big box containing all the vowels and the consonants which he knows. The
directress pronounces very clearly a word; for example, "mama," brings out the sound of the
m very distinctly, repeating the sounds a number of times. Almost always the little one with
an impulsive movement seizes an m and places it upon the table. The directress repeats "ma
—ma." The child selects the a and places it near the m. He then composes the other syllable
very easily. But the reading of the word which he has composed is not so easy. Indeed, he [Pg
generally succeeds in reading it only after a certain effort. In this case I help the child, urging 283]
him to read, and reading the word with him once or twice, always pronouncing very
distinctly, mama, mama. But once he has understood the mechanism of the game, the child
goes forward by himself, and becomes intensely interested. We may pronounce any word,
taking care only that the child understands separately the letters of which it is composed. He
composes the new word, placing, one after the other, the signs corresponding to the sounds.

(A) CHILDREN TOUCHING LETTERS.

The child on the left has acquired lightness
and delicacy of touch by very thorough
preparatory exercises. The one on the right
has not had so much training. (B)
MAKING WORDS WITH CARDBOARD
SCRIPT.
It is most interesting indeed to watch the child at this work. Intensely attentive, he sits
watching the box, moving his lips almost imperceptibly, and taking one by one the necessary
letters, rarely committing an error in spelling. The movement of the lips reveals the fact that
he repeats to himself an infinite number of times the words whose sounds he is translating
into signs. Although the child is able to compose any word which is clearly pronounced, we
generally dictate to him only those words which are well-known, since we wish his
composition to result in an idea. When these familiar words are used, he spontaneously
rereads many times the word he has composed, repeating its sounds in a thoughtful,
contemplative way.
The importance of these exercises is very complex. The child analyses, perfects, fixes his
own spoken language,—placing an object in correspondence to every sound which he utters.
The composition of the word furnishes him with substantial proof of the necessity for clear
and forceful enunciation.
 The exercise, thus followed, associates the sound which is heard with the graphic sign
which represents it, and lays a most solid foundation for accurate and perfect spelling. [Pg
284]
In addition to this, the composition of the words is in itself an exercise of intelligence. The
word which is pronounced presents to the child a problem which he must solve, and he will
do so by remembering the signs, selecting them from among others, and arranging them in
the proper order. He will have the proof of the exact solution of his problem when he rereads
the word—this word which he has composed, and which represents for all those who know
how to read it, an idea.
When the child hears others read the word he has composed, he wears an expression of
satisfaction and pride, and is possessed by a species of joyous wonder. He is impressed by
this correspondence, carried on between himself and others by means of symbols. The
written language represents for him the highest attainment reached by his own intelligence,
and is at the same time, the reward of a great achievement.
When the pupil has finished the composition and the reading of the word we have him,
according to the habits of order which we try to establish in connection with all our work,
"put away" all the letters, each one in its own compartment. In composition, pure and simple,
therefore, the child unites the two exercises of comparison and of selection of the graphic
signs; the first, when from the entire box of letters before him he takes those necessary; the
second, when he seeks the compartment in which each letter must be replaced. There are,
then, three exercises united in this one effort, all three uniting to fix the image of the graphic
sign corresponding to the sounds of the word. The work of learning is in this case facilitated
in three ways, and the ideas are acquired in a third of the time which would have been [Pg
necessary with the old methods. We shall soon see that the child, on hearing the word, or on 285]
thinking of a word which he already knows, will see, with his mind's eye, all the letters,
necessary to compose the word, arrange themselves. He will reproduce this vision with a
facility most surprising to us. One day a little boy four years old, running alone about the
terrace, was heard to repeat many times, "To make Zaira, I must have z-a-i-r-a." Another
time, Professor Di Donato, in a visit to the "Children's House," pronounced his own name for
a four-year-old child. The child was composing the name, using small letters and making it
all one word, and had begun, thus—diton. The professor at once pronounced the word more
distinctly; di do nato, whereupon the child, without scattering the letters, picked up the
syllable to and placed it to one side, putting do in the empty space. He then placed an a after
the n, and, taking up the to which he had put aside, completed the word with it. This made it
evident that the child, when the word was pronounced more clearly, understood that the
syllable to did not belong at that place in the word, realised that it belonged at the end of the
word, and therefore placed it aside until he should need it. This was most surprising in a
child of four years, and amazed all of those present. It can be explained by the clear and, at
the same time, complex vision of the signs which the child must have, if he is to form a word
which he hears spoken. This extraordinary act was largely due to the orderly mentality which
the child had acquired through repeated spontaneous exercises tending to develop his
intelligence.
These three periods contain the entire method for the acquisition of written language. The
significance of such a method is clear. The psycho-physiological acts which unite to establish [Pg
reading and writing are prepared separately and carefully. The muscular movements peculiar 286]
to the making of the signs or letters are prepared apart, and the same is true of the
manipulation of the instrument of writing. The composition of the words, also, is reduced to
a psychic mechanism of association between images heard and seen. There comes a moment
in which the child, without thinking of it, fills in the geometric figures with an up and down
stroke, which is free and regular; a moment in which he touches the letters with closed eyes,
and in which he reproduces their form, moving his finger through the air; a moment in which
the composition of words has become a psychic impulse, which makes the child, even when
alone, repeat to himself "To make Zaira I must have z-a-i-r-a."
Now this child, it is true, has never written, but he has mastered all the acts necessary to
writing. The child who, when taking dictation, not only knows how to compose the word,
but instantly embraces in his thought its composition as a whole, will be able to write, since
he knows how to make, with his eyes closed, the movements necessary to produce these
letters, and since he manages almost unconsciously the instrument of writing.
More than this, the freedom with which the child has acquired this mechanical dexterity
makes it possible for the impulse or spirit to act at any time through the medium of his
mechanical ability. He should, sooner or later, come into his full power by way of a
spontaneous explosion into writing. This is, indeed, the marvellous reaction which has come
from my experiment with normal children. In one of the "Children's Houses," directed by
Signorina Bettini, I had been especially careful in the way in which writing was taught, and [Pg
we have had from this school most beautiful specimens of writing, and for this reason, 287]
perhaps I cannot do better than to describe the development of the work in this school.
One beautiful December day when the sun shone and the air was like spring, I went up on
the roof with the children. They were playing freely about, and a number of them were
gathered about me. I was sitting near a chimney, and said to a little five-year-old boy who sat
beside me, "Draw me a picture of this chimney," giving him as I spoke a piece of chalk. He
got down obediently and made a rough sketch of the chimney on the tiles which formed the
floor of this roof terrace. As is my custom with little children, I encouraged him, praising his
work. The child looked at me, smiled, remained for a moment as if on the point of bursting
into some joyous act, and then cried out, "I can write! I can write!" and kneeling down again
he wrote on the pavement the word "hand." Then, full of enthusiasm, he wrote also
"chimney," "roof." As he wrote, he continued to cry out, "I can write! I know how to write!"
His cries of joy brought the other children, who formed a circle about him, looking down at
his work in stupefied amazement. Two or three of them said to me, trembling with
excitement, "Give me the chalk. I can write too." And indeed they began to write various
words: mama, hand, John, chimney, Ada.
Not one of them had ever taken chalk or any other instrument in hand for the purpose of
writing. It was the first time that they had ever written, and they traced an entire word, as a
child, when speaking for the first time, speaks the entire word.
The first word spoken by a baby causes the mother ineffable joy. The child has chosen [Pg
perhaps the word "mother," seeming to render thus a tribute to maternity. The first word 288]
written by my little ones aroused within themselves an indescribable emotion of joy. Not
being able to adjust in their minds the connection between the preparation and the act, they
were possessed by the illusion that, having now grown to the proper size, they knew how to
write. In other words, writing seemed to them only one among the many gifts of nature.
They believe that, as they grow bigger and stronger, there will come some beautiful day
when they shall know how to write. And, indeed, this is what it is in reality. The child who
speaks, first prepares himself unconsciously, perfecting the psycho-muscular mechanism
which leads to the articulation of the word. In the case of writing, the child does almost the
same thing, but the direct pedagogical help and the possibility of preparing the movements
for writing in an almost material way, causes the ability to write to develop much more
rapidly and more perfectly than the ability to speak correctly.
In spite of the ease with which this is accomplished, the preparation is not partial, but
complete. The child possesses all the movements necessary for writing. And written
language develops not gradually, but in an explosive way; that is, the child can write any
word. Such was our first experience in the development of the written language in our
children. Those first days we were a prey to deep emotions. It seemed as if we walked in a
dream, and as if we assisted at some miraculous achievement.
The child who wrote a word for the first time was full of excited joy. He might be
compared to the hen who has just laid an egg. Indeed, no one could escape from the noisy [Pg
manifestations of the little one. He would call everyone to see, and if there were some who 289]
did not go, he ran to take hold of their clothes forcing them to come and see. We all had to go
and stand about the written word to admire the marvel, and to unite our exclamations of
surprise with the joyous cries of the fortunate author. Usually, this first word was written on
the floor, and, then, the child knelt down before it in order to be nearer to his work and to
contemplate it more closely.
After the first word, the children, with a species of frenzied joy, continued to write
everywhere. I saw children crowding about one another at the blackboard, and behind the
little ones who were standing on the floor another line would form consisting of children
mounted upon chairs, so that they might write above the heads of the little ones. In a fury at
being thwarted, other children, in order to find a little place where they might write,
overturned the chairs upon which their companions were mounted. Others ran toward the
window shutters or the door, covering them with writing. In these first days we walked upon
a carpet of written signs. Daily accounts showed us that the same thing was going on at
home, and some of the mothers, in order to save their pavements, and even the crust of their
loaves upon which they found words written, made their children presents of paper and
pencil. One of these children brought to me one day a little note-book entirely filled with
writing, and the mother told me that the child had written all day long and all evening, and
had gone to sleep in his bed with the paper and pencil in his hand.
This impulsive activity which we could not, in those first days control, made me think
upon the wisdom of Nature, who develops the spoken language little by little, letting it go [Pg
hand in hand with the gradual formation of ideas. Think of what the result would have been 290]
had Nature acted imprudently as I had done! Suppose Nature had first allowed the human
being to gather, by means of the senses, a rich and varied material, and to acquire a store of
ideas, and had then completely prepared in him the means for articulate language, saying
finally to the child, mute until that hour, "Go—Speak!" The result would have been a species
of sudden madness, under the influence of which the child, feeling no restraints, would have
burst into an exhausting torrent of the most strange and difficult words.
I believe, however, that there exists between the two extremes a happy medium which is
the true and practical way. We should lead the child more gradually to the conquest of
written language, yet we should still have it come as a spontaneous fact, and his work should
from the first be almost perfect.
Experience has shown us how to control this phenomenon, and how to lead the child more
calmly to this new power. The fact that the children see their companions writing, leads
them, through imitation, to write as soon as they can. In this way, when the child writes he
does not have the entire alphabet at his disposal, and the number of words which he can
write is limited. He is not even capable of making all of the words possible through a
combination of the letters which he does know. He still has the great joy of the first written
word, but this is no longer the source of an overwhelming surprise, since he sees just such
wonderful things happening each day, and knows that sooner or later the same gift will come
to all. This tends to create a calm and ordered environment, still full of beautiful and
wonderful surprises. [Pg
291]
Making a visit to the "Children's House," even during the opening weeks, one makes fresh
discoveries. Here, for instance, are two little children, who, though they fairly radiate pride
and joy, are writing tranquilly. Yet, these children, until yesterday, had never thought of
writing!
The directress tells me that one of them began to write yesterday morning at eleven
o'clock, the other, at three in the afternoon. We have come to accept the phenomenon with
calmness, and tacitly recognise it as a natural form of the child's development.
The wisdom of the teacher shall decide when it is necessary to encourage a child to write.
This can only be when he is already perfect in the three periods of the preparatory exercise,
and yet does not write of his own accord. There is danger that in retarding the act of writing,
the child may plunge finally into a tumultuous effort, due to the fact that he knows the entire
alphabet and has no natural check.
The signs by which the teacher may almost precisely diagnose the child's maturity in this
respect are: the regularity of the parallel lines which fill in the geometric figures; the
recognition with closed eyes of the sandpaper letters; the security and readiness shown in the
composition of words. Before intervening by means of a direct invitation to write, it is best
to wait at least a week in the hope that the child may write spontaneously. When he has
begun to write spontaneously the teacher may intervene to guide the progress of the writing.
The first help which she may give is that of ruling the blackboard, so that the child may be
led to maintain regularity and proper dimensions in his writing.
The second, is that of inducing the child, whose writing is not firm, to repeat the tracing of
the sandpaper letters. She should do this instead of directly correcting his actual writing, for [Pg
the child does not perfect himself by repeating the act of writing, but by repeating the acts 292]
preparatory to writing. I remember a little beginner who, wishing to make his blackboard
writing perfect, brought all of the sandpaper letters with him, and before writing touched two
or three times all of the letters needed in the words he wished to write. If a letter did not
seem to him to be perfect he erased it and retouched the letter upon the card before rewriting.
Our children, even after they have been writing for a year, continue to repeat the three
preparatory exercises. They thus learn both to write, and to perfect their writing, without
really going through the actual act. With our children, actual writing is a test; it springs from
an inner impulse, and from the pleasure of explaining a superior activity; it is not an
exercise. As the soul of the mystic perfects itself through prayer, even so in our little ones,
that highest expression of civilisation, written language, is acquired and improved through
exercises which are akin to, but which are not, writing.
There is educational value in this idea of preparing oneself before trying, and of perfecting
oneself before going on. To go forward correcting his own mistakes, boldly attempting
things which he does imperfectly, and of which he is as yet unworthy dulls the sensitiveness
of the child's spirit toward his own errors. My method of writing contains an educative
concept; teaching the child that prudence which makes him avoid errors, that dignity which
makes him look ahead, and which guides him to perfection, and that humility which unites
him closely to those sources of good through which alone he can make a spiritual conquest,
putting far from him the illusion that the immediate success is ample justification for [Pg
continuing in the way he has chosen. 293]

The fact that all the children, those who are just beginning the three exercises and those
who have been writing for months, daily repeat the same exercise, unites them and makes it
easy for them to meet upon an apparently equal plane. Here there are no distinctions of
beginners, and experts. All of the children fill in the figures with coloured pencils, touch the
sandpaper letters and compose words with the movable alphabets; the little ones beside the
big ones who help them. He who prepares himself, and he who perfects himself, both follow
the same path. It is the same way in life, for, deeper than any social distinction, there lies an
equality, a common meeting point, where all men are brothers, or, as in the spiritual life,
aspirants and saints again and again pass through the same experiences.
Writing is very quickly learned, because we begin to teach it only to those children who
show a desire for it by spontaneous attention to the lesson given by the directress to other
children, or by watching the exercises in which the others are occupied. Some individuals
learn without ever having received any lessons, solely through listening to the lessons given
to others.
In general, all children of four are intensely interested in writing, and some of our children
have begun to write at the age of three and a half. We find the children particularly
enthusiastic about tracing the sandpaper letters.
During the first period of my experiments, when the children were shown the alphabet for
the first time, I one day asked Signorina Bettini to bring out to the terrace where the children
were at play, all of the various letters which she herself had made. As soon as the children
saw them they gathered about us, their fingers outstretched in their eagerness to touch the [Pg
letters. Those who secured cards were unable to touch them properly because of the other 294]
children, who crowded about trying to reach the cards in our laps. I remember with what an
impulsive movement the possessors of the cards held them on high like banners, and began
to march, followed by all the other children who clapped their hands and cried out joyously.
The procession passed before us, and all, big and little, laughed merrily, while the mothers,
attracted by the noise, leaned from the windows to watch the sight.
The average time that elapses between the first trial of the preparatory exercises and the
first written word is, for children of four years, from a month to a month and a half. With
children of five years, the period is much shorter, being about a month. But one of our pupils
learned to use in writing all the letters of the alphabet in twenty days. Children of four years,
after they have been in school for two months and a half, can write any word from dictation,
and can pass to writing with ink in a note-book. Our little ones are generally experts after
three months' time, and those who have written for six months may be compared to the
children in the third elementary. Indeed, writing is one of the easiest and most delightful of
all the conquests made by the child.
If adults learned as easily as children under six years of age, it would be an easy matter to
do away with illiteracy. We would probably find two grave hinderances to the attainment of
such a brilliant success: the torpor of the muscular sense, and those permanent defects of
spoken language, which would be sure to translate themselves into the written language. I
have not made experiments along this line, but I believe that one school year would be
sufficient to lead an illiterate person, not only to write, but to express his thoughts in written [Pg
language. 295]

So much for the time necessary for learning. As to the execution, our children write well
from the moment in which they begin. The form of the letters, beautifully rounded and
flowing, is surprising in its similarity to the form of the sandpaper models. The beauty of our
writing is rarely equalled by any scholars in the elementary schools, who have not had
special exercises in penmanship. I have made a close study of penmanship, and I know how
difficult it would be to teach pupils of twelve or thirteen years to write an entire word
without lifting the pen, except for the few letters which require this. The up and down
strokes with which they have filled their copy-book make flowing writing almost impossible
to them.
Our little pupils, on the other hand, spontaneously, and with a marvellous security, write
entire words without lifting the pen, maintaining perfectly the slant of the letters, and making
the distance between each letter equal. This has caused more than one visitor to exclaim, "If I
had not seen it I should never have believed it." Indeed, penmanship is a superior form of
teaching and is necessary to correct defects already acquired and fixed. It is a long work, for
the child, seeing the model, must follow the movements necessary to reproduce it, while
there is no direct correspondence between the visual sensation and the movements which he
must make. Too often, penmanship is taught at an age when all the defects have become
established, and when the physiological period in which the muscular memory is ready, has
been passed.
We directly prepare the child, not only for writing, but also for penmanship, paying great
attention to the beauty of form (having the children touch the letters in script form) and to the [Pg
flowing quality of the letters. (The exercises in filling-in prepare for this.) 296]

READING

Didactic Material. The Didactic Material for the lessons in reading consists in slips of
paper or cards upon which are written in clear, large script, words and phrases. In addition to
these cards we have a great variety of toys.
Experience has taught me to distinguish clearly between writing and reading, and has
shown me that the two acts are not absolutely contemporaneous. Contrary to the usually
accepted idea, writing precedes reading. I do not consider as reading the test which the child
makes when he verifies the word that he has written. He is translating signs into sounds, as
he first translated sounds into signs. In this verification he already knows the word and has
repeated it to himself while writing it. What I understand by reading is the interpretation of
an idea from the written signs. The child who has not heard the word pronounced, and who
recognises it when he sees it composed upon the table with the cardboard letters, and who
can tell what it means; this child reads. The word which he reads has the same relation to
written language that the word which he hears bears to articulate language. Both serve to
receive the language transmitted to us by others. So, until the child reads a transmission of
ideas from the written word, he does not read.
We may say, if we like, that writing as described is a fact in which the psycho-motor
mechanism prevails, while in reading, there enters a work which is purely intellectual. But it
is evident how our method for writing prepares for reading, making the difficulties almost
imperceptible. Indeed, writing prepares the child to interpret mechanically the union of the [Pg
letter sounds of which the written word is composed. When a child in our school knows how 297]
to write, he knows how to read the sounds of which the word is composed. It should be
noticed, however, that when the child composes the words with the movable alphabet, or
when he writes, he has time to think about the signs which he must select to form the word.
The writing of a word requires a great deal more time than that necessary for reading the
same word.
The child who knows how to write, when placed before a word which he must interpret by
reading, is silent for a long time, and generally reads the component sounds with the same
slowness with which he would have written them. But the sense of the word becomes evident
only when it is pronounced clearly and with the phonetic accent. Now, in order to place the
phonetic accent the child must recognise the word; that is, he must recognise the idea which
the word represents. The intervention of a superior work of the intellect is necessary if he is
to read. Because of all this, I proceed in the following way with the exercises in reading, and,
as will be evident, I do away entirely with the old-time primer.
I prepare a number of little cards made from ordinary writing-paper. On each of these I
write in large clear script some well-known word, one which has already been pronounced
many times by the children, and which represents an object actually present or well known to
them. If the word refers to an object which is before them, I place this object under the eyes
of the child, in order to facilitate his interpretation of the word. I will say, in this connection,
the objects used in these writing games are for the most part toys of which we have a great
many in the "Children's Houses." Among these toys, are the furnishings of a doll's house, [Pg
balls, dolls, trees, flocks of sheep, or various animals, tin soldiers, railways, and an infinite 298]
variety of simple figures.
If writing serves to correct, or better, to direct and perfect the mechanism of the articulate
language of the child, reading serves to help the development of ideas, and relates them to
the development of the language. Indeed, writing aids the physiological language and
reading aids the social language.
We begin, then, as I have indicated, with the nomenclature, that is, with the reading of
names of objects which are well known or present.
There is no question of beginning with words that are easy or difficult, for the child
already knows how to read any word; that is, he knows how to read the sounds which
compose it. I allow the little one to translate the written word slowly into sounds, and if the
interpretation is exact, I limit myself to saying, "Faster." The child reads more quickly the
second time, but still often without understanding. I then repeat, "Faster, faster." He reads
faster each time, repeating the same accumulation of sounds, and finally the word bursts
upon his consciousness. Then he looks upon it as if he recognised a friend, and assumes that
air of satisfaction which so often radiates our little ones. This completes the exercise for
reading. It is a lesson which goes very rapidly, since it is only presented to a child who is
already prepared through writing. Truly, we have buried the tedious and stupid A B C primer
side by side with the useless copy-books!
When the child has read the word, he places the explanatory card under the object whose
name it bears, and the exercise is finished. [Pg
299]
One of our most interesting discoveries was made in the effort to devise a game through
which the children might, without effort, learn to read words. We spread out upon one of the
large tables a great variety of toys. Each one of them had a corresponding card upon which
the name of the toy was written. We folded these little cards and mixed them up in a basket,
and the children who knew how to read were allowed to take turns in drawing these cards
from the basket. Each child had to carry his card back to his desk, unfold it quietly, and read
it mentally, not showing it to those about him. He then had to fold it up again, so that the
secret which it contained should remain unknown. Taking the folded card in his hand, he
went to the table. He had then to pronounce clearly the name of a toy and present the card to
the directress in order that she might verify the word he had spoken. The little card thus
became current coin with which he might acquire the toy he had named. For, if he
pronounced the word clearly and indicated the correct object, the directress allowed him to
take the toy, and to play with it as long as he wished.
When each child had had a turn, the directress called the first child and let him draw a card
from another basket. This card he read as soon as he had drawn it. It contained the name of
one of his companions who did not yet know how to read, and for that reason could not have
a toy. The child who had read the name then offered to his little friend the toy with which he
had been playing. We taught the children to present these toys in a gracious and polite way,
accompanying the act with a bow. In this way we did away with every idea of class
distinction, and inspired the sentiment of kindness toward those who did not possess the
same blessings as ourselves. This reading game proceeded in a marvellous way. The [Pg
contentment of these poor children in possessing even for a little while such beautiful toys 300]
can be easily imagined.
But what was my amazement, when the children, having learned to understand the written
cards, refused to take the toys! They explained that they did not wish to waste time in
playing, and, with a species of insatiable desire, preferred to draw out and read the cards one
after another!
I watched them, seeking to understand the secret of these souls, of whose greatness I had
been so ignorant! As I stood in meditation among the eager children, the discovery that it
was knowledge they loved, and not the silly game, filled me with wonder and made me think
of the greatness of the human soul!
We therefore put away the toys, and set about making hundreds of written slips,
containing names of children, cities, and objects; and also of colours and qualities known
through the sense exercises. We placed these slips in open boxes, which we left where the
children could make free use of them. I expected that childish inconstancy would at least
show itself in a tendency to pass from one box to another; but no, each child finished
emptying the box under his hand before passing to another, being verily insatiable in the
desire to read.
Coming into the school one day, I found that the directress had allowed the children to
take the tables and chairs out upon the terrace, and was having school in the open air. A
number of little ones were playing in the sun, while others were seated in a circle about the
tables containing the sandpaper letters and the movable alphabet.
A little apart sat the directress, holding upon her lap a long narrow box full of written [Pg
slips, and all along the edge of her box were little hands, fishing for the beloved cards. "You 301]
may not believe me," said the directress, "but it is more than an hour since we began this,
and they are not satisfied yet!" We tried the experiment of bringing balls, and dolls to the
children, but without result; such futilities had no power beside the joys of knowledge.
Seeing these surprising results, I had already thought of testing the children with print, and
had suggested that the directress print the word under the written word upon a number of
slips. But the children forestalled us! There was in the hall a calendar upon which many of
the words were printed in clear type, while others were done in Gothic characters. In their
mania for reading the children began to look at this calendar, and, to my inexpressible
amazement, read not only the print, but the Gothic script.
There therefore remained nothing but the presentation of a book, and I did not feel that
any of those available were suited to our method.
The mothers soon had proofs of the progress of their children; finding in the pockets of
some of them little slips of paper upon which were written rough notes of marketing done;
bread, salt, etc. Our children were making lists of the marketing they did for their mothers!
Other mothers told us that their children no longer ran through the streets, but stopped to
read the signs over the shops.
A four-year-old boy, educated in a private house by the same method, surprised us in the
following way. The child's father was a Deputy, and received many letters. He knew that his
son had for two months been taught by means of exercises apt to facilitate the learning of
reading and writing, but he had paid slight attention to it, and, indeed, put little faith in the [Pg
method. One day, as he sat reading, with the boy playing near, a servant entered, and placed 302]
upon the table a large number of letters that had just arrived. The little boy turned his
attention to these, and holding up each letter read aloud the address. To his father this
seemed a veritable miracle.
 As to the average time required for learning to read and write, experience would seem to
show that, starting from the moment in which the child writes, the passage from such an
inferior stage of the graphic language to the superior state of reading averages a fortnight.
Security in reading is, however, arrived at much more slowly than perfection in writing. In
the greater majority of cases the child who writes beautifully, still reads rather poorly.
Not all children of the same age are at the same point in this matter of reading and writing.
We not only do not force a child, but we do not even invite him, or in any way attempt to
coax him to do that which he does not wish to do. So it sometimes happens that certain
children, not having spontaneously presented themselves for these lessons, are left in peace,
and do not know how to read or write.
If the old-time method, which tyrannized over the will of the child and destroyed his
spontaneity, does not believe in making a knowledge of written language obligatory before
the age of six, much less do we!
I am not ready to decide, without a wider experience, whether the period when the spoken
language is fully developed is, in every case, the proper time for beginning to develop the
written language.
In any case, almost all of the normal children treated with our method begin to write at [Pg
four years, and at five know how to read and write, at least as well as children who have 303]
finished the first elementary. They could enter the second elementary a year in advance of the
time when they are admitted to first.
Games for the Reading of Phrases. As soon as my friends saw that the children could read
print, they made me gifts of beautifully illustrated books. Looking through these books of
simple fairy lore, I felt sure that the children would not be able to understand them. The
teachers, feeling entirely satisfied as to the ability of their pupils, tried to show me I was
wrong, having different children read to me, and saying that they read much more perfectly
than the children who had finished the second elementary.
I did not, however, allow myself to be deceived, and made two trials. I first had the teacher
tell one of the stories to the children while I observed to what extent they were
spontaneously interested in it. The attention of the children wandered after a few words. I
had forbidden the teacher to recall to order those who did not listen, and thus, little by little,
a hum arose in the schoolroom, due to the fact that each child, not caring to listen had
returned to his usual occupation.
It was evident that the children, who seemed to read these books with such pleasure, did
not take pleasure in the sense, but enjoyed the mechanical ability they had acquired, which
consisted in translating the graphic signs into the sounds of a word they recognised. And,
indeed, the children did not display the same constancy in the reading of books which they
showed toward the written slips, since in the books they met with so many unfamiliar words. [Pg
304]
My second test, was to have one of the children read the book to me. I did not interrupt
with any of those explanatory remarks by means of which a teacher tries to help the child
follow the thread of the story he is reading, saying for example: "Stop a minute. Do you
understand? What have you read? You told me how the little boy went to drive in a big
carriage, didn't you? Pay attention to what the book says, etc."
I gave the book to a little boy, sat down beside him in a friendly fashion, and when he had
read I asked him simply and seriously as one would speak to a friend, "Did you understand
what you were reading?" He replied: "No." But the expression of his face seemed to ask an
explanation of my demand. In fact, the idea that through the reading of a series of words the
complex thoughts of others might be communicated to us, was to be for my children one of
the beautiful conquests of the future, a new source of surprise and joy.
The book has recourse to logical language, not to the mechanism of the language. Before
the child can understand and enjoy a book, the logical language must be established in him.
Between knowing how to read the words, and how to read the sense, of a book there lies the
same distance that exists between knowing how to pronounce a word and how to make a
speech. I, therefore, stopped the reading from books and waited.
One day, during a free conversation period, four children arose at the same time and with
expressions of joy on their faces ran to the blackboard and wrote phrases upon the order of
the following:
"Oh, how glad we are that our garden has begun to bloom." It was a great surprise for me,
and I was deeply moved. These children had arrived spontaneously at the art of composition, [Pg
just as they had spontaneously written their first word. 305]

The mechanical preparation was the same, and the phenomenon developed logically.
Logical articulate language had, when the time was ripe, provoked the corresponding
explosion in written language.
I understood that the time had come when we might proceed to the reading of phrases. I
had recourse to the means used by the children; that is, I wrote upon the blackboard, "Do you
love me?" The children read it slowly aloud, were silent for a moment as if thinking, then
cried out, "Yes! Yes!" I continued to write; "Then make the silence, and watch me." They
read this aloud, almost shouting, but had barely finished when a solemn silence began to
establish itself, interrupted only by the sounds of the chairs as the children took positions in
which they could sit quietly. Thus began between me and them a communication by means
of written language, a thing which interested the children intensely. Little by little, they
discovered the great quality of writing—that it transmits thought. Whenever I began to write,
they fairly trembled in their eagerness to understand what was my meaning without hearing
me speak a word.
Indeed, graphic language does not need spoken words. It can only be understood in all its
greatness when it is completely isolated from spoken language.
This introduction to reading was followed by the following game, which is greatly
enjoyed by the children. Upon a number of cards I wrote long sentences describing certain
actions which the children were to carry out; for example, "Close the window blinds; open
the front door; then wait a moment, and arrange things as they were at first." "Very politely
ask eight of your companions to leave their chairs, and to form in double file in the centre of [Pg
the room, then have them march forward and back on tiptoe, making no noise." "Ask three of 306]
your oldest companions who sing nicely, if they will please come into the centre of the room.
Arrange them in a nice row, and sing with them a song that you have selected," etc., etc. As
soon as I finished writing, the children seized the cards, and taking them to their seats read
them spontaneously with great intensity of attention, and all amid the most complete silence.
I asked then, "Do you understand?" "Yes! Yes!" "Then do what the card tells you," said I,
and was delighted to see the children rapidly and accurately follow the chosen action. A
great activity, a movement of a new sort, was born in the room. There were those who closed
the blinds, and then reopened them; others who made their companions run on tiptoe, or
sing; others wrote upon the blackboard, or took certain objects from the cupboards. Surprise
and curiosity produced a general silence, and the lesson developed amid the most intense
interest. It seemed as if some magic force had gone forth from me stimulating an activity
hitherto unknown. This magic was graphic language, the greatest conquest of civilisation.
 And how deeply the children understood the importance of it! When I went out, they
gathered about me with expressions of gratitude and affection, saying, "Thank you! Thank
you! Thank you for the lesson!"
This has become one of the favourite games: We first establish profound silence, then
present a basket containing folded slips, upon each one of which is written a long phrase
describing an action. All those children who know how to read may draw a slip, and read it
mentally once or twice until they are certain they understand it. They then give the slip back [Pg
to the directress and set about carrying out the action. Since many of these actions call for 307]
the help of the other children who do not know how to read, and since many of them call for
the handling and use of the materials, a general activity develops amid marvellous order,
while the silence is only interrupted by the sound of little feet running lightly, and by the
voices of the children who sing. This is an unexpected revelation of the perfection of
spontaneous discipline.
Experience has shown us that composition must precede logical reading, as writing
preceded the reading of the word. It has also shown that reading, if it is to teach the child to
receive an idea, should be mental and not vocal.
Reading aloud implies the exercise of two mechanical forms of the language—articulate
and graphic—and is, therefore, a complex task. Who does not know that a grown person who
is to read a paper in public prepares for this by making himself master of the content?
Reading aloud is one of the most difficult intellectual actions. The child, therefore, who
begins to read by interpreting thought should read mentally. The written language must
isolate itself from the articulate, when it rises to the interpretation of logical thought. Indeed,
it represents the language which transmits thought at a distance, while the senses and the
muscular mechanism are silent. It is a spiritualised language, which puts into communication
all men who know how to read.

Education having reached such a point in the "Children's Houses," the entire elementary
school must, as a logical consequence, be changed. How to reform the lower grades in the
elementary schools, eventually carrying them on according to our methods, is a great [Pg
question which cannot be discussed here. I can only say that the first elementary would be 308]
completely done away with by our infant education, which includes it.
The elementary classes in the future should begin with children such as ours who know
how to read and write; children who know how to take care of themselves; how to dress and
undress, and to wash themselves; children who are familiar with the rules of good conduct
and courtesy, and who are thoroughly disciplined in the highest sense of the term, having
developed, and become masters of themselves, through liberty; children who possess,
besides a perfect mastery of the articulate language, the ability to read written language in an
elementary way, and who begin to enter upon the conquest of logical language.
These children pronounce clearly, write in a firm hand, and are full of grace in their
movements. They are the earnest of a humanity grown in the cult of beauty—the infancy of
an all-conquering humanity, since they are intelligent and patient observers of their
environment, and possess in the form of intellectual liberty the power of spontaneous
reasoning.
For such children, we should found an elementary school worthy to receive them and to
guide them further along the path of life and of civilisation, a school loyal to the same
educational principles of respect for the freedom of the child and for his spontaneous
manifestations—principles which shall form the personality of these little men. [Pg
 309]

Example of writing done with pen, by a child five years. One-fourth

reduction.
Translation: "We would like to wish a joyous Easter to the civil engineer
Edoardo Talamo and the Princess Maria. We will ask them to bring their
pretty children here. Leave it to me: I will write for all. April 7, 1909."

[Pg
CHAPTER XVIII 310]

LANGUAGE IN CHILDHOOD
Graphic language, comprising dictation and reading, contains articulate language in its
complete mechanism (auditory channels, central channels, motor channels), and, in the
manner of development called forth by my method, is based essentially on articulate
language.
Graphic language, therefore, may be considered from two points of view:
 (a) That of the conquest of a new language of eminent social importance which adds itself
to the articulate language of natural man; and this is the cultural significance which is
commonly given to graphic language, which is therefore taught in the schools without any
consideration of its relation to spoken language, but solely with the intention of offering to
the social being a necessary instrument in his relations with his fellows.
(b) That of the relation between graphic and articulate language and, in this relation, of an
eventual possibility of utilising the written language to perfect the spoken: a new
consideration upon which I wish to insist and which gives to graphic language a
physiological importance.
Moreover, as spoken language is at the same time a natural function of man and an
instrument which he utilises for social ends, so written language may be considered in itself,
in its formation, as an organic ensemble of new mechanisms which are established in the [Pg
nervous system, and as an instrument which may be utilised for social ends. 311]

In short, it is a question of giving to written language not only a physiological importance,

but also a period of development independent of the high functions which it is destined to
perform later.
It seems to me that graphic language bristles with difficulties in its beginning, not only
because it has heretofore been taught by irrational methods, but because we have tried to
make it perform, as soon as it has been acquired, the high function of teaching the written
language which has been fixed by centuries of perfecting in a civilised people.
Think how irrational have been the methods we have used! We have analysed the graphic
signs rather than the physiological acts necessary to produce the alphabetical signs; and this
without considering that any graphic sign is difficult to achieve, because the visual
representation of the signs have no hereditary connection with the motor representations
necessary for producing them; as, for example, the auditory representations of the word have
with the motor mechanism of the articulate language. It is, therefore, always a difficult thing
to provoke a stimulative motor action unless we have already established the movement
before the visual representation of the sign is made. It is a difficult thing to arouse an activity
that shall produce a motion unless that motion shall have been previously established by
practice and by the power of habit.
Thus, for example, the analysis of writing into little straight lines and curves has brought
us to present to the child a sign without significance, which therefore does not interest him, [Pg
and whose representation is incapable of determining a spontaneous motor impulse. The 312]
artificial act constituted, therefore, an effort of the will which resulted for the child in rapid
exhaustion exhibited in the form of boredom and suffering. To this effort was added the
effort of constituting synchronously the muscular associations co-ordinating the movements
necessary to the holding and manipulating the instrument of writing.
All sorts of depressing feelings accompanied such efforts and conduced to the production
of imperfect and erroneous signs which the teachers had to correct, discouraging the child
still more with the constant criticism of the error and of the imperfection of the signs traced.
Thus, while the child was urged to make an effort, the teacher depressed rather than revived
his psychical forces.
Although such a mistaken course was followed, the graphic language, so painfully
learned, was nevertheless to be immediately utilised for social ends; and, still imperfect and
immature, was made to do service in the syntactical construction of the language, and in the
ideal expression of the superior psychic centres. One must remember that in nature the
spoken language is formed gradually; and it is already established in words when the
superior psychic centres use these words in what Kussmaul calls dictorium, in the syntactical
grammatical formation of language which is necessary to the expression of complex ideas;
that is, in the language of the logical mind.
In short the mechanism of language is a necessary antecedent of the higher psychic
activities which are to utilise it.
There are, therefore, two periods in the
development of language: a lower one
which prepares the nervous channel and the [Pg
central mechanisms which are to put the 313]
sensory channels in relation with the motor
channels; and a higher one determined by
the higher psychic activities which are
exteriorized by means of the preformed
mechanisms of language.
Thus for example in the scheme which
Kussmaul gives on the mechanism of
articulate language we must first of all
distinguish a sort of cerebral diastaltic arc
(representing the pure mechanism of the
word), which is established in the first
formation of the spoken language. Let E
be the ear, and T the motor organs of
speech, taken as a whole and here
represented by the tongue, A the auditory
centre of speech, and M the motor centre.
The channels EA and MT are peripheral
channels, the former centripetal and the
latter centrifugal, and the channel AM is
the inter-central channel of association.
The centre A in which reside the auditive images of words may be again subdivided into
three, as in the following scheme, viz.: Sound (So), syllables (Sy), and words (W).
That partial centres for sounds and syllables can really be formed, the pathology of
language seems to establish, for in some forms of centro-sensory dysphasia, the patients can
pronounce only sounds, or at most sounds and syllables.
Small children, too, are, at the beginning, particularly sensitive to simple sounds of
language, with which indeed, and especially with s, their mothers caress them and attract
their attention; while later the child is sensitive to syllables, with which also the mother [Pg
caresses him, saying: "ba, ba, punf, tuf!" 314]

Finally it is the simple word, dissyllabic in most cases, which attracts the child's attention.
But for the motor centres also the same thing may be repeated; the child utters at the
beginning simple or double sounds, as for example bl, gl, ch, an expression which the
mother greets with joy; then distinctly syllabic sounds begin to manifest themselves in the
child: ga, ba; and, finally, the dissyllabic word, usually labial: mama.
We say that the spoken language begins with the child when the word pronounced by him
signifies an idea; when for example, seeing his mother and recognising her he says
"mamma;" and seeing a
 dog says, "tettè;" and
wishing to eat says:
"pappa."
Thus we consider
language begun when it
is established in relation
to perception; while the
language itself is still, in
its psycho-motor
mechanism, perfectly
rudimentary.
That is, when above
the diastaltic arc where
the mechanical
formation of the
language is still
unconscious, the
recognition of the word
takes place, that is, the
word is perceived and
associated with the object which it represents,
language is considered to have begun.
On this level, later, language continues the
process of perfecting in proportion as the
hearing perceives better the component sounds
of the words and the psycho-motor channels
become more permeable to articulation. [Pg
315]
This is the first stage of spoken language,
which has its own beginning and its own
development, leading, through the perceptions,
to the perfecting of the primordial mechanism of the language itself; and at this stage
precisely is established what we call articulate language, which will later be the means
which the adult will have at his disposal to express his own thoughts, and which the adult
will have great difficulty in perfecting or correcting when it has once been established: in
fact a high stage of culture sometimes accompanies an imperfect articulate language which
prevents the æsthetic expression of one's thought.
The development of articulate language takes place in the period between the age of two
and the age of seven: the age of perceptions in which the attention of the child is
spontaneously turned towards external objects, and the memory is particularly tenacious. It is
the age also of motility in which all the psycho-motor channels are becoming permeable and
the muscular mechanisms establish themselves. In this period of life by the mysterious bond
between the auditory channel and the motor channel of the spoken language it would seem
that the auditory perceptions have the direct power of provoking the complicated movements
of articulate speech which develop instinctively after such stimuli as if awaking from the
slumber of heredity. It is well known that it is only at this age that it is possible to acquire all
the characteristic modulations of a language which it would be vain to attempt to establish
later. The mother tongue alone is well pronounced because it was established in the period of
childhood; and the adult who learns to speak a new language must bring to it the
imperfections characteristic of the foreigner's speech: only children who under the age of [Pg
seven years learn several languages at the same time can receive and reproduce all the 316]
characteristic mannerisms of accent and pronunciation.
Thus also the defects acquired in childhood such as dialectic defects or those established
by bad habits, become indelible in the adult.
What develops later, the superior language, the dictorium, no longer has its origin in the
mechanism of language but in the intellectual development which makes use of the
mechanical language. As the articulate language develops by the exercise of its mechanism
and is enriched by perception, the dictorium develops with syntax and is enriched by
intellectual culture. Going back to the scheme of language we see that above the arc which
defines the lower language, is established the dictorium, D,—from which now come the
motor impulses of speech—which is established as spoken language fit to manifest the
ideation of the intelligent man; this language will be enriched little by little by intellectual
culture and perfected by the grammatical study of syntax.
Hitherto, as a result of a preconception, it
has been believed that written language
should enter only into the development of the
dictorium, as the suitable means for the
acquisition of culture and of permitting
grammatical analysis and construction of the
language. Since "spoken words have wings"
it has been admitted that intellectual culture
could only proceed by the aid of a language
which was stable, objective, and capable of
being analysed, such as the graphic language. [Pg
317]
But why, when we acknowledge the
graphic language as a precious, nay
indispensable, instrument of intellectual
education, for the reason that it fixes the ideas
of men and permits of their analysis and of their assimilation in books, where they remain
indelibly written as an ineffaceable memory of words which are therefore always present and
by which we can analyse the syntactical structure of the language, why shall we not
acknowledge that it is useful in the more humble task of fixing the words which represent
perception and of analysing their component sounds?
Compelled by a pedagogical prejudice we are unable to separate the idea of a graphic
language from that of a function which heretofore we have made it exclusively perform; and
it seems to us that by teaching such a language to children still in the age of simple
perceptions and of motility we are committing a serious psychological and pedagogical error.
But let us rid ourselves of this prejudice and consider the graphic language in itself,
reconstructing its psycho-physiological mechanism. It is far more simple than the psycho-
physiological mechanism of the articulate language, and is far more directly accessible to
education.
Writing especially is surprisingly simple. For let us consider dictated writing: we have a
perfect parallel with spoken language since a motor action must correspond with heard
speech. Here there does not exist, to be sure, the mysterious hereditary relations between the
heard speech and the articulate speech; but the movements of writing are far simpler than
those necessary to the spoken word, and are performed by large muscles, all external, upon [Pg
which we can directly act, rendering the motor channels permeable, and establishing psycho- 318]
muscular mechanisms.
 This indeed is what is done by my method, which prepares the movements directly; so that
the psycho-motor impulse of the heard speech finds the motor channels already established,
and is manifested in the act of writing, like an explosion.
The real difficulty is in the interpretation of the graphic signs; but we must remember that
we are in the age of perceptions, where the sensations and the memory as well as the
primitive associations are involved precisely in the characteristic progress of natural
development. Moreover our children are already prepared by various exercises of the senses,
and by methodical construction of ideas and mental associations to perceive the graphic
signs; something like a patrimony of perceptive ideas offers material to the language in the
process of development. The child who recognises a triangle and calls it a triangle can
recognise a letter s and denominate it by the sound s. This is obvious.
Let us not talk of premature teaching; ridding ourselves of prejudices, let us appeal to
experience which shows that in reality children proceed without effort, nay rather with
evident manifestations of pleasure to the recognition of graphic signs presented as objects.
And with this premise let us consider the
relations between the mechanisms of the two
languages.
The child of three or four has already long
begun his articulate language according to our
scheme. But he finds himself in the period in
which the mechanism of articulate language is [Pg
being perfected; a period contemporary with 319]
that in which he is acquiring a content of
language along with the patrimony of
perception.
The child has perhaps not heard perfectly in all their component parts the words which he
pronounces, and, if he has heard them perfectly, they may have been pronounced badly, and
consequently have left an erroneous auditory perception. It would be well that the child, by
exercising the motor channels of articulate language should establish exactly the movements
necessary to a perfect articulation, before the age of easy motor adaptations is passed, and,
by the fixation of erroneous mechanisms, the defects become incorrigible.
To this end the analysis of speech is
necessary. As when we wish to perfect the
language we first start children at
composition and then pass to grammatical
study; and when we wish to perfect the
style we first teach to write grammatically
and then come to the analysis of style—so
when we wish to perfect the speech it is
first necessary that the speech exist, and
then it is proper to proceed to its analysis.
When, therefore, the child speaks, but
before the completion of the development
of speech which renders it fixed in
mechanisms already established, the speech
should be analysed with a view to
perfecting it.
Now, as grammar and rhetoric are not
possible with the spoken language but demand recourse to the written language which keeps
ever before the eye the discourse to be analysed, so it is with speech.
The analysis of the transient is impossible.
The language must be materialised and made stable. Hence the necessity of the written
word or the word represented by graphic signs. [Pg
320]
In the third stage of my method for writing, that is, composition of speech, is included the
analysis of the word not only into signs, but into the component sounds; the signs
representing its translation. The child, that is, divides the heard word which he perceives
integrally as a word, knowing also its meanings, into sounds and syllables.
Let me call attention to the following diagram which represents the interrelation of the two
mechanisms for writing and for articulate speech.

The peripheric channels are indicated by heavy lines; the central channels of association by dotted
lines; and those referring to association in relation to the development of the heard speech by light
lines.
E ear; So auditory centre of sounds; Sy auditory centre of syllables; W auditory centre of word; M
motor centre of the articulate speech; T external organs of articulate speech (tongue); H external organs
of writing (hand); MC motor centre of writing; VC visual centre of graphic signs; V organ of vision.
Whereas in the development of spoken language the sound composing the word might be
imperfectly perceived, here in the teaching of the graphic sign corresponding to the sound
(which teaching consists in presenting to the child a sandpaper letter, naming it distinctly and
making the child see it and touch it), not only is the perception of the heard sound clearly [Pg
fixed—separately and clearly—but this perception is associated with two others: the centro- 321]
motor perception and the centro-visual perception of the written sign.
The triangle VC, MC, So represents the association of three sensations in relation with the
analysis of speech.
When the letter is presented to the child and he is made to touch and see it, while it is
being named, the centripetal channels ESo; H, MC, So; V, VC, So are acting and when the
child is made to name the letter, alone or accompanied by a vowel, the external stimulus acts
in V and passes through the channels V, VC, So, M, T; and V, CV, So, Sy, M, T.
When these channels of association have been established by presenting visual stimuli in
the graphic sign, the corresponding movements of articulate language can be provoked and
studied one by one in their defects; while, by maintaining the visual stimulus of the graphic
sign which provokes articulation and accompanying it by the auditory stimulus of the
corresponding sound uttered by the teacher, their articulation can be perfected; this
articulation is by innate conditions connected with the heard speech; that is, in the course of
the pronunciation provoked by the visual stimulus, and during the repetition of the relative
movements of the organs of language, the auditory stimulus which is introduced into the
exercise contributes to the perfecting of the pronunciation of the isolated or syllabic sounds
composing the spoken word.
When later the child writes under dictation, translating into signs the sounds of speech, he
analyses the heard speech into its sounds, translating them into graphic movements through [Pg
channels already rendered permeable by the corresponding muscular sensations. 322]

DEFECTS OF LANGUAGE DUE TO LACK OF

EDUCATION

Defects and imperfections of language are in part due to organic causes, consisting in
malformations or in pathological alterations of the nervous system; but in part they are
connected with functional defects acquired in the period of the formation of language and
consist in an erratic pronunciation of the component sounds of the spoken word. Such errors
are acquired by the child who hears words imperfectly pronounced, or hears bad speech, The
dialectic accent enters into this category; but there also enter vicious habits which make the
natural defects of the articulate language of childhood persist in the child, or which provoke
in him by imitation the defects of language peculiar to the persons who surrounded him in
his childhood.
The normal defects of child language are due to the fact that the complicated muscular
agencies of the organs of articulate language do not yet function well and are consequently
incapable of reproducing the sound which was the sensory stimulus of a certain innate
movement. The association of the movements necessary to the articulation of the spoken
words is established little by little. The result is a language made of words with sounds
which are imperfect and often lacking (whence incomplete words). Such defects are grouped
under the name blæsitas and are especially due to the fact that the child is not yet capable of
directing the movements of his tongue. They comprise chiefly: sigmatism or imperfect
pronunciation of s; rhotacism or imperfect pronunciation of r; lambdacism or imperfect
pronunciation of l; gammacism or imperfect pronunciation, of g; iotacism, defective [Pg
pronunciation of the gutturals; mogilalia, imperfect pronunciation of the labials, and 323]
according to some authors, as Preyer, mogilalia is made to include also the suppression of
the first sound of a word.
Some defects of pronunciation which concern the utterance of the vowel sound as well as
that of the consonant are due to the fact that the child reproduces perfectly sounds
imperfectly heard.
In the first case, then, it is a matter of functional insufficiencies of the peripheral motor
organ and hence of the nervous channels, and the cause lies in the individual; whereas in the
second case the error is caused by the auditory stimulus and the cause lies outside.
These defects often persist, however attenuated, in the boy and the adult: and produce
finally an erroneous language to which will later be added in writing orthographical errors,
such for example as dialectic orthographical errors.
If one considers the charm of human speech one is bound to acknowledge the inferiority
of one who does not possess a correct spoken language; and an æsthetic conception in
education cannot be imagined unless special care be devoted to perfecting articulate
language. Although the Greeks had transmitted to Rome the art of educating in language,
this practice was not resumed by Humanism which cared more for the æsthetics of the
environment and the revival of artistic works than for the perfecting of the man.
To-day we are just beginning to introduce the practice of correcting by pedagogical
methods the serious defects of language, such as stammering; but the idea of linguistic
gymnastics tending to its perfection has not yet penetrated into our schools as a universal [Pg
method, and as a detail of the great work of the æsthetic perfecting of man. 324]

Some teachers of deaf mutes and intelligent devotees of orthophony are trying nowadays
with small practical success to introduce into the elementary schools the correction of the
various forms of blæsitas, as a result of statistical studies which have demonstrated the wide
diffusion of such defects among the pupils. The exercises consist essentially in silence cures
which procure calm and repose for the organs of language, and in patient repetition of the
separate vowel and consonant sounds; to these exercises is added also respiratory
gymnastics. This is not the place to describe in detail the methods of these exercises which
are long and patient and quite out of harmony with the teachings of the school. But in my
methods are to be found all exercises for the corrections of language:
(a) Exercises of Silence, which prepare the nervous channels of language to receive new
stimuli perfectly;
(b) Lessons which consist first of the distinct pronunciation by the teacher of few words
(especially of nouns which must be associated with a concrete idea); by this means clear and
perfect auditory stimuli of language are started, stimuli which are repeated by the teacher
when the child has conceived the idea of the object represented by the word (recognition of
the object); finally of the provocation of articulate language on the part of the child who must
repeat that word alone aloud, pronouncing its separate sounds;
(c) Exercises in Graphic Language, which analyse the sounds of speech and cause them to
be repeated separately in several ways: that is, when the child learns the separate letters of
the alphabet and when he composes or writes words, repeating their sounds which he [Pg
translates separately into composed or written speech; 325]

(d) Gymnastic Exercises, which comprise, as we have seen, both respiratory exercises and
those of articulation.
I believe that in the schools of the future the conception will disappear which is beginning
to-day of "correcting in the elementary schools" the defects of language; and will be
replaced by the more rational one of avoiding them by caring for the development of
language in the "Children's Houses"; that is, in the very age in which language is being
established in the child.

[Pg
CHAPTER XIX 326]

TEACHING OF NUMERATION; INTRODUCTION TO

ARITHMETIC
 Children of three years already know how to count as far as two or three when they enter
our schools. They therefore very easily learn numeration, which consists in counting objects.
A dozen different ways may serve toward this end, and daily life presents many
opportunities; when the mother says, for instance, "There are two buttons missing from your
apron," or "We need three more plates at table."
One of the first means used by me, is that of counting with money. I obtain new money,
and if it were possible I should have good reproductions made in cardboard. I have seen such
money used in a school for deficients in London.
The making of change is a form of numeration so attractive as to hold the attention of the
child. I present the one, two, and four centime pieces and the children, in this way learn to
count to ten.
No form of instruction is more practical than that tending to make children familiar with
the coins in common use, and no exercise is more useful than that of making change. It is so
closely related to daily life that it interests all children intensely.
Having taught numeration in this empiric mode, I pass to more methodical exercises,
having as didactic material one of the sets of blocks already used in the education of the [Pg
senses; namely, the series of ten rods heretofore used for the teaching of length. The shortest 327]
of these rods corresponds to a decimetre, the longest to a metre, while the intervening rods
are divided into sections a decimetre in length. The sections are painted alternately red and
blue.

Some day, when a child has arranged the rods, placing them in order of length, we have
him count the red and blue signs, beginning with the smallest piece; that is, one; one, two;
one, two, three, etc., always going back to one in the counting of each rod, and starting from
the side A. We then have him name the single rods from the shortest to the longest,
according to the total number of the sections which each contains, touching the rods at the
sides B, on which side the stair ascends. This results in the same numeration as when we [Pg
counted the longest rod—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Wishing to know the number of rods, we 328]
count them from the side A and the same numeration results; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. This
correspondence of the three sides of the triangle causes the child to verify his knowledge and
as the exercise interests him he repeats it many times.
We now unite to the exercises in numeration the earlier, sensory exercises in which the
child recognised the long and short rods. Having mixed the rods upon a carpet, the directress
selects one, and showing it to the child, has him count the sections; for example, 5. She then
asks him to give her the one next in length. He selects it by his eye, and the directress has
him verify his choice by placing the two pieces side by side and by counting their sections.
Such exercises may be repeated in great variety and through them the child learns to assign a
particular name to each one of the pieces in the long stair. We may now call them piece
number one; piece number two, etc., and finally, for brevity, may speak of them in the
lessons as one, two, three, etc.

THE NUMBERS AS REPRESENTED BY THE

GRAPHIC SIGNS

At this point, if the child already knows how to write, we may present the figures cut in
sandpaper and mounted upon cards. In presenting these, the method is the same used in
teaching the letters. "This is one." "This is two." "Give me one." "Give me two." "What
number is this?" The child traces the number with his finger as he did the letters.
Exercises with Numbers. Association of the graphic sign with the quantity. [Pg
329]
I have designed two trays each divided into five little compartments. At the back of each
compartment may be placed a card bearing a figure. The figures in the first tray should be 0,
1, 2, 3, 4, and in the second, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.
The exercise is obvious; it consists in placing within the compartments a number of
objects corresponding to the figure indicated upon the card at the back of the compartment.
We give the children various objects in order to vary the lesson, but chiefly make use of large
wooden pegs so shaped that they will not roll off the desk. We place a number of these
before the child whose part is to arrange them in their places, one peg corresponding to the
card marked one, etc. When he has finished he takes his tray to the directress that she may
verify his work.
The Lesson on Zero. We wait until the child, pointing to the compartment containing the
card marked zero, asks, "And what must I put in here?" We then reply, "Nothing; zero is
nothing." But often this is not enough. It is necessary to make the child feel what we mean by
nothing. To this end we make use of little games which vastly entertain the children. I stand
among them, and turning to one of them who has already used this material, I say, "Come,
dear, come to me zero times." The child almost always comes to me, and then runs back to
his place. "But, my boy, you came one time, and I told you to come zero times." Then he
begins to wonder. "But what must I do, then?" "Nothing; zero is nothing." "But how shall I
do nothing?" "Don't do anything. You must sit still. You must not come at all, not any times.
Zero times. No times at all." I repeat these exercises until the children understand, and they
are then, immensely amused at remaining quiet when I call to them to come to me zero
times, or to throw me zero kisses. They themselves often cry out, "Zero is nothing! Zero is [Pg
nothing!" 330]

EXERCISES FOR THE MEMORY OF NUMBERS

When the children recognise the written figure, and when this figure signifies to them the
numerical value, I give them the following exercise:
I cut the figures from old calendars and mount them upon slips of paper which are then
folded and dropped into a box. The children draw out the slips, carry them still folded, to
their seats, where they look at them and refold them, conserving the secret. Then, one by
one, or in groups, these children (who are naturally the oldest ones in the class) go to the
large table of the directress where groups of various small objects have been placed. Each
one selects the quantity of objects corresponding to the number he has drawn. The number,
meanwhile, has been left at the child's place, a slip of paper mysteriously folded. The child,
therefore, must remember his number not only during the movements which he makes in
coming and going, but while he collects his pieces, counting them one by one. The directress
may here make interesting individual observations upon the number memory.
When the child has gathered up his objects he arranges them upon his own table, in
columns of two, and if the number is uneven, he places the odd piece at the bottom and
between the last two objects. The arrangement of the pieces is therefore as follows:—

The crosses represent the objects, while the circle stands for the folded slip containing the [Pg
figure. Having arranged his objects, the child awaits the verification. The directress comes, 331]
opens the slip, reads the number, and counts the pieces.
When we first played this game it often happened that the children took more objects than
were called for upon the card, and this was not always because they did not remember the
number, but arose from a mania for the having the greatest number of objects. A little of that
instinctive greediness, which is common to primitive and uncultured man. The directress
seeks to explain to the children that it is useless to have all those things upon the desk, and
that the point of the game lies in taking the exact number of objects called for.
Little by little they enter into this idea, but not so easily as one might suppose. It is a real
effort of self-denial which holds the child within the set limit, and makes him take, for
example, only two of the objects placed at his disposal, while he sees others taking more. I
therefore consider this game more an exercise of will power than of numeration. The child
who has the zero, should not move from his place when he sees all his companions rising and
taking freely of the objects which are inaccessible to him. Many times zero falls to the lot of
a child who knows how to count perfectly, and who would experience great pleasure in
accumulating and arranging a fine group of objects in the proper order upon his table, and in
awaiting with security the teacher's verification.
It is most interesting to study the expressions upon the faces of those who possess zero.
The individual differences which result are almost a revelation of the "character" of each
one. Some remain impassive, assuming a bold front in order to hide the pain of the [Pg
disappointment; others show this disappointment by involuntary gestures. Still others cannot 332]
hide the smile which is called forth by the singular situation in which they find themselves,
and which will make their friends curious. There are little ones who follow every movement
of their companions with a look of desire, almost of envy, while others show instant
acceptance of the situation. No less interesting are the expressions with which they confess
to the holding of the zero, when asked during the verification, "and you, you haven't taken
anything?" "I have zero." "It is zero." These are the usual words, but the expressive face, the
tone of the voice, show widely varying sentiments. Rare, indeed, are those who seem to give
with pleasure the explanation of an extraordinary fact. The greater number either look
unhappy or merely resigned.
We therefore give lessons upon the meaning of the game, saying, "It is hard to keep the
zero secret. Fold the paper tightly and don't let it slip away. It is the most difficult of all."
Indeed, after awhile, the very difficulty of remaining quiet appeals to the children, and when
they open the slip marked zero it can be seen that they are content to keep the secret.

ADDITION AND SUBTRACTION FROM ONE TO

TWENTY:
MULTIPLICATION AND DIVISION

The didactic material which we use for the teaching of the first arithmetical operations is
the same already used for numeration; that is, the rods graduated as to length which,
arranged on the scale of the metre, contain the first idea of the decimal system.
The rods, as I have said, have come to be called by the numbers which they represent; one,
two, three, etc. They are arranged in order of length, which is also in order of numeration. [Pg
333]
The first exercise consists in trying to put the shorter pieces together in such a way as to
form tens. The most simple way of doing this is to take successively the shortest rods, from
one up, and place them at the end of the corresponding long rods from nine down. This may
be accompanied by the commands, "Take one and add it to nine; take two and add it to eight;
take three and add it to seven; take four and add it to six." In this way we make four rods
equal to ten. There remains the five, but, turning this upon its head (in the long sense), it
passes from one end of the ten to the other, and thus makes clear the fact that two times five
makes ten.
These exercises are repeated and little by little the child is taught the more technical
language; nine plus one equals ten, eight plus two equals ten, seven plus three equals ten, six
plus four equals ten, and for the five, which remains, two times five equals ten. At last, if he
can write, we teach the signs plus and equals and times. Then this is what we see in the neat
note-books of our little ones:

9 + 1 = 10
8 + 2 = 10
5 × 2 = 10
7 + 3 = 10
6 + 4 = 10

When all this is well learned and has been put upon the paper with great pleasure by the
children, we call their attention to the work which is done when the pieces grouped together
to form tens are taken apart, and put back in their original positions. From the ten last formed
we take away four and six remains; from the next we take away three and seven remains;
from the next, two and eight remains; from the last, we take away one and nine remains. [Pg
Speaking of this properly we say, ten less four equals six; ten less three equals seven; ten less 334]
two equals eight; ten less one equals nine.
In regard to the remaining five, it is the half of ten, and by cutting the long rod in two, that
is dividing ten by two, we would have five; ten divided by two equals five. The written
record of all this reads:

10 − 4 = 6
10 − 3 = 7
10 ÷ 2 = 5
10 − 2 = 8
10 − 1 = 9

Once the children have mastered this exercise they multiply it spontaneously. Can we
make three in two ways? We place the one after the two and then write, in order that we may
remember what we have done, 2 + 1 = 3. Can we make two rods equal to number four? 3 + 1
= 4, and 4 - 3 = 1; 4 - 1 = 3. Rod number two in its relation to rod number four is treated as
was five in relation to ten; that is, we turn it over and show that it is contained in four exactly
two times: 4 ÷ 2 = 2; 2 × 2 = 4. Another problem: let us see with how many rods we can play
this same game. We can do it with three and six; and with four and eight; that is,

2×2=4 3×2=6 4×2=8 5 × 2 = 10

10 ÷ 2 = 5 8÷2=4 6÷2=3 4÷2= 2

At this point we find that the cubes with which we played the number memory games are of
help:

From this arrangement, one sees at once which are the numbers which can be divided by [Pg
two—all those which have not an odd cube at the bottom. These are the even numbers, 335]
because they can be arranged in pairs, two by two; and the division by two is easy, all that is
necessary being to separate the two lines of twos that stand one under the other. Counting the
cubes of each file we have the quotient. To recompose the primitive number we need only
reassemble the two files thus 2 × 3 = 6. All this is not difficult for children of five years.
The repetition soon becomes monotonous, but the exercises may be most easily changed,
taking again the set of long rods, and instead of placing rod number one after nine, place it
after ten. In the same way, place two after nine, and three after eight. In this way we make
rods of a greater length than ten; lengths which we must learn to name eleven, twelve,
thirteen, etc., as far as twenty. The little cubes, too, may be used to fix these higher numbers.
Having learned the operations through ten, we proceed with no difficulty to twenty. The
one difficulty lies in the decimal numbers which require certain lessons.

LESSONS ON DECIMALS: ARITHMETICAL

CALCULATIONS
 BEYOND TEN

The necessary didactic

material consists of a
number of square cards
upon which the figure ten is
printed in large type, and of
other rectangular cards, half
the size of the square, and
containing the single
numbers from one to nine.
We place the numbers in a
line; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,
10. Then, having no more
numbers, we must begin
over again and take the 1
again. This 1 is like that
section in the set of rods
which, in rod number 10,
extends beyond nine. [Pg
Counting along the stair as 336]
far as nine, there remains
this one section which, as there are no more numbers, we again designate as 1; but this is a
higher 1 than the first, and to distinguish it from the first we put near it a zero, a sign which
means nothing. Here then is 10. Covering the zero with the separate rectangular number
cards in the order of their succession we see formed: 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19. These
numbers are composed by adding to rod number 10, first rod number 1, then 2, then 3, etc.,
until we finally add rod number 9 to rod number 10, thus obtaining a very long rod, which,
when its alternating red and blue sections are counted, gives us nineteen.
The directress may then show to the child the cards, giving the
number 16, and he may place rod 6 after rod 10. She then takes
away the card bearing 6, and places over the zero the card bearing
the figure 8, whereupon the child takes away rod 6 and replaces it
with rod 8, thus making 18. Each of these acts may be recorded
thus: 10 + 6 = 16; 10 + 8 = 18, etc. We proceed in the same way to
subtraction.
When the number itself begins to have a clear meaning to the
child, the combinations are made upon one long card, arranging
the rectangular cards bearing the nine figures upon the two
columns of numbers shown in the figures A and B.
Upon the card A we superimpose upon the zero of the second
10, the rectangular card bearing the 1: and under this the one
bearing two, etc. Thus while the one of the ten remains the same [Pg
the numbers to the right proceed from zero to nine, thus: 337]

In card B the applications are more complex. The cards are

superimposed in numerical progression by tens.
Almost all our children count to 100, a number which was given
to them in response to the curiosity they showed in regard to learning it.
 I do not believe that this phase of the teaching needs further illustrations. Each teacher
may multiply the practical exercises in the arithmetical operations, using simple objects
which the children can readily handle and divide.

[Pg
CHAPTER XX 338]

SEQUENCE OF EXERCISES
In the practical application of the method it is helpful to know the sequence, or the various
series, of exercises which must be presented to the child successively.
In the first edition of my book there was clearly indicated a progression for each exercise;
but in the "Children's Houses" we began contemporaneously with the most varied exercises;
and it develops that there exist grades in the presentation of the material in its entirety. These
grades have, since the first publication of the book, become clearly defined through
experience in the "Children's Houses."

SEQUENCE AND GRADES IN THE

PRESENTATION OF MATERIAL
AND IN THE EXERCISES

First Grade

As soon as the child comes to the school he may be given the following exercises:
Moving the seats, in silence (practical life).
Lacing, buttoning, hooking, etc.
The cylinders (sense exercises).
Among these the most useful exercise is that of the cylinders (solid insets). The child here
begins to fix his attention. He makes his first comparison, his first selection, in which he
exercises judgment. Therefore he exercises his intelligence. [Pg
339]
Among these exercises with the solid insets, there exists the following progression from
easy to difficult:
(a) The cylinders in which the pieces are of the same height and of decreasing diameter.
(b) The cylinders decreasing in all dimensions.
(c) Those decreasing only in height.

Second Grade

Exercises of Practical Life. To rise and be seated in silence. To walk on the line.
Sense Exercises. Material dealing with dimensions. The Long Stair. The prisms, or Big
Stair. The cubes. Here the child makes exercises in the recognition of dimensions as he did in
the cylinders but under a very different aspect. The objects are much larger. The differences
much more evident than they were in the preceding exercises, but here, only the eye of the
child recognises the differences and controls the errors. In the preceding exercises, the errors
were mechanically revealed to the child by the didactic material itself. The impossibility of
placing the objects in order in the block in any other than their respective spaces gives this
control. Finally, while in the preceding exercises the child makes much more simple
movements (being seated he places little objects in order with his hands), in these new
exercises he accomplishes movements which are decidedly more complex and difficult and
makes small muscular efforts. He does this by moving from the table to the carpet, rises,
kneels, carries heavy objects.
We notice that the child continues to be confused between the two last pieces in the
growing scale, being for a long time unconscious of such an error after he has learned to put
the other pieces in correct order. Indeed the difference between these pieces being [Pg
throughout the varying dimensions the same for all, the relative difference diminishes with 340]
the increasing size of the pieces themselves. For example, the little cube which has a base of
2 centimetres is double the size, as to base, of the smallest cube which has a base of 1
centimetre, while the largest cube having a base of 10 centimetres, differs by barely 1/10
from the base of the cube next it in the series (the one of 9 centimetres base).
Thus it would seem that, theoretically, in such exercises we should begin with the smallest
piece. We can, indeed, do this with the material through which size and length are taught.
But we cannot do so with the cubes, which must be arranged as a little "tower." This column
of blocks must always have as its base the largest cube.
The children, attracted above all by the tower, begin very early to play with it. Thus we
often see very little children playing with the tower, happy in believing that they have
constructed it, when they have inadvertently used the next to the largest cube as the base. But
when the child, repeating the exercise, corrects himself of his own accord, in a permanent
fashion, we may be certain that his eye has become trained to perceive even the slightest
differences between the pieces.
In the three systems of blocks through which dimensions are taught that of length has
pieces differing from each other by 10 centimetres, while in the other two sets, the pieces
differ only 1 centimetre. Theoretically it would seem that the long rods should be the first to
attract the attention and to exclude errors. This, however, is not the case. The children are
attracted by this set of blocks, but they commit the greatest number of errors in using it, and [Pg
only after they have for a long time eliminated every error in constructing the other two sets, 341]
do they succeed in arranging the Long Stair perfectly. This may then be considered as the
most difficult among the series through which dimensions are taught.
Arrived at this point in his education, the child is capable of fixing his attention, with
interest, upon the thermic and tactile stimuli.
The progression in the sense development is not, therefore, in actual practice identical
with the theoretical progression which psychometry indicates in the study of its subjects. Nor
does it follow the progression which physiology and anatomy indicate in the description of
the relations of the sense organs.
In fact, the tactile sense is the primitive sense; the organ of touch is the most simple and
the most widely diffused. But it is easy to explain how the most simple sensations, the least
complex organs, are not the first through which to attract the attention in a didactic
presentation of sense stimuli.
Therefore, when the education of the attention has been begun, we may present to the
child the rough and smooth surfaces (following certain thermic exercises described
elsewhere in the book).
These exercises, if presented at the proper time, interest the children immensely. It is to be
remembered that these games are of the greatest importance in the method, because upon
them, in union with the exercises for the movement of the hand, which we introduce later,
we base the acquisition of writing.
Together with the two series of sense exercises described above, we may begin what we
call the "pairing of the colours," that is, the recognition of the identity of two colours. This is [Pg
the first exercise of the chromatic sense. 342]

Here, also, it is only the eye of the child that intervenes in the judgment, as it was with the
exercises in dimension. This first colour exercise is easy, but the child must already have
acquired a certain grade of education of the attention through preceding exercises, if he is to
repeat this one with interest.
Meanwhile, the child has heard music; has walked on the line, while the directress played
a rhythmic march. Little by little he has learned to accompany the music spontaneously with
certain movements. This of course necessitates the repetition of the same music. (To acquire
the sense of rhythm the repetition of the same exercise is necessary, as in all forms of
education dealing with spontaneous activity.)
The exercises in silence are also repeated.

Third Grade

Exercises of Practical Life. The children wash themselves, dress and undress themselves,
dust the tables, learn to handle various objects, etc.
Sense Exercises. We now introduce the child to the recognition of gradations of stimuli
(tactile gradations, chromatic, etc.), allowing him to exercise himself freely.
We begin to present the stimuli for the sense of hearing (sounds, noises), and also the baric
stimuli (the little tablets differing in weight).
Contemporaneously with the gradations we may present the plane geometric insets. Here
begins the education of the movement of the hand in following the contours of the insets, an
exercise which, together with the other and contemporaneous one of the recognition of [Pg
tactile stimuli in gradation, prepares for writing. 343]

The series of cards bearing the geometric forms, we give after the child recognises
perfectly the same forms in the wooden insets. These cards serve to prepare for the abstract
signs of which writing consists. The child learns to recognise a delineated form, and after all
the preceding exercises have formed within him an ordered and intelligent personality, they
may be considered the bridge by which he passes from the sense exercises to writing, from
the preparation, to the actual entrance into instruction.

Fourth Grade

Exercises of Practical Life. The children set and clear the table for luncheon. They learn to
put a room in order. They are now taught the most minute care of their persons in the making
of the toilet. (How to brush their teeth, to clean their nails, etc.)
They have learned, through the rhythmic exercises on the line, to walk with perfect
freedom and balance.
 They know how to control and direct their own movements (how to make the silence,—
how to move various objects without dropping or breaking them and without making a
noise).
Sense Exercises. In this stage we repeat all the sense exercises. In addition we introduce
the recognition of musical notes by the help of the series of duplicate bells.
Exercises Related to Writing / Design / The child passes to the plane geometric insets in
metal. He has already co-ordinated the movements necessary to follow the contours. Here he
no longer follows them with his finger, but with a pencil, leaving the double sign upon a
sheet of paper. Then he fills in the figures with coloured pencils, holding the pencil as he will [Pg
later hold the pen in writing. 344]

Contemporaneously the child is taught to recognise and touch some of the letters of the
alphabet made in sandpaper.
Exercises in Arithmetic. At this point, repeating the sense exercises, we present the Long
Stair with a different aim from that with which it has been used up to the present time. We
have the child count the different pieces, according to the blue and red sections, beginning
with the rod consisting of one section and continuing through that composed of ten sections.
We continue such exercises and give other more complicated ones.
In Design we pass from the outlines of the geometric insets to such outlined figures as the
practice of four years has established and which will be published as models in design.
These have an educational importance, and represent in their content and in their
gradations one of the most carefully studied details of the method.
They serve as a means for the continuation of the sense education and help the child to
observe his surroundings. They thus add to his intellectual refinement, and, as regards
writing, they prepare for the high and low strokes. After such practice it will be easy for the
child to make high or low letters, and this will do away with the ruled note-books such as are
used in Italy in the various elementary classes.
In the acquiring of the use of written language we go as far as the knowledge of the letters
of the alphabet, and of composition with the movable alphabet.
In Arithmetic, as far as a knowledge of the figures. The child places the corresponding
figures beside the number of blue and red sections on each rod of the Long Stair. [Pg
345]
The children now take the exercise with the wooden pegs.
Also the games which consist in placing under the figures, on the table, a corresponding
number of coloured counters. These are arranged in columns of twos, thus making the
question of odd and even numbers clear. (This arrangement is taken from Séguin.)

Fifth Grade

We continue the preceding exercises. We begin more complicated rhythmic exercises.

In design we begin:
(a) The use of water colours.
(b) Free drawing from nature (flowers, etc.).
Composition of words and phrases with the movable alphabet.
 (a) Spontaneous writing of words and phrases.
(b) Reading from slips prepared by the directress.
We continue the arithmetical operations which we began with the Long Stair.
The children at this stage present most interesting differences of development. They fairly
run toward instruction, and order their intellectual growth in a way that is remarkable.
This joyous growth is what we so rejoice in, as we watch in these children, humanity,
growing in the spirit according to its own deep laws. And only he who experiments can say
how great may be the harvest from the sowing of such seed.

[Pg
CHAPTER XXI 346]

GENERAL REVIEW OF DISCIPLINE

The accumulated experience we have had since the publication of the Italian version has
repeatedly proved to us that in our classes of little children, numbering forty and even fifty,
the discipline is much better than in ordinary schools. For this reason I have thought that an
analysis of the discipline obtained by our method—which is based upon liberty,—would
interest my American readers.
Whoever visits a well kept school (such as, for instance, the one in Rome directed by my
pupil Anna Maccheroni) is struck by the discipline of the children. There are forty little
beings—from three to seven years old, each one intent on his own work; one is going
through one of the exercises for the senses, one is doing an arithmetical exercise; one is
handling the letters, one is drawing, one is fastening and unfastening the pieces of cloth on
one of our little wooden frames, still another is dusting. Some are seated at the tables, some
on rugs on the floor. There are muffled sounds of objects lightly moved about, of children
tiptoeing. Once in a while comes a cry of joy only partly repressed, "Teacher! Teacher!" an
eager call, "Look! see what I've done." But as a rule, there is entire absorption in the work in
hand.
The teacher moves quietly about, goes to any child who calls her, supervising operations
in such a way that anyone who needs her finds her at his elbow, and whoever does not need [Pg
her is not reminded of her existence. Sometimes, hours go by without a word. They seem 347]
"little men," as they were called by some visitors to the "Children's House"; or, as another
suggested, "judges in deliberation."
In the midst of such intense interest in work it never happens that quarrels arise over the
possession of an object. If one accomplishes something especially fine, his achievement is a
source of admiration and joy to others: no heart suffers from another's wealth, but the
triumph of one is a delight to all. Very often he finds ready imitators. They all seem happy
and satisfied to do what they can, without feeling jealous of the deeds of others. The little
fellow of three works peaceably beside the boy of seven, just as he is satisfied with his own
height and does not envy the older boy's stature. Everything is growing in the most profound
peace.
If the teacher wishes the whole assembly to do something, for instance, leave the work
which interests them so much, all she needs to do is to speak a word in a low tone, or make a
gesture, and they are all attention, they look toward her with eagerness, anxious to know how
to obey. Many visitors have seen the teacher write orders on the blackboard, which were
obeyed joyously by the children. Not only the teachers, but anyone who asks the pupils to do
something is astonished to see them obey in the minutest detail and with obliging
cheerfulness. Often a visitor wishes to hear how a child, now painting, can sing. The child
leaves his painting to be obliging, but the instant his courteous action is completed, he
returns to his interrupted work. Sometimes the smaller children finish their work before they
obey. [Pg
348]
A very surprising result of this discipline came to our notice during the examinations of
the teachers who had followed my course of lectures. These examinations were practical,
and, accordingly, groups of children were put at the disposition of the teachers being
examined, who, according to the subject drawn by lot, took the children through a given
exercise. While the children were waiting their turn, they were allowed to do just as they
pleased. They worked incessantly, and returned to their undertakings as soon as the
interruption caused by the examination was over. Every once in a while, one of them came to
show us a drawing made during the interval. Miss George of Chicago was present many
times when this happened, and Madame Pujols, who founded the first "Children's House" in
Paris, was astonished at the patience, the perseverance, and the inexhaustible amiability of
the children.
One might think that such children had been severely repressed were it not for their lack
of timidity, for their bright eyes, for their happy, free aspect, for the cordiality of their
invitations to look at their work, for the way in which they take visitors about and explain
matters to them. These things make us feel that we are in the presence of the masters of the
house; and the fervour with which they throw their arms around the teacher's knees, with
which they pull her down to kiss her face, shows that their little hearts are free to expand as
they will.

MONTESSORI CHILDREN AT DINNER

The tables are set in the grounds of the school of the
Franciscan Nuns, in Rome.
Anyone who has watched them setting the table must have passed from one surprise to
another. Little four-year-old waiters take the knives and forks and spoons and distribute them
to the different places; they carry trays holding as many as five water-glasses, and finally
they go from table to table, carrying big tureens full of hot soup. Not a mistake is made, not a [Pg
glass is broken, not a drop of soup is spilled. All during the meal unobtrusive little waiters 349]
watch the table assiduously; not a child empties his soup-plate without being offered more; if
he is ready for the next course a waiter briskly carries off his soup-plate. Not a child is forced
to ask for more soup, or to announce that he has finished.

SCHOOL AT TARRYTOWN, N. Y.
The two girls at the left are constructing the big stair and the
tower. The boy in the center has constructed the long stair,
and is placing the figures beside the corresponding rods. The
child to the right is tracing sandpaper letters.
Remembering the usual condition of four-year-old children, who cry, who break whatever
they touch, who need to be waited on, everyone is deeply moved by the sight I have just
described, which evidently results from the development of energies latent in the depths of
the human soul. I have often seen the spectators at this banquet of little ones, moved to tears.
But such discipline could never be obtained by commands, by sermonizings, in short,
through any of the disciplinary devices universally known. Not only were the actions of
those children set in an orderly condition, but their very lives were deepened and enlarged. In
fact, such discipline is on the same plane with school-exercises extraordinary for the age of
the children; and it certainly does not depend upon the teacher but upon a sort of miracle,
occurring in the inner life of each child.
If we try to think of parallels in the life of adults, we are reminded of the phenomenon of
conversion, of the superhuman heightening of the strength of martyrs and apostles, of the
constancy of missionaries, of the obedience of monks. Nothing else in the world, except such
things, is on a spiritual height equal to the discipline of the "Children's Houses."
To obtain such discipline it is quite useless to count on reprimands or spoken exhortations.
Such means might perhaps at the beginning have an appearance of efficacy: but very soon, [Pg
the instant that real discipline appears, all of this falls miserably to the earth, an illusion 350]
confronted with reality—"night gives way to day."
The first dawning of real discipline comes through work. At a given moment it happens
that a child becomes keenly interested in a piece of work, showing it by the expression of his
face, by his intense attention, by his perseverance in the same exercise. That child has set
foot upon the road leading to discipline. Whatever be his undertaking—an exercise for the
senses, an exercise in buttoning up or lacing together, or washing dishes—it is all one and
the same.
On our side, we can have some influence upon the permanence of this phenomenon, by
means of repeated "Lessons of Silence." The perfect immobility, the attention alert to catch
the sound of the names whispered from a distance, then the carefully co-ordinated
movements executed so as not to strike against chair or table, so as barely to touch the floor
with the feet—all this is a most efficacious preparation for the task of setting in order the
whole personality, the motor forces and the psychical.
Once the habit of work is formed, we must supervise it with scrupulous accuracy,
graduating the exercises as experience has taught us. In our effort to establish discipline, we
must rigorously apply the principles of the method. It is not to be obtained by words; no man
learns self-discipline "through hearing another man speak." The phenomenon of discipline
needs as preparation a series of complete actions, such as are presupposed in the genuine
application of a really educative method. Discipline is reached always by indirect means.
The end is obtained, not by attacking the mistake and fighting it, but by developing activity
in spontaneous work. [Pg
351]
This work cannot be arbitrarily offered, and it is precisely here that our method enters; it
must be work which the human being instinctively desires to do, work towards which the
latent tendencies of life naturally turn, or towards which the individual step by step ascends.
Such is the work which sets the personality in order and opens wide before it infinite
possibilities of growth. Take, for instance, the lack of control shown by a baby; it is
fundamentally a lack of muscular discipline. The child is in a constant state of disorderly
movement: he throws himself down, he makes queer gestures, he cries. What underlies all
this is a latent tendency to seek that co-ordination of movement which will be established
later. The baby is a man not yet sure of the movements of the various muscles of the body;
not yet master of the organs of speech. He will eventually establish these various
movements, but for the present he is abandoned to a period of experimentation full of
mistakes, and of fatiguing efforts towards a desirable end latent in his instinct, but not clear
in his consciousness. To say to the baby, "Stand still as I do," brings no light into his
darkness; commands cannot aid in the process of bringing order into the complex psycho-
muscular system of an individual in process of evolution. We are confused at this point by
the example of the adult who through a wicked impulse prefers disorder, and who may
(granted that he can) obey a sharp admonishment which turns his will in another direction,
towards that order which he recognises and which it is within his capacity to achieve. In the
case of the little child it is a question of aiding the natural evolution of voluntary action.
Hence it is necessary to teach all the co-ordinated movements, analysing them as much as
possible and developing them bit by bit. [Pg
352]
Thus, for instance, it is necessary to teach the child the various degrees of immobility
leading to silence; the movements connected with rising from a chair and sitting down, with
walking, with tiptoeing, with following a line drawn on the floor keeping an upright
equilibrium. The child is taught to move objects about, to set them down more or less
carefully, and finally the complex movements connected with dressing and undressing
himself (analysed on the lacing and buttoning frames at school), and for even each of these
exercises, the different parts of the movement must be analysed. Perfect immobility and the
successive perfectioning of action, is what takes the place of the customary command, "Be
quiet! Be still!" It is not astonishing but very natural that the child by means of such
exercises should acquire self-discipline, so far as regards the lack of muscular discipline
natural to his age. In short, he responds to nature because he is in action; but these actions
being directed towards an end, have no longer the appearance of disorder but of work. This
is discipline which represents an end to be attained by means of a number of conquests. The
child disciplined in this way, is no longer the child he was at first, who knows how to be
good passively; but he is an individual who has made himself better, who has overcome the
usual limits of his age, who has made a great step forward, who has conquered his future in
his present.
He has therefore enlarged his dominion. He will not need to have someone always at hand,
to tell him vainly (confusing two opposing conceptions), "Be quiet! Be good!" The goodness
he has conquered cannot be summed up by inertia: his goodness is now all made up of
action. As a matter of fact, good people are those who advance towards the good—that good
which is made up of their own self-development and of external acts of order and usefulness. [Pg
353]
In our efforts with the child, external acts are the means which stimulate internal
development, and they again appear as its manifestation, the two elements being inextricably
intertwined. Work develops the child spiritually; but the child with a fuller spiritual
development works better, and his improved work delights him,—hence he continues to
develop spiritually. Discipline is, therefore, not a fact but a path, a path in following which
the child grasps the abstract conception of goodness with an exactitude which is fairly
scientific.
But beyond everything else he savours the supreme delights of that spiritual order which
is attained indirectly through conquests directed towards determinate ends. In that long
preparation, the child experiences joys, spiritual awakenings and pleasures which form his
inner treasure-house—the treasure-house in which he is steadily storing up the sweetness and
strength which will be the sources of righteousness.
In short, the child has not only learned to move about and to perform useful acts; he has
acquired a special grace of action which makes his gestures more correct and attractive, and
which beautifies his hands and indeed his entire body now so balanced and so sure of itself; a
grace which refines the expression of his face and of his serenely brilliant eyes, and which
shows us that the flame of spiritual life has been lighted in another human being.

It is obviously true that co-ordinated actions, developed spontaneously little by little (that
is, chosen and carried out in the exercises by the child himself), must call for less effort than
the disorderly actions performed by the child who is left to his own devices. True rest for [Pg
muscles, intended by nature for action, is in orderly action; just as true rest for the lungs is 354]
the normal rhythm of respiration taken in pure air. To take action away from the muscles is
to force them away from their natural motor impulse, and hence, besides tiring them, means
forcing them into a state of degeneration; just as the lungs forced into immobility, would die
instantly and the whole organism with them.
It is therefore necessary to keep clearly in mind the fact that rest for whatever naturally
acts, lies in some specified form of action, corresponding to its nature.
To act in obedience to the hidden precepts of nature—that is rest; and in this special case,
since man is meant to be an intelligent creature, the more intelligent his acts are the more he
finds repose in them. When a child acts only in a disorderly, disconnected manner, his
nervous force is under a great strain; while on the other hand his nervous energy is positively
increased and multiplied by intelligent actions which give him real satisfaction, and a feeling
of pride that he has overcome himself, that he finds himself in a world beyond the frontiers
formerly set up as insurmountable, surrounded by the silent respect of the one who has
guided him without making his presence felt.
This "multiplication of nervous energy" represents a process which can be physiologically
analysed, and which comes from the development of the organs by rational exercise, from
better circulation of the blood, from the quickened activity of all the tissues—all factors
favourable to the development of the body and guaranteeing physical health. The spirit aids
[Pg
the body in its growth; the heart, the nerves and the muscles are helpful in their evolution by 355]
the activity of the spirit, since the upward path for soul and body is one and the same.
By analogy, it can be said of the intellectual development of the child, that the mind of
infancy, although characteristically disorderly, is also "a means searching for its end," which
goes through exhausting experiments, left, as it frequently is, to its own resources, and too
often really persecuted. Once in our public park in Rome, the Pincian Gardens, I saw a baby
of about a year and a half, a beautiful smiling child, who was working away trying to fill a
little pail by shoveling gravel into it. Beside him was a smartly dressed nurse evidently very
fond of him, the sort of nurse who would consider that she gave the child the most
affectionate and intelligent care. It was time to go home and the nurse was patiently
exhorting the baby to leave his work and let her put him into the baby-carriage. Seeing that
her exhortations made no impression on the little fellow's firmness, she herself filled the pail
with gravel and set pail and baby into the carriage with the fixed conviction that she had
given him what he wanted.
I was struck by the loud cries of the child and by the expression of protest against violence
and injustice which wrote itself on his little face. What an accumulation of wrongs weighed
down that nascent intelligence! The little boy did not wish to have the pail full of gravel; he
wished to go through the motions necessary to fill it, thus satisfying a need of his vigorous
organism. The child's unconscious aim was his own self-development; not the external fact
of a pail full of little stones. The vivid attractions of the external world were only empty
apparitions; the need of his life was a reality. As a matter of fact, if he had filled his pail he
would probably have emptied it out again in order to keep on filling it up until his inner self [Pg
was satisfied. It was the feeling of working towards this satisfaction which, a few moments 356]
before, had made his face so rosy and smiling; spiritual joy, exercise, and sunshine, were the
three rays of light ministering to his splendid life.
This commonplace episode in the life of that child, is a detail of what happens to all
children, even the best and most cherished. They are not understood, because the adult
judges them by his own measure: he thinks that the child's wish is to obtain some tangible
object, and lovingly helps him to do this: whereas the child as a rule has for his unconscious
desire, his own self-development. Hence he despises everything already attained, and yearns
for that which is still to be sought for. For instance, he prefers the action of dressing himself
to the state of being dressed, even finely dressed. He prefers the act of washing himself to the
satisfaction of being clean: he prefers to make a little house for himself, rather than merely to
own it. His own self-development is his true and almost his only pleasure. The self-
development of the little baby up to the end of his first year consists to a large degree in
taking in nutrition; but afterwards it consists in aiding the orderly establishment of the
psycho-physiological functions of his organism.
That beautiful baby in the Pincian Gardens is the symbol of this: he wished to co-ordinate
his voluntary actions; to exercise his muscles by lifting; to train his eye to estimate distances;
to exercise his intelligence in the reasoning connected with his undertaking; to stimulate his
will-power by deciding his own actions; whilst she who loved him, believing that his aim
was to possess some pebbles, made him wretched. [Pg
357]
A similar error is that which we repeat so frequently when we fancy that the desire of the
student is to possess a piece of information. We aid him to grasp intellectually this detached
piece of knowledge, and, preventing by this means his self-development, we make him
wretched. It is generally believed in schools that the way to attain, satisfaction is "to learn
something." But by leaving the children in our schools in liberty we have been able with
great clearness to follow them in their natural method of spontaneous self-development.
 To have learned something is for the child only a point of departure. When he has learned
the meaning of an exercise, then he begins to enjoy repeating it, and he does repeat it an
infinite number of times, with the most evident satisfaction. He enjoys executing that act
because by means of it he is developing his psychic activities.
There results from the observation of this fact a criticism of what is done to-day in many
schools. Often, for instance when the pupils are questioned, the teacher says to someone who
is eager to answer, "No, not you, because you know it" and puts her question specially to the
pupils who she thinks are uncertain of the answer. Those who do not know are made to
speak, those who do know to be silent. This happens because of the general habit of
considering the act of knowing something as final.
And yet how many times it happens to us in ordinary life to repeat the very thing we know
best, the thing we care most for, the thing to which some living force in us responds. We love
to sing musical phrases very familiar, hence enjoyed and become a part of the fabric of our
lives. We love to repeat stories of things which please us, which we know very well, even
though we are quite aware that we are saying nothing new. No matter how many times we [Pg
repeat the Lord's Prayer, it is always new. No two persons could be more convinced of 358]
mutual love than sweethearts and yet they are the very ones who repeat endlessly that they
love each other.
But in order to repeat in this manner, there must first exist the idea to be repeated. A
mental grasp of the idea, is indispensable to the beginning of repetition. The exercise which
develops life, consists in the repetition, not in the mere grasp of the idea. When a child has
attained this stage, of repeating an exercise, he is on the way to self-development, and the
external sign of this condition is his self-discipline.
This phenomenon does not always occur. The same exercises are not repeated by children
of all ages. In fact, repetition corresponds to a need. Here steps in the experimental method
of education. It is necessary to offer those exercises which correspond to the need of
development felt by an organism, and if the child's age has carried him past a certain need, it
is never possible to obtain, in its fulness, a development which missed its proper moment.
Hence children grow up, often fatally and irrevocably, imperfectly developed.
Another very interesting observation is that which relates to the length of time needed for
the execution of actions. Children, who are undertaking something for the first time are
extremely slow. Their life is governed in this respect by laws especially different from ours.
Little children accomplish slowly and perseveringly, various complicated operations
agreeable to them, such as dressing, undressing, cleaning the room, washing themselves,
setting the table, eating, etc. In all this they are extremely patient, overcoming all the
difficulties presented by an organism still in process of formation. But we, on the other hand, [Pg
noticing that they are "tiring themselves out" or "wasting time" in accomplishing something 359]
which we would do in a moment and without the least effort, put ourselves in the child's
place and do it ourselves. Always with the same erroneous idea, that the end to be obtained is
the completion of the action, we dress and wash the child, we snatch out of his hands objects
which he loves to handle, we pour the soup into his bowl, we feed him, we set the table for
him. And after such services, we consider him with that injustice always practised by those
who domineer over others even with benevolent intentions, to be incapable and inept. We
often speak of him as "impatient" simply because we are not patient enough to allow his
actions to follow laws of time differing from our own; we call him "tyrannical" exactly
because we employ tyranny towards him. This stain, this false imputation, this calumny on
childhood has become an integral part of the theories concerning childhood, in reality so
patient and gentle.
 The child, like every strong creature fighting for the right to live, rebels against whatever
offends that occult impulse within him which is the voice of nature, and which he ought to
obey; and he shows by violent actions, by screaming and weeping that he has been
overborne and forced away from his mission in life. He shows himself to be a rebel, a
revolutionist, an iconoclast, against those who do not understand him and who, fancying that
they are helping him, are really pushing him backward in the highway of life. Thus even the
adult who loves him, rivets about his neck another calumny, confusing his defence of his
molested life with a form of innate naughtiness characteristic of little children. [Pg
360]
What would become of us if we fell into the midst of a population of jugglers, or of
lightning-change impersonators of the variety-hall? What should we do if, as we continued
to act in our usual way, we saw ourselves assailed by these sleight-of-hand performers,
hustled into our clothes, fed so rapidly that we could scarcely swallow, if everything we tried
to do was snatched from our hands and completed in a twinkling and we ourselves reduced
to impotence and to a humiliating inertia? Not knowing how else to express our confusion
we would defend ourselves with blows and yells from these madmen, and they having only
the best will in the world to serve us, would call us haughty, rebellious, and incapable of
doing anything. We, who know our own milieu, would say to those people, "Come into our
countries and you will see the splendid civilisation we have established, you will see our
wonderful achievements." These jugglers would admire us infinitely, hardly able to believe
their eyes, as they observed our world, so full of beauty and activity, so well regulated, so
peaceful, so kindly, but all so much slower than theirs.
Something of this sort occurs between children and adults.

It is exactly in the repetition of the exercises that the education of the senses consists; their
aim is not that the child shall know colours, forms and the different qualities of objects, but
that he refine his senses through an exercise of attention, of comparison, of judgment. These
exercises are true intellectual gymnastics. Such gymnastics, reasonably directed by means of
various devices, aid in the formation of the intellect, just as physical exercises fortify the
general health and quicken the growth of the body. The child who trains his various senses [Pg
separately, by means of external stimuli, concentrates his attention and develops, piece by 361]
piece, his mental activities, just as with separately prepared movements he trains his
muscular activities. These mental gymnastics are not merely psycho-sensory, but they
prepare the way for spontaneous association of ideas, for ratiocination developing out of
definite knowledge, for a harmoniously balanced intellect. They are the powder-trains that
bring about those mental explosions which delight the child so intensely when he makes
discoveries in the world about him, when he, at the same time, ponders over and glories in
the new things which are revealed to him in the outside world, and in the exquisite emotions
of his own growing consciousness; and finally when there spring up within him, almost by a
process of spontaneous ripening, like the internal phenomena of growth, the external
products of learning—writing and reading.
I happened once to see a two-year-old child, son of a medical colleague of mine, who,
fairly fleeing away from his mother who had brought him to me, threw himself on the litter
of things covering his father's desk, the rectangular writing-pad, the round cover of the ink-
well. I was touched to see the intelligent little creature trying his best to go through the
exercises which our children repeat with such endless pleasure till they have fully committed
them to memory. The father and the mother pulled the child away, reproving him, and
explaining that there was no use trying to keep that child from handling his father's desk-
furniture, "The child is restless and naughty." How often we see all children reproved
because, though they are told not to, they will "take hold of everything." Now, it is precisely
by means of guiding and developing this natural instinct "to take hold of everything," and to [Pg
recognise the relations of geometrical figures, that we prepare our little four-year-old men for 362]
the joy and triumph they experience later over the phenomenon of spontaneous writing.
The child who throws himself on the writing-pad, the cover to the ink-well, and such
objects, always struggling in vain to attain his desire, always hindered and thwarted by
people stronger than he, always excited and weeping over the failure of his desperate efforts,
is wasting nervous force. His parents are mistaken if they think that such a child ever gets
any real rest, just as they are mistaken when they call "naughty" the little man longing for the
foundations of his intellectual edifice. The children in our schools are the ones who are really
at rest, ardently and blessedly free to take out and put back in their right places or grooves,
the geometric figures offered to their instinct for higher self-development; and they, rejoicing
in the most entire spiritual calm, have no notion that their eyes and hands are initiating them
into the mysteries of a new language.
The majority of our children become calm as they go through such exercises, because their
nervous system is at rest. Then we say that such children are quiet and good; external
discipline, so eagerly sought after in ordinary schools is more than achieved.
However, as a calm man and a self-disciplined man are not one and the same, so here the
fact which manifests itself externally by the calm of the children is in reality a phenomenon
merely physical and partial compared to the real self-discipline which is being developed in
them.
Often (and this is another misconception) we think all we need to do, to obtain a voluntary
action from a child, is to order him to do it. We pretend that this phenomenon of a forced [Pg
voluntary action exists, and we call this pretext, "the obedience of the child." We find little 363]
children specially disobedient, or rather their resistance, by the time they are four or five
years old, has become so great that we are in despair and are almost tempted to give up
trying to make them obey. We force ourselves to praise to little children "the virtue of
obedience" a virtue which, according to our accepted prejudices, should belong specially to
infancy, should be the "infantile virtue" yet we fail to learn anything from the fact that we are
led to emphasize it so strongly because we can only with the greatest difficulty make
children practise it.
It is a very common mistake, this of trying to obtain by means of prayers, or orders, or
violence, what is difficult, or impossible to get. Thus, for instance, we ask little children to
be obedient, and little children in their turn ask for the moon.
We need only reflect that this "obedience" which we treat so lightly, occurs later, as a
natural tendency in older children, and then as an instinct in the adult to realise that it springs
spontaneously into being, and that it is one of the strongest instincts of humanity. We find
that society rests on a foundation of marvellous obedience, and that civilisation goes forward
on a road made by obedience. Human organisations are often founded on an abuse of
obedience, associations of criminals have obedience as their key-stone.
How many times social problems centre about the necessity of rousing man from a state of
"obedience" which has led him to be exploited and brutalised!
Obedience naturally is sacrifice. We are so accustomed to an infinity of obedience in the
world, to a condition of self-sacrifice, to a readiness for renunciation, that we call matrimony [Pg
the "blessed condition," although it is made up of obedience and self-sacrifice. The soldier, 364]
whose lot in life is to obey if it kills him is envied by the common people, while we consider
anyone who tries to escape from obedience as a malefactor or a madman. Besides, how many
people have had the deeply spiritual experience of an ardent desire to obey something or
some person leading them along the path of life—more than this, a desire to sacrifice
something for the sake of this obedience.
It is therefore entirely natural that, loving the child, we should point out to him that
obedience is the law of life, and there is nothing surprising in the anxiety felt by nearly
everyone who is confronted with the characteristic disobedience of little children. But
obedience can only be reached through a complex formation of the psychic personality. To
obey, it is necessary not only to wish to obey, but also to know how to. Since, when a
command to do a certain thing is given, we presuppose a corresponding active or inhibitive
power of the child, it is plain that obedience must follow the formation of the will and of the
mind. To prepare, in detail, this formation by means of detached exercises is therefore
indirectly, to urge the child towards obedience. The method which is the subject of this book
contains in every part an exercise for the will-power, when the child completes co-ordinated
actions directed towards a given end, when he achieves something he set out to do, when he
repeats patiently his exercises, he is training his positive will-power. Similarly, in a very
complicated series of exercises he is establishing through activity his powers of inhibition;
for instance in the "lesson of silence," which calls for a long continued inhibition of many [Pg
actions, while the child is waiting to be called and later for a rigorous self-control when he is 365]
called and would like to answer joyously and run to his teacher, but instead is perfectly
silent, moves very carefully, taking the greatest pains not to knock against chair or table or to
make a noise.
Other inhibitive exercises are the arithmetical ones, when the child having drawn a
number by lot, must take from the great mass of objects before him, apparently entirely at his
disposition, only the quantity corresponding to the number in his hand, whereas (as
experience has proved) he would like to take the greatest number possible. Furthermore if he
chances to draw the zero he sits patiently with empty hands. Still another training for the
inhibitive will-power is in "the lesson of zero" when the child, called upon to come up zero
times and give zero kisses, stands quiet, conquering with a visible effort the instinct which
would lead him to "obey" the call. The child at our school dinners who carries the big tureen
full of hot soup, isolates himself from every external stimulant which might disturb him,
resists his childish impulse to run and jump, does not yield to the temptation to brush away
the fly on his face, and is entirely concentrated on the great responsibility of not dropping or
tipping the tureen. A little thing of four and a half, every time he set the tureen down on a
table so that the little guests might help themselves, gave a hop and a skip, then took up the
tureen again to carry it to another table, repressing himself to a sober walk. In spite of his
desire to play he never left his task before he had passed soup to the twenty tables, and he
never forgot the vigilance necessary to control his actions.
Will-power, like all other activities is invigorated and developed through methodical [Pg
exercises, and all our exercises for will-power are also mental and practical. To the casual 366]
onlooker the child seems to be learning exactitude and grace of action, to be refining his
senses, to be learning how to read and write; but much more profoundly he is learning how
to become his own master, how to be a man of prompt and resolute will.
We often hear it said that a child's will should be "broken" that the best education for the
will of the child is to learn to give it up to the will of adults. Leaving out of the question the
injustice which is at the root of every act of tyranny, this idea is irrational because the child
cannot give up what he does not possess. We prevent him in this way from forming his own
will-power, and we commit the greatest and most blameworthy mistake. He never has time
or opportunity to test himself, to estimate his own force and his own limitations because he
is always interrupted and subjected to our tyranny, and languishes in injustice because he is
always being bitterly reproached for not having what adults are perpetually destroying.
 There springs up as a consequence of this, childish timidity, which is a moral malady
acquired by a will which could not develop; and which with the usual calumny with which
the tyrant consciously or not, covers up his own mistakes, we consider as an inherent trait of
childhood. The children in our schools are never timid. One of their most fascinating
qualities is the frankness with which they treat people, with which they go on working in the
presence of others, and showing their work frankly, calling for sympathy. That moral
monstrosity, a repressed and timid child, who is at his ease nowhere except alone with his
playmates, or with street urchins, because his will-power was allowed to grow only in the [Pg
shade, disappears in our schools. He presents an example of thoughtless barbarism, which 367]
resembles the artificial compression of the bodies of those children intended for "court
dwarfs," museum monstrosities or buffoons. Yet this is the treatment under which nearly all
the children of our time are growing up spiritually.
As a matter of fact in all the pedagogical congresses one hears that the great peril of our
time is the lack of individual character in the scholars; yet these alarmists do not point out
that this condition is due to the way in which education is managed, to scholastic slavery,
which has for its specialty the repression of will-power and of force of character. The remedy
is simply to enfranchise human development.
Besides the exercises it offers for developing will-power, the other factor in obedience is
the capacity to perform the act it becomes necessary to obey. One of the most interesting
observations made by my pupil Anna Maccheroni (at first in the school in Milan and then in
that in the Via Guisti in Rome), relates to the connection between obedience in a child and
his "knowing how." Obedience appears in the child as a latent instinct as soon as his
personality begins to take form. For instance, a child begins to try a certain exercise and
suddenly some time he goes through it perfectly; he is delighted, stares at it, and wishes to
do it over again, but for some time the exercise is not a success. Then comes a time when he
can do it nearly every time he tries voluntarily but makes mistakes if someone else asks him
to do it. The external command does not as yet produce the voluntary act. When, however,
the exercise always succeeds, with absolute certainty, then an order from someone else
brings about on the child's part, orderly adequate action; that is, the child is able each time to [Pg
execute the command received. That these facts (with variations in individual cases) are laws 368]
of psychical development is apparent from everyone's experience with children in school or
at home.
One often hears a child say, "I did do such and such a thing but now I can't!" and a teacher
disappointed by the incompetence of a pupil will say, "Yet that child was doing it all right—
and now he can't!"
Finally there is the period of complete development in which the capacity to perform some
operation is permanently acquired. There are, therefore, three periods: a first, subconscious
one, when in the confused mind of the child, order produces itself by a mysterious inner
impulse from out the midst of disorder, producing as an external result a completed act,
which, however, being outside the field of consciousness, cannot be reproduced at will; a
second, conscious period, when there is some action on the part of the will which is present
during the process of the development and establishing of the acts; and a third period when
the will can direct and cause the acts, thus answering the command from someone else.
Now, obedience follows a similar sequence. When in the first period of spiritual disorder,
the child does not obey it is exactly as if he were psychically deaf, and out of hearing of
commands. In the second period he would like to obey, he looks as though he understood the
command and would like to respond to it, but cannot,—or at least does not always succeed in
doing it, is not "quick to mind" and shows no pleasure when he does. In the third period he
obeys at once, with enthusiasm, and as he becomes more and more perfect in the exercises
he is proud that he knows how to obey. This is the period in which he runs joyously to obey, [Pg
and leaves at the most imperceptible request whatever is interesting him so that he may quit 369]
the solitude of his own life and enter, with the act of obedience into the spiritual existence of
another.
To this order, established in a consciousness formerly chaotic, are due all the phenomena
of discipline and of mental development, which open out like a new Creation. From minds
thus set in order, when "night is separated from day" come sudden emotions and mental feats
which recall the Biblical story of Creation. The child has in his mind not only what he has
laboriously acquired, but the free gifts which flow from spiritual life, the first flowers of
affection, of gentleness, of spontaneous love for righteousness which perfume the souls of
such children and give promise of the "fruits of the spirit" of St. Paul—"The fruit of the
Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness."
They are virtuous because they exercise patience in repeating their exercises, long-
suffering in yielding to the commands and desires of others, good in rejoicing in the well-
being of others without jealousy or rivalry; they live, doing good in joyousness of heart and
in peace, and they are eminently, marvellously industrious. But they are not proud of such
righteousness because they were not conscious of acquiring it as a moral superiority. They
have set their feet in the path leading to righteousness, simply because it was the only way to
attain true self-development and learning; and they enjoy with simple hearts the fruits of
peace that are to be gathered along that path. [Pg
370]
These are the first outlines of an experiment which shows a form of indirect discipline in
which there is substituted for the critical and sermonizing teacher a rational organisation of
work and of liberty for the child. It involves a conception of life more usual in religious
fields than in those of academic pedagogy, inasmuch as it has recourse to the spiritual
energies of mankind, but it is founded on work and on liberty which are the two paths to all
civic progress.

[Pg
CHAPTER XXII 371]

CONCLUSIONS AND IMPRESSIONS

In the "Children's Houses," the old-time teacher, who wore herself out maintaining
discipline of immobility, and who wasted her breath in loud and continual discourse, has
disappeared.
For this teacher we have substituted the didactic material, which contains within itself the
control of errors and which makes auto-education possible to each child. The teacher has
thus become a director of the spontaneous work of the children. She is not a passive force, a
silent presence.
The children are occupied each one in a different way, and the directress, watching them,
can make psychological observations which, if collected in an orderly way and according to
scientific standards, should do much toward the reconstruction of child psychology and the
development of experimental psychology. I believe that I have by my method established the
conditions necessary to the development of scientific pedagogy; and whoever adopts this
method opens, in doing so, a laboratory of experimental pedagogy.
 From such work, we must await the positive solution of all those pedagogical problems of
which we talk to-day. For through such work there has already come the solution of some of
these very questions: that of the liberty of the pupils; auto-education; the establishment of
harmony between the work and activities of home life and school tasks, making both work [Pg
together for the education of the child. 372]

The problem of religious education, the importance of which we do not fully realise,
should also be solved by positive pedagogy. If religion is born with civilisation, its roots
must lie deep in human nature. We have had most beautiful proof of an instinctive love of
knowledge in the child, who has too often been misjudged in that he has been considered
addicted to meaningless play, and games void of thought. The child who left the game in his
eagerness for knowledge, has revealed himself as a true son of that humanity which has been
throughout centuries the creator of scientific and civil progress. We have belittled the son of
man by giving him foolish and degrading toys, a world of idleness where he is suffocated by
a badly conceived discipline. Now, in his liberty, the child should show us, as well, whether
man is by nature a religious creature.
To deny, a priori, the religions sentiment in man, and to deprive humanity of the education
of this sentiment, is to commit a pedagogical error similar to that of denying, a priori, to the
child, the love of learning for learning's sake. This ignorant assumption led us to dominate
the scholar, to subject him to a species of slavery, in order to render him apparently
disciplined.
The fact that we assume that religions education is only adapted to the adult, may be akin
to another profound error existing in education to-day, namely, that of overlooking the
education of the senses at the very period when this education is possible. The life of the
adult is practically an application of the senses to the gathering of sensations from the
environment. A lack of preparation for this, often results in inadequacy in practical life, in [Pg
that lack of poise which causes so many individuals to waste their energies in purposeless 373]
effort. Not to form a parallel between the education of the senses as a guide to practical life,
and religious education as a guide to the moral life, but for the sake of illustration, let me call
attention to how often we find inefficiency, instability, among irreligious persons, and how
much precious individual power is miserably wasted.
How many men have had this experience! And when that spiritual awakening comes late,
as it sometimes does, through the softening power of sorrow, the mind is unable to establish
an equilibrium, because it has grown too much accustomed to a life deprived of spirituality.
We see equally piteous cases of religious fanaticism, or we look upon intimate dramatic
struggles between the heart, ever seeking its own safe and quiet port, and the mind that
constantly draws it back to the sea of conflicting ideas and emotions, where peace is
unknown. These are all psychological phenomena of the highest importance; they present,
perhaps, the gravest of all our human problems. We Europeans are still filled with prejudices
and hedged about with preconceptions in regard to these matters. We are very slaves of
thought. We believe that liberty of conscience and of thought consists in denying certain
sentimental beliefs, while liberty never can exist where one struggles to stifle some other
thing, but only where unlimited expansion is granted; where life is left free and
untrammelled. He who really does not believe, does not fear that which he does not believe,
and does not combat that which for him does not exist. If he believes and fights, he then
becomes an enemy to liberty.
In America, the great positive scientist, William James, who expounds the physiological [Pg
theory of emotions, is also the man who illustrates the psychological importance of religious 374]
"conscience." We cannot know the future of the progress of thought: here, for example, in
the "Children's Houses" the triumph of discipline through the conquest of liberty and
independence marks the foundation of the progress which the future will see in the matter of
pedagogical methods. To me it offers the greatest hope for human redemption through
education.
Perhaps, in the same way, through the conquest of liberty of thought and of conscience,
we are making our way toward a great religious triumph. Experience will show, and the
psychological observations made along this line in the "Children's Houses" will undoubtedly
be of the greatest interest.
This book of methods compiled by one person alone, must be followed by many others. It
is my hope that, starting from the individual study of the child educated with our method,
other educators will set forth the results of their experiments. These are the pedagogical
books which await us in the future.
From the practical side of the school, we have with our methods the advantage of being
able to teach in one room, children of very different ages. In our "Children's Houses" we
have little ones of two years and a half, who cannot as yet make use of the most simple of the
sense exercises, and children of five and a half who because of their development might
easily pass into the third elementary. Each one of them perfects himself through his own
powers, and goes forward guided by that inner force which distinguishes him as an
individual.
One great advantage of such a method is that it will make instruction in the rural schools
easier, and will be of great advantage in the schools in the small provincial towns where [Pg
there are few children, yet where all the various grades are represented. Such schools are not 375]
able to employ more than one teacher. Our experience shows that one directress may guide a
group of children varying in development from little ones of three years old to the third
elementary. Another great advantage lies in the extreme facility with which written language
may be taught, making it possible to combat illiteracy and to cultivate the national tongue.
As to the teacher, she may remain for a whole day among children in the most varying
stages of development, just as the mother remains in the house with children of all ages,
without becoming tired.
The children work by themselves, and, in doing so, make a conquest of active discipline,
and independence in all the acts of daily life, just as through daily conquests they progress in
intellectual development. Directed by an intelligent teacher, who watches over their physical
development as well as over their intellectual and moral progress, children are able with our
methods to arrive at a splendid physical development, and, in addition to this, there unfolds
within them, in all its perfection, the soul, which distinguishes the human being.
We have been mistaken in thinking that the natural education of children should be purely
physical; the soul, too, has its nature, which it was intended to perfect in the spiritual life,—
the dominating power of human existence throughout all time. Our methods take into
consideration the spontaneous psychic development of the child, and help this in ways that
observation and experience have shown us to be wise.
If physical care leads the child to take pleasure in bodily health, intellectual and moral [Pg
care make possible for him the highest spiritual joy, and send him forward into a world 376]
where continual surprises and discoveries await him; not only in the external environment,
but in the intimate recesses of his own soul.
It is through such pleasures as these that the ideal man grows, and only such pleasures are
worthy of a place in the education of the infancy of humanity.
Our children are noticeably different from those others who have grown up within the
grey walls of the common schools. Our little pupils have the serene and happy aspect and the
frank and open friendliness of the person who feels himself to be master of his own actions.
When they run to gather about our visitors, speaking to them with sweet frankness,
extending their little hands with gentle gravity and well-bred cordiality, when they thank
these visitors for the courtesy they have paid us in coming, the bright eyes and the happy
voices make us feel that they are, indeed, unusual little men. When they display their work
and their ability, in a confidential and simple way, it is almost as if they called for a maternal
approbation from all those who watch them. Often, a little one will seat himself on the floor
beside some visitor silently writing his name, and adding a gentle word of thanks. It is as if
they wished to make the visitor feel the affectionate gratitude which is in their hearts.
When we see all these things and when, above all, we pass with these children from the
busy activity of the schoolroom at work, into the absolute and profound silence which they
have learned to enjoy so deeply, we are moved in spite of ourselves and feel that we have
come in touch with the very souls of these little pupils.
The "Children's House" seems to exert a spiritual influence upon everyone. I have seen [Pg
here, men of affairs, great politicians preoccupied with problems of trade and of state, cast 377]
off like an uncomfortable garment the burden of the world, and fall into a simple
forgetfulness of self. They are affected by this vision of the human soul growing in its true
nature, and I believe that this is what they mean when they call our little ones, wonderful
children, happy children—the infancy of humanity in a higher stage of evolution than our
own. I understand how the great English poet Wordsworth, enamoured as he was of nature,
demanded the secret of all her peace and beauty. It was at last revealed to him—the secret of
all nature lies in the soul of a little child. He holds there the true meaning of that life which
exists throughout humanity. But this beauty which "lies about us in our infancy" becomes
obscured; "shades of the prison house, begin to close about the growing boy ... at last the
man perceives it die away, and fade into the light of common day."
Truly our social life is too often only the darkening and the death of the natural life that is
in us. These methods tend to guard that spiritual fire within man, to keep his real nature
unspoiled and to set it free from the oppressive and degrading yoke of society. It is a
pedagogical method informed by the high concept of Immanuel Kant: "Perfect art returns to
nature."

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Montessori Method, by Maria Montessori

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONTESSORI METHOD ***

***** This file should be named 39863-h.htm or 39863-h.zip *****

This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/8/6/39863/

Produced by Alicia Williams, Brenda Lewis and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.

*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free

distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be

used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"

or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived

from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted

with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm

License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this

electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing

access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any

money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable

effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right

of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a

defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied

warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the

assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive

Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit

501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.

Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:

Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg

Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide

spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating

charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make

any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic

works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm

concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed

editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,

including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.