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Title: Treatise on Parents and Children

Author: Bernard Shaw

Release date: March 22, 2006 [eBook #908]
Most recently updated: December 13, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/908

Credits: Produced by Ron Burkey, Amy Thomte and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREATISE ON
PARENTS AND CHILDREN ***

A TREATISE ON PARENTS AND
CHILDREN

By Bernard Shaw

CONTENTS

PARENTS AND CHILDREN

The Child is Father to the Man
What is a Child?
The Sin of Nadab and Abihu
The Manufacture of Monsters
Small and Large Families
Children as Nuisances
Child Fanciers
Childhood as a State of Sin
School
My Scholastic Acquirements
Schoolmasters of Genius
What We Do Not Teach, and Why
Taboo in Schools
Alleged Novelties in Modern Schools
What is to be Done?
Children's Rights and Duties
Should Children Earn their Living?
Children's Happiness
The Horror of the Perpetual Holiday
University Schoolboyishness
The New Laziness

The Infinite School Task
The Rewards and Risks of Knowledge
English Physical Hardihood and Spiritual Cowardice
The Risks of Ignorance and Weakness
The Common Sense of Toleration
The Sin of Athanasius
The Experiment Experimenting
Why We Loathe Learning and Love Sport
Antichrist
Under the Whip
Technical Instruction
Docility and Dependence
The Abuse of Docility
The Schoolboy and the Homeboy
The Comings of Age of Children
The Conflict of Wills
The Demagogue's Opportunity
Our Quarrelsomeness
We Must Reform Society before we can Reform Ourselves
The Pursuit of Manners
Not too much Wind on the Heath, Brother
Wanted: a Child's Magna Charta
The Pursuit of Learning
Children and Game: a Proposal
The Parents' Intolerable Burden
Mobilization
Children's Rights and Parents' Wrongs
How Little We Know About Our Parents
Our Abandoned Mothers
Family Affection
The Fate of the Family
Family Mourning
Art Teaching
The Impossibility of Secular Education
Natural Selection as a Religion
Moral Instruction Leagues
The Bible

Artist Idolatry
"The Machine"
The Provocation to Anarchism
Imagination
Government by Bullies

PARENTS AND CHILDREN
Trailing Clouds of Glory
Childhood is a stage in the process of that continual remanufacture of the
Life Stuff by which the human race is perpetuated. The Life Force either
will not or cannot achieve immortality except in very low organisms:
indeed it is by no means ascertained that even the amoeba is immortal.
Human beings visibly wear out, though they last longer than their friends
the dogs. Turtles, parrots, and elephants are believed to be capable of
outliving the memory of the oldest human inhabitant. But the fact that new
ones are born conclusively proves that they are not immortal. Do away with
death and you do away with the need for birth: in fact if you went on
breeding, you would finally have to kill old people to make room for young
ones.
Now death is not necessarily a failure of energy on the part of the Life
Force. People with no imagination try to make things which will last for
ever, and even want to live for ever themselves. But the intelligently
imaginative man knows very well that it is waste of labor to make a
machine that will last ten years, because it will probably be superseded in
half that time by an improved machine answering the same purpose. He
also knows that if some devil were to convince us that our dream of
personal immortality is no dream but a hard fact, such a shriek of despair
would go up from the human race as no other conceivable horror could
provoke. With all our perverse nonsense as to John Smith living for a
thousand million eons and for ever after, we die voluntarily, knowing that it
is time for us to be scrapped, to be remanufactured, to come back, as
Wordsworth divined, trailing ever brightening clouds of glory. We must all
be born again, and yet again and again. We should like to live a little longer
just as we should like 50 pounds: that is, we should take it if we could get it
for nothing; but that sort of idle liking is not will. It is amazing—
considering the way we talk—how little a man will do to get 50 pounds: all
the 50-pound notes I have ever known of have been more easily earned than
a laborious sixpence; but the difficulty of inducing a man to make any
serious effort to obtain 50 pounds is nothing to the difficulty of inducing

him to make a serious effort to keep alive. The moment he sees death
approach, he gets into bed and sends for a doctor. He knows very well at the
back of his conscience that he is rather a poor job and had better be
remanufactured. He knows that his death will make room for a birth; and he
hopes that it will be a birth of something that he aspired to be and fell short
of. He knows that it is through death and rebirth that this corruptible shall
become incorruptible, and this mortal put on immortality. Practise as you
will on his ignorance, his fears, and his imagination, with bribes of
paradises and threats of hells, there is only one belief that can rob death of
its sting and the grave of its victory; and that is the belief that we can lay
down the burden of our wretched little makeshift individualities for ever at
each lift towards the goal of evolution, which can only be a being that
cannot be improved upon. After all, what man is capable of the insane self-
conceit of believing that an eternity of himself would be tolerable even to
himself? Those who try to believe it postulate that they shall be made
perfect first. But if you make me perfect I shall no longer be myself, nor
will it be possible for me to conceive my present imperfections (and what I
cannot conceive I cannot remember); so that you may just as well give me a
new name and face the fact that I am a new person and that the old Bernard
Shaw is as dead as mutton. Thus, oddly enough, the conventional belief in
the matter comes to this: that if you wish to live for ever you must be
wicked enough to be irretrievably damned, since the saved are no longer
what they were, and in hell alone do people retain their sinful nature: that is
to say, their individuality. And this sort of hell, however convenient as a
means of intimidating persons who have practically no honor and no
conscience, is not a fact. Death is for many of us the gate of hell; but we are
inside on the way out, not outside on the way in. Therefore let us give up
telling one another idle stories, and rejoice in death as we rejoice in birth;
for without death we cannot be born again; and the man who does not wish
to be born again and born better is fit only to represent the City of London
in Parliament, or perhaps the university of Oxford.

The Child is Father to the Man
Is he? Then in the name of common sense why do we always treat
children on the assumption that the man is father to the child? Oh, these
fathers! And we are not content with fathers: we must have godfathers,
forgetting that the child is godfather to the man. Has it ever struck you as
curious that in a country where the first article of belief is that every child is
born with a godfather whom we all call "our father which art in heaven,"
two very limited individual mortals should be allowed to appear at its
baptism and explain that they are its godparents, and that they will look
after its salvation until it is no longer a child. I had a godmother who made
herself responsible in this way for me. She presented me with a Bible with a
gilt clasp and edges, larger than the Bibles similarly presented to my sisters,
because my sex entitled me to a heavier article. I must have seen that lady
at least four times in the twenty years following. She never alluded to my
salvation in any way. People occasionally ask me to act as godfather to their
children with a levity which convinces me that they have not the faintest
notion that it involves anything more than calling the helpless child George
Bernard without regard to the possibility that it may grow up in the liveliest
abhorrence of my notions.
A person with a turn for logic might argue that if God is the Father of all
men, and if the child is father to the man, it follows that the true
representative of God at the christening is the child itself. But such posers
are unpopular, because they imply that our little customs, or, as we often
call them, our religion, mean something, or must originally have meant
something, and that we understand and believe that something.
However, my business is not to make confusion worse confounded, but
to clear it up. Only, it is as well to begin by a sample of current thought and
practice which shews that on the subject of children we are very deeply
confused. On the whole, whatever our theory or no theory may be, our
practice is to treat the child as the property of its immediate physical
parents, and to allow them to do what they like with it as far as it will let
them. It has no rights and no liberties: in short, its condition is that which
adults recognize as the most miserable and dangerous politically possible

for themselves: namely, the condition of slavery. For its alleviation we trust
to the natural affection of the parties, and to public opinion. A father cannot
for his own credit let his son go in rags. Also, in a very large section of the
population, parents finally become dependent on their children. Thus there
are checks on child slavery which do not exist, or are less powerful, in the
case of manual and industrial slavery. Sensationally bad cases fall into two
classes, which are really the same class: namely, the children whose parents
are excessively addicted to the sensual luxury of petting children, and the
children whose parents are excessively addicted to the sensual luxury of
physically torturing them. There is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children which has effectually made an end of our belief that mothers are
any more to be trusted than stepmothers, or fathers than slave-drivers. And
there is a growing body of law designed to prevent parents from using their
children ruthlessly to make money for the household. Such legislation has
always been furiously resisted by the parents, even when the horrors of
factory slavery were at their worst; and the extension of such legislation at
present would be impossible if it were not that the parents affected by it
cannot control a majority of votes in Parliament. In domestic life a great
deal of service is done by children, the girls acting as nursemaids and
general servants, and the lads as errand boys. In the country both boys and
girls do a substantial share of farm labor. This is why it is necessary to
coerce poor parents to send their children to school, though in the relatively
small class which keeps plenty of servants it is impossible to induce parents
to keep their children at home instead of paying schoolmasters to take them
off their hands.
It appears then that the bond of affection between parents and children
does not save children from the slavery that denial of rights involves in
adult political relations. It sometimes intensifies it, sometimes mitigates it;
but on the whole children and parents confront one another as two classes in
which all the political power is on one side; and the results are not at all
unlike what they would be if there were no immediate consanguinity
between them, and one were white and the other black, or one enfranchised
and the other disenfranchised, or one ranked as gentle and the other simple.
Not that Nature counts for nothing in the case and political rights for
everything. But a denial of political rights, and the resultant delivery of one
class into the mastery of another, affects their relations so extensively and

profoundly that it is impossible to ascertain what the real natural relations
of the two classes are until this political relation is abolished.

What is a Child?
An experiment. A fresh attempt to produce the just man made perfect:
that is, to make humanity divine. And you will vitiate the experiment if you
make the slightest attempt to abort it into some fancy figure of your own:
for example, your notion of a good man or a womanly woman. If you treat
it as a little wild beast to be tamed, or as a pet to be played with, or even as
a means to save you trouble and to make money for you (and these are our
commonest ways), it may fight its way through in spite of you and save its
soul alive; for all its instincts will resist you, and possibly be strengthened
in the resistance; but if you begin with its own holiest aspirations, and
suborn them for your own purposes, then there is hardly any limit to the
mischief you may do. Swear at a child, throw your boots at it, send it flying
from the room with a cuff or a kick; and the experience will be as
instructive to the child as a difficulty with a short-tempered dog or a bull.
Francis Place tells us that his father always struck his children when he
found one within his reach. The effect on the young Places seems to have
been simply to make them keep out of their father's way, which was no
doubt what he desired, as far as he desired anything at all. Francis records
the habit without bitterness, having reason to thank his stars that his father
respected the inside of his head whilst cuffing the outside of it; and this
made it easy for Francis to do yeoman's service to his country as that rare
and admirable thing, a Freethinker: the only sort of thinker, I may remark,
whose thoughts, and consequently whose religious convictions, command
any respect.
Now Mr Place, senior, would be described by many as a bad father; and I
do not contend that he was a conspicuously good one. But as compared
with the conventional good father who deliberately imposes himself on his
son as a god; who takes advantage of childish credulity and parent worship
to persuade his son that what he approves of is right and what he
disapproves of is wrong; who imposes a corresponding conduct on the child
by a system of prohibitions and penalties, rewards and eulogies, for which
he claims divine sanction: compared to this sort of abortionist and monster
maker, I say, Place appears almost as a Providence. Not that it is possible to

live with children any more than with grown-up people without imposing
rules of conduct on them. There is a point at which every person with
human nerves has to say to a child "Stop that noise." But suppose the child
asks why! There are various answers in use. The simplest: "Because it
irritates me," may fail; for it may strike the child as being rather amusing to
irritate you; also the child, having comparatively no nerves, may be unable
to conceive your meaning vividly enough. In any case it may want to make
a noise more than to spare your feelings. You may therefore have to explain
that the effect of the irritation will be that you will do something unpleasant
if the noise continues. The something unpleasant may be only a look of
suffering to rouse the child's affectionate sympathy (if it has any), or it may
run to forcible expulsion from the room with plenty of unnecessary
violence; but the principle is the same: there are no false pretences
involved: the child learns in a straightforward way that it does not pay to be
inconsiderate. Also, perhaps, that Mamma, who made the child learn the
Sermon on the Mount, is not really a Christian.

The Sin of Nadab and Abihu
But there is another sort of answer in wide use which is neither
straightforward, instructive, nor harmless. In its simplest form it substitutes
for "Stop that noise," "Dont be naughty," which means that the child,
instead of annoying you by a perfectly healthy and natural infantile
procedure, is offending God. This is a blasphemous lie; and the fact that it is
on the lips of every nurserymaid does not excuse it in the least. Dickens
tells us of a nurserymaid who elaborated it into "If you do that, angels wont
never love you." I remember a servant who used to tell me that if I were not
good, by which she meant if I did not behave with a single eye to her
personal convenience, the cock would come down the chimney. Less
imaginative but equally dishonest people told me I should go to hell if I did
not make myself agreeable to them. Bodily violence, provided it be the
hasty expression of normal provoked resentment and not vicious cruelty,
cannot harm a child as this sort of pious fraud harms it. There is a legal
limit to physical cruelty; and there are also human limits to it. There is an
active Society which brings to book a good many parents who starve and
torture and overwork their children, and intimidates a good many more.
When parents of this type are caught, they are treated as criminals; and not
infrequently the police have some trouble to save them from being lynched.
The people against whom children are wholly unprotected are those who
devote themselves to the very mischievous and cruel sort of abortion which
is called bringing up a child in the way it should go. Now nobody knows
the way a child should go. All the ways discovered so far lead to the horrors
of our existing civilizations, described quite justifiably by Ruskin as heaps
of agonizing human maggots, struggling with one another for scraps of
food. Pious fraud is an attempt to pervert that precious and sacred thing the
child's conscience into an instrument of our own convenience, and to use
that wonderful and terrible power called Shame to grind our own axe. It is
the sin of stealing fire from the altar: a sin so impudently practised by
popes, parents, and pedagogues, that one can hardly expect the
nurserymaids to see any harm in stealing a few cinders when they are
worrited.

Into the blackest depths of this violation of children's souls one can
hardly bear to look; for here we find pious fraud masking the violation of
the body by obscene cruelty. Any parent or school teacher who takes a
secret and abominable delight in torture is allowed to lay traps into which
every child must fall, and then beat it to his or her heart's content. A
gentleman once wrote to me and said, with an obvious conviction that he
was being most reasonable and high minded, that the only thing he beat his
children for was failure in perfect obedience and perfect truthfulness. On
these attributes, he said, he must insist. As one of them is not a virtue at all,
and the other is the attribute of a god, one can imagine what the lives of this
gentleman's children would have been if it had been possible for him to live
down to his monstrous and foolish pretensions. And yet he might have
written his letter to The Times (he very nearly did, by the way) without
incurring any danger of being removed to an asylum, or even losing his
reputation for taking a very proper view of his parental duties. And at least
it was not a trivial view, nor an ill meant one. It was much more respectable
than the general consensus of opinion that if a school teacher can devise a
question a child cannot answer, or overhear it calling omega omeega, he or
she may beat the child viciously. Only, the cruelty must be whitewashed by
a moral excuse, and a pretence of reluctance. It must be for the child's good.
The assailant must say "This hurts me more than it hurts you." There must
be hypocrisy as well as cruelty. The injury to the child would be far less if
the voluptuary said frankly "I beat you because I like beating you; and I
shall do it whenever I can contrive an excuse for it." But to represent this
detestable lust to the child as Divine wrath, and the cruelty as the beneficent
act of God, which is exactly what all our floggers do, is to add to the torture
of the body, out of which the flogger at least gets some pleasure, the
maiming and blinding of the child's soul, which can bring nothing but
horror to anyone.

The Manufacture of Monsters
This industry is by no means peculiar to China. The Chinese (they say)
make physical monsters. We revile them for it and proceed to make moral
monsters of our own children. The most excusable parents are those who try
to correct their own faults in their offspring. The parent who says to his
child: "I am one of the successes of the Almighty: therefore imitate me in
every particular or I will have the skin off your back" (a quite common
attitude) is a much more absurd figure than the man who, with a pipe in his
mouth, thrashes his boy for smoking. If you must hold yourself up to your
children as an object lesson (which is not at all necessary), hold yourself up
as a warning and not as an example. But you had much better let the child's
character alone. If you once allow yourself to regard a child as so much
material for you to manufacture into any shape that happens to suit your
fancy you are defeating the experiment of the Life Force. You are assuming
that the child does not know its own business, and that you do. In this you
are sure to be wrong: the child feels the drive of the Life Force (often called
the Will of God); and you cannot feel it for him. Handel's parents no doubt
thought they knew better than their child when they tried to prevent his
becoming a musician. They would have been equally wrong and equally
unsuccessful if they had tried to prevent the child becoming a great rascal
had its genius lain in that direction. Handel would have been Handel, and
Napoleon and Peter of Russia themselves in spite of all the parents in
creation, because, as often happens, they were stronger than their parents.
But this does not happen always. Most children can be, and many are,
hopelessly warped and wasted by parents who are ignorant and silly enough
to suppose that they know what a human being ought to be, and who stick
at nothing in their determination to force their children into their moulds.
Every child has a right to its own bent. It has a right to be a Plymouth
Brother though its parents be convinced atheists. It has a right to dislike its
mother or father or sister or brother or uncle or aunt if they are antipathetic
to it. It has a right to find its own way and go its own way, whether that way
seems wise or foolish to others, exactly as an adult has. It has a right to

privacy as to its own doings and its own affairs as much as if it were its own
father.

Small and Large Families
These rights have now become more important than they used to be,
because the modern practice of limiting families enables them to be more
effectually violated. In a family of ten, eight, six, or even four children, the
rights of the younger ones to a great extent take care of themselves and of
the rights of the elder ones too. Two adult parents, in spite of a house to
keep and an income to earn, can still interfere to a disastrous extent with the
rights and liberties of one child. But by the time a fourth child has arrived,
they are not only outnumbered two to one, but are getting tired of the
thankless and mischievous job of bringing up their children in the way they
think they should go. The old observation that members of large families
get on in the world holds good because in large families it is impossible for
each child to receive what schoolmasters call "individual attention." The
children may receive a good deal of individual attention from one another
in the shape of outspoken reproach, ruthless ridicule, and violent resistance
to their attempts at aggression; but the parental despots are compelled by
the multitude of their subjects to resort to political rather than personal rule,
and to spread their attempts at moral monster-making over so many
children, that each child has enough freedom, and enough sport in the
prophylactic process of laughing at its elders behind their backs, to escape
with much less damage than the single child. In a large school the system
may be bad; but the personal influence of the head master has to be exerted,
when it is exerted at all, in a public way, because he has little more power
of working on the affections of the individual scholar in the intimate way
that, for example, the mother of a single child can, than the prime minister
has of working on the affections of any individual voter.

Children as Nuisances
Experienced parents, when children's rights are preached to them, very
naturally ask whether children are to be allowed to do what they like. The
best reply is to ask whether adults are to be allowed to do what they like.
The two cases are the same. The adult who is nasty is not allowed to do
what he likes: neither can the child who likes to be nasty. There is no
difference in principle between the rights of a child and those of an adult:
the difference in their cases is one of circumstance. An adult is not supposed
to be punished except by process of law; nor, when he is so punished, is the
person whom he has injured allowed to act as judge, jury, and executioner.
It is true that employers do act in this way every day to their workpeople;
but this is not a justified and intended part of the situation: it is an abuse of
Capitalism which nobody defends in principle. As between child and parent
or nurse it is not argued about because it is inevitable. You cannot hold an
impartial judicial inquiry every time a child misbehaves itself. To allow the
child to misbehave without instantly making it unpleasantly conscious of
the fact would be to spoil it. The adult has therefore to take action of some
sort with nothing but his conscience to shield the child from injustice or
unkindness. The action may be a torrent of scolding culminating in a
furious smack causing terror and pain, or it may be a remonstrance causing
remorse, or it may be a sarcasm causing shame and humiliation, or it may
be a sermon causing the child to believe that it is a little reprobate on the
road to hell. The child has no defence in any case except the kindness and
conscience of the adult; and the adult had better not forget this; for it
involves a heavy responsibility.
And now comes our difficulty. The responsibility, being so heavy, cannot
be discharged by persons of feeble character or intelligence. And yet people
of high character and intelligence cannot be plagued with the care of
children. A child is a restless, noisy little animal, with an insatiable appetite
for knowledge, and consequently a maddening persistence in asking
questions. If the child is to remain in the room with a highly intelligent and
sensitive adult, it must be told, and if necessary forced, to sit still and not
speak, which is injurious to its health, unnatural, unjust, and therefore cruel

and selfish beyond toleration. Consequently the highly intelligent and
sensitive adult hands the child over to a nurserymaid who has no nerves and
can therefore stand more noise, but who has also no scruples, and may
therefore be very bad company for the child.
Here we have come to the central fact of the question: a fact nobody
avows, which is yet the true explanation of the monstrous system of child
imprisonment and torture which we disguise under such hypocrisies as
education, training, formation of character and the rest of it. This fact is
simply that a child is a nuisance to a grown-up person. What is more, the
nuisance becomes more and more intolerable as the grown-up person
becomes more cultivated, more sensitive, and more deeply engaged in the
highest methods of adult work. The child at play is noisy and ought to be
noisy: Sir Isaac Newton at work is quiet and ought to be quiet. And the
child should spend most of its time at play, whilst the adult should spend
most of his time at work. I am not now writing on behalf of persons who
coddle themselves into a ridiculous condition of nervous feebleness, and at
last imagine themselves unable to work under conditions of bustle which to
healthy people are cheerful and stimulating. I am sure that if people had to
choose between living where the noise of children never stopped and where
it was never heard, all the goodnatured and sound people would prefer the
incessant noise to the incessant silence. But that choice is not thrust upon us
by the nature of things. There is no reason why children and adults should
not see just as much of one another as is good for them, no more and no
less. Even at present you are not compelled to choose between sending your
child to a boarding school (which means getting rid of it altogether on more
or less hypocritical pretences) and keeping it continually at home. Most
working folk today either send their children to day schools or turn them
out of doors. This solves the problem for the parents. It does not solve it for
the children, any more than the tethering of a goat in a field or the chasing
of an unlicensed dog into the streets solves it for the goat or the dog; but it
shews that in no class are people willing to endure the society of their
children, and consequently that it is an error to believe that the family
provides children with edifying adult society, or that the family is a social
unit. The family is in that, as in so many other respects, a humbug. Old
people and young people cannot walk at the same pace without distress and
final loss of health to one of the parties. When they are sitting indoors they
cannot endure the same degrees of temperature and the same supplies of

fresh air. Even if the main factors of noise, restlessness, and inquisitiveness
are left out of account, children can stand with indifference sights, sounds,
smells, and disorders that would make an adult of fifty utterly miserable;
whilst on the other hand such adults find a tranquil happiness in conditions
which to children mean unspeakable boredom. And since our system is
nevertheless to pack them all into the same house and pretend that they are
happy, and that this particular sort of happiness is the foundation of virtue,
it is found that in discussing family life we never speak of actual adults or
actual children, or of realities of any sort, but always of ideals such as The
Home, a Mother's Influence, a Father's Care, Filial Piety, Duty, Affection,
Family Life, etc. etc., which are no doubt very comforting phrases, but
which beg the question of what a home and a mother's influence and a
father's care and so forth really come to in practice. How many hours a
week of the time when his children are out of bed does the ordinary bread-
winning father spend in the company of his children or even in the same
building with them? The home may be a thieves' kitchen, the mother a
procuress, the father a violent drunkard; or the mother and father may be
fashionable people who see their children three or four times a year during
the holidays, and then not oftener than they can help, living meanwhile in
daily and intimate contact with their valets and lady's-maids, whose
influence and care are often dominant in the household. Affection, as
distinguished from simple kindliness, may or may not exist: when it does it
either depends on qualities in the parties that would produce it equally if
they were of no kin to one another, or it is a more or less morbid survival of
the nursing passion; for affection between adults (if they are really adult in
mind and not merely grown-up children) and creatures so relatively selfish
and cruel as children necessarily are without knowing it or meaning it,
cannot be called natural: in fact the evidence shews that it is easier to love
the company of a dog than of a commonplace child between the ages of six
and the beginnings of controlled maturity; for women who cannot bear to
be separated from their pet dogs send their children to boarding schools
cheerfully. They may say and even believe that in allowing their children to
leave home they are sacrificing themselves for their children's good; but
there are very few pet dogs who would not be the better for a month or two
spent elsewhere than in a lady's lap or roasting on a drawingroom hearthrug.
Besides, to allege that children are better continually away from home is to

give up the whole popular sentimental theory of the family; yet the dogs are
kept and the children are banished.

Child Fanciers
There is, however, a good deal of spurious family affection. There is the
clannishness that will make a dozen brothers and sisters who quarrel
furiously among themselves close up their ranks and make common cause
against a brother-in-law or a sister-in-law. And there is a strong sense of
property in children, which often makes mothers and fathers bitterly jealous
of allowing anyone else to interfere with their children, whom they may
none the less treat very badly. And there is an extremely dangerous craze for
children which leads certain people to establish orphanages and baby farms
and schools, seizing any pretext for filling their houses with children
exactly as some eccentric old ladies and gentlemen fill theirs with cats. In
such places the children are the victims of all the caprices of doting
affection and all the excesses of lascivious cruelty. Yet the people who have
this morbid craze seldom have any difficulty in finding victims. Parents and
guardians are so worried by children and so anxious to get rid of them that
anyone who is willing to take them off their hands is welcomed and
whitewashed. The very people who read with indignation of Squeers and
Creakle in the novels of Dickens are quite ready to hand over their own
children to Squeers and Creakle, and to pretend that Squeers and Creakle
are monsters of the past. But read the autobiography of Stanley the traveller,
or sit in the company of men talking about their school-days, and you will
soon find that fiction, which must, if it is to be sold and read, stop short of
being positively sickening, dare not tell the whole truth about the people to
whom children are handed over on educational pretexts. Not very long ago
a schoolmaster in Ireland was murdered by his boys; and for reasons which
were never made public it was at first decided not to prosecute the
murderers. Yet all these flogging schoolmasters and orphanage fiends and
baby farmers are "lovers of children." They are really child fanciers (like
bird fanciers or dog fanciers) by irresistible natural predilection, never
happy unless they are surrounded by their victims, and always certain to
make their living by accepting the custody of children, no matter how many
alternative occupations may be available. And bear in mind that they are

only the extreme instances of what is commonly called natural affection,
apparently because it is obviously unnatural.
The really natural feeling of adults for children in the long prosaic
intervals between the moments of affectionate impulse is just that feeling
that leads them to avoid their care and constant company as a burden
beyond bearing, and to pretend that the places they send them to are well
conducted, beneficial, and indispensable to the success of the children in
after life. The true cry of the kind mother after her little rosary of kisses is
"Run away, darling." It is nicer than "Hold your noise, you young devil; or
it will be the worse for you"; but fundamentally it means the same thing:
that if you compel an adult and a child to live in one another's company
either the adult or the child will be miserable. There is nothing whatever
unnatural or wrong or shocking in this fact; and there is no harm in it if only
it be sensibly faced and provided for. The mischief that it does at present is
produced by our efforts to ignore it, or to smother it under a heap of
sentimental lies and false pretences.

Childhood as a State of Sin
Unfortunately all this nonsense tends to accumulate as we become more
sympathetic. In many families it is still the custom to treat childhood
frankly as a state of sin, and impudently proclaim the monstrous principle
that little children should be seen and not heard, and to enforce a set of
prison rules designed solely to make cohabitation with children as
convenient as possible for adults without the smallest regard for the
interests, either remote or immediate, of the children. This system tends to
produce a tough, rather brutal, stupid, unscrupulous class, with a fixed idea
that all enjoyment consists in undetected sinning; and in certain phases of
civilization people of this kind are apt to get the upper hand of more
amiable and conscientious races and classes. They have the ferocity of a
chained dog, and are proud of it. But the end of it is that they are always in
chains, even at the height of their military or political success: they win
everything on condition that they are afraid to enjoy it. Their civilizations
rest on intimidation, which is so necessary to them that when they cannot
find anybody brave enough to intimidate them they intimidate themselves
and live in a continual moral and political panic. In the end they get found
out and bullied. But that is not the point that concerns us here, which is, that
they are in some respects better brought up than the children of sentimental
people who are always anxious and miserable about their duty to their
children, and who end by neither making their children happy nor having a
tolerable life for themselves. A selfish tyrant you know where to have, and
he (or she) at least does not confuse your affections; but a conscientious and
kindly meddler may literally worry you out of your senses. It is fortunate
that only very few parents are capable of doing what they conceive their
duty continuously or even at all, and that still fewer are tough enough to
ride roughshod over their children at home.

School
But please observe the limitation "at home." What private amateur
parental enterprise cannot do may be done very effectively by organized
professional enterprise in large institutions established for the purpose. And
it is to such professional enterprise that parents hand over their children
when they can afford it. They send their children to school; and there is, on
the whole, nothing on earth intended for innocent people so horrible as a
school. To begin with, it is a prison. But it is in some respects more cruel
than a prison. In a prison, for instance, you are not forced to read books
written by the warders and the governor (who of course would not be
warders and governors if they could write readable books), and beaten or
otherwise tormented if you cannot remember their utterly unmemorable
contents. In the prison you are not forced to sit listening to turnkeys
discoursing without charm or interest on subjects that they dont understand
and dont care about, and are therefore incapable of making you understand
or care about. In a prison they may torture your body; but they do not
torture your brains; and they protect you against violence and outrage from
your fellow prisoners. In a school you have none of these advantages. With
the world's bookshelves loaded with fascinating and inspired books, the
very manna sent down from Heaven to feed your souls, you are forced to
read a hideous imposture called a school book, written by a man who
cannot write: a book from which no human being can learn anything: a
book which, though you may decipher it, you cannot in any fruitful sense
read, though the enforced attempt will make you loathe the sight of a book
all the rest of your life. With millions of acres of woods and valleys and
hills and wind and air and birds and streams and fishes and all sorts of
instructive and healthy things easily accessible, or with streets and shop
windows and crowds and vehicles and all sorts of city delights at the door,
you are forced to sit, not in a room with some human grace and comfort or
furniture and decoration, but in a stalled pound with a lot of other children,
beaten if you talk, beaten if you move, beaten if you cannot prove by
answering idiotic questions that even when you escaped from the pound and
from the eye of your gaoler, you were still agonizing over his detestable

sham books instead of daring to live. And your childish hatred of your
gaoler and flogger is nothing to his adult hatred of you; for he is a slave
forced to endure your society for his daily bread. You have not even the
satisfaction of knowing how you are torturing him and how he loathes you;
and you give yourself unnecessary pains to annoy him with furtive tricks
and spiteful doing of forbidden things. No wonder he is sometimes
provoked to fiendish outbursts of wrath. No wonder men of downright
sense, like Dr Johnson, admit that under such circumstances children will
not learn anything unless they are so cruelly beaten that they make
desperate efforts to memorize words and phrases to escape flagellation. It is
a ghastly business, quite beyond words, this schooling.
And now I hear cries of protest arising all round. First my own
schoolmasters, or their ghosts, asking whether I was cruelly beaten at
school? No; but then I did not learn anything at school. Dr Johnson's
schoolmaster presumably did care enough whether Sam learned anything to
beat him savagely enough to force him to lame his mind—for Johnson's
great mind was lamed—by learning his lessons. None of my schoolmasters
really cared a rap (or perhaps it would be fairer to them to say that their
employers did not care a rap and therefore did not give them the necessary
caning powers) whether I learnt my lessons or not, provided my father paid
my schooling bill, the collection of which was the real object of the school.
Consequently I did not learn my school lessons, having much more
important ones in hand, with the result that I have not wasted my life
trifling with literary fools in taverns as Johnson did when he should have
been shaking England with the thunder of his spirit. My schooling did me a
great deal of harm and no good whatever: it was simply dragging a child's
soul through the dirt; but I escaped Squeers and Creakle just as I escaped
Johnson and Carlyle. And this is what happens to most of us. We are not
effectively coerced to learn: we stave off punishment as far as we can by
lying and trickery and guessing and using our wits; and when this does not
suffice we scribble impositions, or suffer extra imprisonments—"keeping
in" was the phrase in my time—or let a master strike us with a cane and fall
back on our pride at being able to hear it physically (he not being allowed to
hit us too hard) to outface the dishonor we should have been taught to die
rather than endure. And so idleness and worthlessness on the one hand and
a pretence of coercion on the other became a despicable routine. If my
schoolmasters had been really engaged in educating me instead of painfully

earning their bread by keeping me from annoying my elders they would
have turned me out of the school, telling me that I was thoroughly disloyal
to it; that I had no intention of learning; that I was mocking and distracting
the boys who did wish to learn; that I was a liar and a shirker and a
seditious little nuisance; and that nothing could injure me in character and
degrade their occupation more than allowing me (much less forcing me) to
remain in the school under such conditions. But in order to get expelled, it
was necessary commit a crime of such atrocity that the parents of other
boys would have threatened to remove their sons sooner than allow them to
be schoolfellows with the delinquent. I can remember only one case in
which such a penalty was threatened; and in that case the culprit, a boarder,
had kissed a housemaid, or possibly, being a handsome youth, been kissed
by her. She did not kiss me; and nobody ever dreamt of expelling me. The
truth was, a boy meant just so much a year to the institution. That was why
he was kept there against his will. That was why he was kept there when his
expulsion would have been an unspeakable relief and benefit both to his
teachers and himself.
It may be argued that if the uncommercial attitude had been taken, and all
the disloyal wasters and idlers shewn sternly to the door, the school would
not have been emptied, but filled. But so honest an attitude was impossible.
The masters must have hated the school much more than the boys did. Just
as you cannot imprison a man without imprisoning a warder to see that he
does not escape, the warder being tied to the prison as effectually by the
fear of unemployment and starvation as the prisoner is by the bolts and
bars, so these poor schoolmasters, with their small salaries and large
classes, were as much prisoners as we were, and much more responsible
and anxious ones. They could not impose the heroic attitude on their
employers; nor would they have been able to obtain places as schoolmasters
if their habits had been heroic. For the best of them their employment was
provisional: they looked forward to escaping from it into the pulpit. The
ablest and most impatient of them were often so irritated by the awkward,
slow-witted, slovenly boys: that is, the ones that required special
consideration and patient treatment, that they vented their irritation on them
ruthlessly, nothing being easier than to entrap or bewilder such a boy into
giving a pretext for punishing him.

My Scholastic Acquirements
The results, as far as I was concerned, were what might have been
expected. My school made only the thinnest pretence of teaching anything
but Latin and Greek. When I went there as a very small boy I knew a good
deal of Latin grammar which I had been taught in a few weeks privately by
my uncle. When I had been several years at school this same uncle
examined me and discovered that the net result of my schooling was that I
had forgotten what he had taught me, and had learnt nothing else. To this
day, though I can still decline a Latin noun and repeat some of the old
paradigms in the old meaningless way, because their rhythm sticks to me, I
have never yet seen a Latin inscription on a tomb that I could translate
throughout. Of Greek I can decipher perhaps the greater part of the Greek
alphabet. In short, I am, as to classical education, another Shakespear. I can
read French as easily as English; and under pressure of necessity I can turn
to account some scraps of German and a little operatic Italian; but these I
was never taught at school. Instead, I was taught lying, dishonorable
submission to tyranny, dirty stories, a blasphemous habit of treating love
and maternity as obscene jokes, hopelessness, evasion, derision, cowardice,
and all the blackguard's shifts by which the coward intimidates other
cowards. And if I had been a boarder at an English public school instead of
a day boy at an Irish one, I might have had to add to these, deeper shames
still.

Schoolmasters of Genius
And now, if I have reduced the ghosts of my schoolmasters to
melancholy acquiescence in all this (which everybody who has been at an
ordinary school will recognize as true), I have still to meet the much more
sincere protests of the handful of people who have a natural genius for
"bringing up" children. I shall be asked with kindly scorn whether I have
heard of Froebel and Pestalozzi, whether I know the work that is being done
by Miss Mason and the Dottoressa Montessori or, best of all as I think, the
Eurythmics School of Jacques Dalcroze at Hellerau near Dresden. Jacques
Dalcroze, like Plato, believes in saturating his pupils with music. They walk
to music, play to music, work to music, obey drill commands that would
bewilder a guardsman to music, think to music, live to music, get so
clearheaded about music that they can move their several limbs each in a
different metre until they become complicated living magazines of cross
rhythms, and, what is more, make music for others to do all these things to.
Stranger still, though Jacques Dalcroze, like all these great teachers, is the
completest of tyrants, knowing what is right and that he must and will have
the lesson just so or else break his heart (not somebody else's, observe), yet
his school is so fascinating that every woman who sees it exclaims "Oh,
why was I not taught like this!" and elderly gentlemen excitedly enrol
themselves as students and distract classes of infants by their desperate
endeavors to beat two in a bar with one hand and three with the other, and
start off on earnest walks round the room, taking two steps backward
whenever Monsieur Daleroze calls out "Hop!" Oh yes: I know all about
these wonderful schools that you cannot keep children or even adults out of,
and these teachers whom their pupils not only obey without coercion, but
adore. And if you will tell me roughly how many Masons and Montessoris
and Dalcrozes you think you can pick up in Europe for salaries of from
thirty shillings to five pounds a week, I will estimate your chances of
converting your millions of little scholastic hells into little scholastic
heavens. If you are a distressed gentlewoman starting to make a living, you
can still open a little school; and you can easily buy a secondhand brass
plate inscribed PESTALOZZIAN INSTITUTE and nail it to your door,

though you have no more idea of who Pestalozzi was and what he
advocated or how he did it than the manager of a hotel which began as a
Hydropathic has of the water cure. Or you can buy a cheaper plate inscribed
KINDERGARTEN, and imagine, or leave others to imagine, that Froebel is
the governing genius of your little creche. No doubt the new brass plates are
being inscribed Montessori Institute, and will be used when the Dotteressa
is no longer with us by all the Mrs Pipchins and Mrs Wilfers throughout this
unhappy land.
I will go further, and admit that the brass plates may not all be frauds. I
will tell you that one of my friends was led to genuine love and
considerable knowledge of classical literature by an Irish schoolmaster
whom you would call a hedge schoolmaster (he would not be allowed to
teach anything now) and that it took four years of Harrow to obliterate that
knowledge and change the love into loathing. Another friend of mine who
keeps a school in the suburbs, and who deeply deplores my "prejudice
against schoolmasters," has offered to accept my challenge to tell his pupils
that they are as free to get up and go out of the school at any moment as
their parents are to get up and go out of a theatre where my plays are being
performed. Even among my own schoolmasters I can recollect a few whose
classes interested me, and whom I should certainly have pestered for
information and instruction if I could have got into any decent human
relationship with them, and if they had not been compelled by their position
to defend themselves as carefully against such advances as against furtive
attempts to hurt them accidentally in the football field or smash their hats
with a clod from behind a wall. But these rare cases actually do more harm
than good; for they encourage us to pretend that all schoolmasters are like
that. Of what use is it to us that there are always somewhere two or three
teachers of children whose specific genius for their occupation triumphs
over our tyrannous system and even finds in it its opportunity? For that
matter, it is possible, if difficult, to find a solicitor, or even a judge, who has
some notion of what law means, a doctor with a glimmering of science, an
officer who understands duty and discipline, and a clergyman with an
inkling of religion, though there are nothing like enough of them to go
round. But even the few who, like Ibsen's Mrs Solness, have "a genius for
nursing the souls of little children" are like angels forced to work in prisons
instead of in heaven; and even at that they are mostly underpaid and
despised. That friend of mine who went from the hedge schoolmaster to

Harrow once saw a schoolmaster rush from an elementary school in pursuit
of a boy and strike him. My friend, not considering that the unfortunate man
was probably goaded beyond endurance, smote the schoolmaster and
blackened his eye. The schoolmaster appealed to the law; and my friend
found himself waiting nervously in the Hammersmith Police Court to
answer for his breach of the peace. In his anxiety he asked a police officer
what would happen to him. "What did you do?" said the officer. "I gave a
man a black eye" said my friend. "Six pounds if he was a gentleman: two
pounds if he wasnt," said the constable. "He was a schoolmaster" said my
friend. "Two pounds" said the officer; and two pounds it was. The blood
money was paid cheerfully; and I have ever since advised elementary
schoolmasters to qualify themselves in the art of self-defence, as the British
Constitution expresses our national estimate of them by allowing us to
blacken three of their eyes for the same price as one of an ordinary
professional man. How many Froebels and Pestalozzis and Miss Masons
and Doctoress Montessoris would you be likely to get on these terms even
if they occurred much more frequently in nature than they actually do?
No: I cannot be put off by the news that our system would be perfect if it
were worked by angels. I do not admit it even at that, just as I do not admit
that if the sky fell we should all catch larks. But I do not propose to bother
about a supply of specific genius which does not exist, and which, if it did
exist, could operate only by at once recognizing and establishing the rights
of children.

What We Do Not Teach, and Why
To my mind, a glance at the subjects now taught in schools ought to
convince any reasonable person that the object of the lessons is to keep
children out of mischief, and not to qualify them for their part in life as
responsible citizens of a free State. It is not possible to maintain freedom in
any State, no matter how perfect its original constitution, unless its publicly
active citizens know a good deal of constitutional history, law, and political
science, with its basis of economics. If as much pains had been taken a
century ago to make us all understand Ricardo's law of rent as to learn our
catechisms, the face of the world would have been changed for the better.
But for that very reason the greatest care is taken to keep such beneficially
subversive knowledge from us, with the result that in public life we are
either place-hunters, anarchists, or sheep shepherded by wolves.
But it will be observed that these are highly controversial subjects. Now
no controversial subject can be taught dogmatically. He who knows only
the official side of a controversy knows less than nothing of its nature. The
abler a schoolmaster is, the more dangerous he is to his pupils unless they
have the fullest opportunity of hearing another equally able person do his
utmost to shake his authority and convict him of error.
At present such teaching is very unpopular. It does not exist in schools;
but every adult who derives his knowledge of public affairs from the
newspapers can take in, at the cost of an extra halfpenny, two papers of
opposite politics. Yet the ordinary man so dislikes having his mind
unsettled, as he calls it, that he angrily refuses to allow a paper which
dissents from his views to be brought into his house. Even at his club he
resents seeing it, and excludes it if it happens to run counter to the opinions
of all the members. The result is that his opinions are not worth considering.
A churchman who never reads The Freethinker very soon has no more real
religion than the atheist who never reads The Church Times. The attitude is
the same in both cases: they want to hear nothing good of their enemies;
consequently they remain enemies and suffer from bad blood all their lives;
whereas men who know their opponents and understand their case, quite
commonly respect and like them, and always learn something from them.

Here, again, as at so many points, we come up against the abuse of
schools to keep people in ignorance and error, so that they may be incapable
of successful revolt against their industrial slavery. The most important
simple fundamental economic truth to impress on a child in complicated
civilizations like ours is the truth that whoever consumes goods or services
without producing by personal effort the equivalent of what he or she
consumes, inflicts on the community precisely the same injury that a thief
produces, and would, in any honest State, be treated as a thief, however full
his or her pockets might be of money made by other people. The nation that
first teaches its children that truth, instead of flogging them if they discover
it for themselves, may have to fight all the slaves of all the other nations to
begin with; but it will beat them as easily as an unburdened man with his
hands free and with all his energies in full play can beat an invalid who has
to carry another invalid on his back.
This, however, is not an evil produced by the denial of children's rights,
nor is it inherent in the nature of schools. I mention it only because it would
be folly to call for a reform of our schools without taking account of the
corrupt resistance which awaits the reformer.
A word must also be said about the opposition to reform of the vested
interest of the classical and coercive schoolmaster. He, poor wretch, has no
other means of livelihood; and reform would leave him as a workman is
now left when he is superseded by a machine. He had therefore better do
what he can to get the workman compensated, so as to make the public
familiar with the idea of compensation before his own turn comes.

Taboo in Schools
The suppression of economic knowledge, disastrous as it is, is quite
intelligible, its corrupt motive being as clear as the motive of a burglar for
concealing his jemmy from a policeman. But the other great suppression in
our schools, the suppression of the subject of sex, is a case of taboo. In
mankind, the lower the type, and the less cultivated the mind, the less
courage there is to face important subjects objectively. The ablest and most
highly cultivated people continually discuss religion, politics, and sex: it is
hardly an exaggeration to say that they discuss nothing else with fully-
awakened interest. Commoner and less cultivated people, even when they
form societies for discussion, make a rule that politics and religion are not
to be mentioned, and take it for granted that no decent person would
attempt to discuss sex. The three subjects are feared because they rouse the
crude passions which call for furious gratification in murder and rapine at
worst, and, at best, lead to quarrels and undesirable states of consciousness.
Even when this excuse of bad manners, ill temper, and brutishness (for
that is what it comes to) compels us to accept it from those adults among
whom political and theological discussion does as a matter of fact lead to
the drawing of knives and pistols, and sex discussion leads to obscenity, it
has no application to children except as an imperative reason for training
them to respect other people's opinions, and to insist on respect for their
own in these as in other important matters which are equally dangerous: for
example, money. And in any case there are decisive reasons; superior, like
the reasons for suspending conventional reticences between doctor and
patient, to all considerations of mere decorum, for giving proper instruction
in the facts of sex. Those who object to it (not counting coarse people who
thoughtlessly seize every opportunity of affecting and parading a fictitious
delicacy) are, in effect, advocating ignorance as a safeguard against
precocity. If ignorance were practicable there would be something to be said
for it up to the age at which ignorance is a danger instead of a safeguard.
Even as it is, it seems undesirable that any special emphasis should be given
to the subject, whether by way of delicacy and poetry or too impressive
warning. But the plain fact is that in refusing to allow the child to be taught

by qualified unrelated elders (the parents shrink from the lesson, even when
they are otherwise qualified, because their own relation to the child makes
the subject impossible between them) we are virtually arranging to have our
children taught by other children in guilty secrets and unclean jests. And
that settles the question for all sensible people.
The dogmatic objection, the sheer instinctive taboo which rules the
subject out altogether as indecent, has no age limit. It means that at no
matter what age a woman consents to a proposal of marriage, she should do
so in ignorance of the relation she is undertaking. When this actually
happens (and apparently it does happen oftener than would seem possible) a
horrible fraud is being practiced on both the man and the woman. He is led
to believe that she knows what she is promising, and that he is in no danger
of finding himself bound to a woman to whom he is eugenically
antipathetic. She contemplates nothing but such affectionate relations as
may exist between her and her nearest kinsmen, and has no knowledge of
the condition which, if not foreseen, must come as an amazing revelation
and a dangerous shock, ending possibly in the discovery that the marriage
has been an irreparable mistake. Nothing can justify such a risk. There may
be people incapable of understanding that the right to know all there is to
know about oneself is a natural human right that sweeps away all the
pretences of others to tamper with one's consciousness in order to produce
what they choose to consider a good character. But they must here bow to
the plain mischievousness of entrapping people into contracts on which the
happiness of their whole lives depends without letting them know what they
are undertaking.

Alleged Novelties in Modern Schools
There is just one more nuisance to be disposed of before I come to the
positive side of my case. I mean the person who tells me that my
schooldays belong to a bygone order of educational ideas and institutions,
and that schools are not now a bit like my old school. I reply, with Sir
Walter Raleigh, by calling on my soul to give this statement the lie. Some
years ago I lectured in Oxford on the subject of Education. A friend to
whom I mentioned my intention said, "You know nothing of modern
education: schools are not now what they were when you were a boy." I
immediately procured the time sheets of half a dozen modern schools, and
found, as I expected, that they might all have been my old school: there was
no real difference. I may mention, too, that I have visited modern schools,
and observed that there is a tendency to hang printed pictures in an untidy
and soulless manner on the walls, and occasionally to display on the
mantel-shelf a deplorable glass case containing certain objects which might
possibly, if placed in the hands of the pupils, give them some practical
experience of the weight of a pound and the length of an inch. And
sometimes a scoundrel who has rifled a bird's nest or killed a harmless
snake encourages the children to go and do likewise by putting his victims
into an imitation nest and bottle and exhibiting them as aids to "Nature
study." A suggestion that Nature is worth study would certainly have
staggered my schoolmasters; so perhaps I may admit a gleam of progress
here. But as any child who attempted to handle these dusty objects would
probably be caned, I do not attach any importance to such modernities in
school furniture. The school remains what it was in my boyhood, because
its real object remains what it was. And that object, I repeat, is to keep the
children out of mischief: mischief meaning for the most part worrying the
grown-ups.

What is to be Done?
The practical question, then, is what to do with the children. Tolerate
them at home we will not. Let them run loose in the streets we dare not until
our streets become safe places for children, which, to our utter shame, they
are not at present, though they can hardly be worse than some homes and
some schools.
The grotesque difficulty of making even a beginning was brought home
to me in the little village in Hertfordshire where I write these lines by the
lady of the manor, who asked me very properly what I was going to do for
the village school. I did not know what to reply. As the school kept the
children quiet during my working hours, I did not for the sake of my own
personal convenience want to blow it up with dynamite as I should like to
blow up most schools. So I asked for guidance. "You ought to give a prize,"
said the lady. I asked if there was a prize for good conduct. As I expected,
there was: one for the best-behaved boy and another for the best-behaved
girl. On reflection I offered a handsome prize for the worst-behaved boy
and girl on condition that a record should be kept of their subsequent
careers and compared with the records of the best-behaved, in order to
ascertain whether the school criterion of good conduct was valid out of
school. My offer was refused because it would not have had the effect of
encouraging the children to give as little trouble as possible, which is of
course the real object of all conduct prizes in schools.
I must not pretend, then, that I have a system ready to replace all the
other systems. Obstructing the way of the proper organization of childhood,
as of everything else, lies our ridiculous misdistribution of the national
income, with its accompanying class distinctions and imposition of
snobbery on children as a necessary part of their social training. The result
of our economic folly is that we are a nation of undesirable acquaintances;
and the first object of all our institutions for children is segregation. If, for
example, our children were set free to roam and play about as they pleased,
they would have to be policed; and the first duty of the police in a State like
ours would be to see that every child wore a badge indicating its class in
society, and that every child seen speaking to another child with a lower-

class badge, or any child wearing a higher badge than that allotted to it by,
say, the College of Heralds, should immediately be skinned alive with a
birch rod. It might even be insisted that girls with high-class badges should
be attended by footmen, grooms, or even military escorts. In short, there is
hardly any limit to the follies with which our Commercialism would infect
any system that it would tolerate at all. But something like a change of heart
is still possible; and since all the evils of snobbery and segregation are
rampant in our schools at present we may as well make the best as the worst
of them.

Children's Rights and Duties
Now let us ask what are a child's rights, and what are the rights of society
over the child. Its rights, being clearly those of any other human being, are
summed up in the right to live: that is, to have all the conclusive arguments
that prove that it would be better dead, that it is a child of wrath, that the
population is already excessive, that the pains of life are greater than its
pleasures, that its sacrifice in a hospital or laboratory experiment might save
millions of lives, etc. etc. etc., put out of the question, and its existence
accepted as necessary and sacred, all theories to the contrary
notwithstanding, whether by Calvin or Schopenhauer or Pasteur or the
nearest person with a taste for infanticide. And this right to live includes,
and in fact is, the right to be what the child likes and can, to do what it likes
and can, to make what it likes and can, to think what it likes and can, to
smash what it dislikes and can, and generally to behave in an altogether
unaccountable manner within the limits imposed by the similar rights of its
neighbors. And the rights of society over it clearly extend to requiring it to
qualify itself to live in society without wasting other peoples time: that is, it
must know the rules of the road, be able to read placards and proclamations,
fill voting papers, compose and send letters and telegrams, purchase food
and clothing and railway tickets for itself, count money and give and take
change, and, generally, know how many beans made five. It must know
some law, were it only a simple set of commandments, some political
economy, agriculture enough to shut the gates of fields with cattle in them
and not to trample on growing crops, sanitation enough not to defile its
haunts, and religion enough to have some idea of why it is allowed its rights
and why it must respect the rights of others. And the rest of its education
must consist of anything else it can pick up; for beyond this society cannot
go with any certainty, and indeed can only go this far rather apologetically
and provisionally, as doing the best it can on very uncertain ground.

Should Children Earn their Living?
Now comes the question how far children should be asked to contribute
to the support of the community. In approaching it we must put aside the
considerations that now induce all humane and thoughtful political students
to agitate for the uncompromising abolition of child labor under our
capitalist system. It is not the least of the curses of that system that it will
bequeath to future generations a mass of legislation to prevent capitalists
from "using up nine generations of men in one generation," as they began
by doing until they were restrained by law at the suggestion of Robert
Owen, the founder of English Socialism. Most of this legislation will
become an insufferable restraint upon freedom and variety of action when
Capitalism goes the way of Druidic human sacrifice (a much less
slaughterous institution). There is every reason why a child should not be
allowed to work for commercial profit or for the support of its parents at the
expense of its own future; but there is no reason whatever why a child
should not do some work for its own sake and that of the community if it
can be shewn that both it and the community will be the better for it.

Children's Happiness
Also it is important to put the happiness of the children rather carefully in
its place, which is really not a front place. The unsympathetic, selfish, hard
people who regard happiness as a very exceptional indulgence to which
children are by no means entitled, though they may be allowed a very little
of it on their birthdays or at Christmas, are sometimes better parents in
effect than those who imagine that children are as capable of happiness as
adults. Adults habitually exaggerate their own capacity in that direction
grossly; yet most adults can stand an allowance of happiness that would be
quite thrown away on children. The secret of being miserable is to have
leisure to bother about whether you are happy or not. The cure for it is
occupation, because occupation means pre-occupation; and the pre-
occupied person is neither happy nor unhappy, but simply alive and active,
which is pleasanter than any happiness until you are tired of it. That is why
it is necessary to happiness that one should be tired. Music after dinner is
pleasant: music before breakfast is so unpleasant as to be clearly unnatural.
To people who are not overworked holidays are a nuisance. To people who
are, and who can afford them, they are a troublesome necessity. A perpetual
holiday is a good working definition of hell.

The Horror of the Perpetual Holiday
It will be said here that, on the contrary, heaven is always conceived as a
perpetual holiday, and that whoever is not born to an independent income is
striving for one or longing for one because it gives holidays for life. To
which I reply, first, that heaven, as conventionally conceived, is a place so
inane, so dull, so useless, so miserable, that nobody has ever ventured to
describe a whole day in heaven, though plenty of people have described a
day at the seaside; and that the genuine popular verdict on it is expressed in
the proverb "Heaven for holiness and Hell for company." Second, I point
out that the wretched people who have independent incomes and no useful
occupation, do the most amazingly disagreeable and dangerous things to
make themselves tired and hungry in the evening. When they are not
involved in what they call sport, they are doing aimlessly what other people
have to be paid to do: driving horses and motor cars; trying on dresses and
walking up and down to shew them off; and acting as footmen and
housemaids to royal personages. The sole and obvious cause of the notion
that idleness is delightful and that heaven is a place where there is nothing
to be done, is our school system and our industrial system. The school is a
prison in which work is a punishment and a curse. In avowed prisons, hard
labor, the only alleviation of a prisoner's lot, is treated as an aggravation of
his punishment; and everything possible is done to intensify the prisoner's
inculcated and unnatural notion that work is an evil. In industry we are
overworked and underfed prisoners. Under such absurd circumstances our
judgment of things becomes as perverted as our habits. If we were
habitually underworked and overfed, our notion of heaven would be a place
where everybody worked strenuously for twenty-four hours a day and never
got anything to eat.
Once realize that a perpetual holiday is beyond human endurance, and
that "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do" and it will be seen
that we have no right to impose a perpetual holiday on children. If we did,
they would soon outdo the Labor Party in their claim for a Right to Work
Bill.

In any case no child should be brought up to suppose that its food and
clothes come down from heaven or are miraculously conjured from empty
space by papa. Loathsome as we have made the idea of duty (like the idea
of work) we must habituate children to a sense of repayable obligation to
the community for what they consume and enjoy, and inculcate the
repayment as a point of honor. If we did that today—and nothing but flat
dishonesty prevents us from doing it—we should have no idle rich and
indeed probably no rich, since there is no distinction in being rich if you
have to pay scot and lot in personal effort like the working folk. Therefore,
if for only half an hour a day, a child should do something serviceable to the
community.
Productive work for children has the advantage that its discipline is the
discipline of impersonal necessity, not that of wanton personal coercion.
The eagerness of children in our industrial districts to escape from school to
the factory is not caused by lighter tasks or shorter hours in the factory, nor
altogether by the temptation of wages, nor even by the desire for novelty,
but by the dignity of adult work, the exchange of the factitious personal
tyranny of the schoolmaster, from which the grown-ups are free, for the
stern but entirely dignified Laws of Life to which all flesh is subject.

University Schoolboyishness
Older children might do a good deal before beginning their collegiate
education. What is the matter with our universities is that all the students
are schoolboys, whereas it is of the very essence of university education
that they should be men. The function of a university is not to teach things
that can now be taught as well or better by University Extension lectures or
by private tutors or modern correspondence classes with gramophones. We
go to them to be socialized; to acquire the hall mark of communal training;
to become citizens of the world instead of inmates of the enlarged rabbit
hutches we call homes; to learn manners and become unchallengeable
ladies and gentlemen. The social pressure which effects these changes
should be that of persons who have faced the full responsibilities of adults
as working members of the general community, not that of a barbarous
rabble of half emancipated schoolboys and unemancipable pedants. It is
true that in a reasonable state of society this outside experience would do
for us very completely what the university does now so corruptly that we
tolerate its bad manners only because they are better than no manners at all.
But the university will always exist in some form as a community of
persons desirous of pushing their culture to the highest pitch they are
capable of, not as solitary students reading in seclusion, but as members of
a body of individuals all pursuing culture, talking culture, thinking culture,
above all, criticizing culture. If such persons are to read and talk and
criticize to any purpose, they must know the world outside the university at
least as well as the shopkeeper in the High Street does. And this is just what
they do not know at present. You may say of them, paraphrasing Mr.
Kipling, "What do they know of Plato that only Plato know?" If our
universities would exclude everybody who had not earned a living by his or
her own exertions for at least a couple of years, their effect would be vastly
improved.

The New Laziness
The child of the future, then, if there is to be any future but one of decay,
will work more or less for its living from an early age; and in doing so it
will not shock anyone, provided there be no longer any reason to associate
the conception of children working for their living with infants toiling in a
factory for ten hours a day or boys drudging from nine to six under gas
lamps in underground city offices. Lads and lasses in their teens will
probably be able to produce as much as the most expensive person now
costs in his own person (it is retinue that eats up the big income) without
working too hard or too long for quite as much happiness as they can enjoy.
The question to be balanced then will be, not how soon people should be
put to work, but how soon they should be released from any obligation of
the kind. A life's work is like a day's work: it can begin early and leave off
early or begin late and leave off late, or, as with us, begin too early and
never leave off at all, obviously the worst of all possible plans. In any event
we must finally reckon work, not as the curse our schools and prisons and
capitalist profit factories make it seem today, but as a prime necessity of a
tolerable existence. And if we cannot devise fresh wants as fast as we
develop the means of supplying them, there will come a scarcity of the
needed, cut-and-dried, appointed work that is always ready to everybody's
hand. It may have to be shared out among people all of whom want more of
it. And then a new sort of laziness will become the bugbear of society: the
laziness that refuses to face the mental toil and adventure of making work
by inventing new ideas or extending the domain of knowledge, and insists
on a ready-made routine. It may come to forcing people to retire before they
are willing to make way for younger ones: that is, to driving all persons of a
certain age out of industry, leaving them to find something experimental to
occupy them on pain of perpetual holiday. Men will then try to spend
twenty thousand a year for the sake of having to earn it. Instead of being
what we are now, the cheapest and nastiest of the animals, we shall be the
costliest, most fastidious, and best bred. In short, there is no end to the
astonishing things that may happen when the curse of Adam becomes first a

blessing and then an incurable habit. And in that day we must not grudge
children their share of it.

The Infinite School Task
The question of children's work, however, is only a question of what the
child ought to do for the community. How highly it should qualify itself is
another matter. But most of the difficulty of inducing children to learn
would disappear if our demands became not only definite but finite. When
learning is only an excuse for imprisonment, it is an instrument of torture
which becomes more painful the more progress is made. Thus when you
have forced a child to learn the Church Catechism, a document profound
beyond the comprehension of most adults, you are sometimes at a standstill
for something else to teach; and you therefore keep the wretched child
repeating its catechism again and again until you hit on the plan of making
it learn instalments of Bible verses, preferably from the book of Numbers.
But as it is less trouble to set a lesson that you know yourself, there is a
tendency to keep repeating the already learnt lesson rather than break new
ground. At school I began with a fairly complete knowledge of Latin
grammar in the childish sense of being able to repeat all the paradigms; and
I was kept at this, or rather kept in a class where the master never asked me
to do it because he knew I could, and therefore devoted himself to trapping
the boys who could not, until I finally forgot most of it. But when progress
took place, what did it mean? First it meant Caesar, with the foreknowledge
that to master Caesar meant only being set at Virgil, with the culminating
horror of Greek and Homer in reserve at the end of that. I preferred Caesar,
because his statement that Gaul is divided into three parts, though neither
interesting nor true, was the only Latin sentence I could translate at sight:
therefore the longer we stuck at Caesar the better I was pleased. Just so do
less classically educated children see nothing in the mastery of addition but
the beginning of subtraction, and so on through multiplication and division
and fractions, with the black cloud of algebra on the horizon. And if a boy
rushes through all that, there is always the calculus to fall back on, unless
indeed you insist on his learning music, and proceed to hit him if he cannot
tell you the year Beethoven was born.
A child has a right to finality as regards its compulsory lessons. Also as
regards physical training. At present it is assumed that the schoolmaster has

a right to force every child into an attempt to become Porson and Bentley,
Leibnitz and Newton, all rolled into one. This is the tradition of the oldest
grammar schools. In our times an even more horrible and cynical claim has
been made for the right to drive boys through compulsory games in the
playing fields until they are too much exhausted physically to do anything
but drop off to sleep. This is supposed to protect them from vice; but as it
also protects them from poetry, literature, music, meditation and prayer, it
may be dismissed with the obvious remark that if boarding schools are
places whose keepers are driven to such monstrous measures lest more
abominable things should happen, then the sooner boarding schools are
violently abolished the better. It is true that society may make physical
claims on the child as well as mental ones: the child must learn to walk, to
use a knife and fork, to swim, to ride a bicycle, to acquire sufficient power
of self-defence to make an attack on it an arduous and uncertain enterprise,
perhaps to fly. What as a matter of common-sense it clearly has not a right
to do is to make this an excuse for keeping the child slaving for ten hours at
physical exercises on the ground that it is not yet as dexterous as
Cinquevalli and as strong as Sandow.

The Rewards and Risks of Knowledge
In a word, we have no right to insist on educating a child; for its
education can end only with its life and will not even then be complete.
Compulsory completion of education is the last folly of a rotten and
desperate civilization. It is the rattle in its throat before dissolution. All we
can fairly do is to prescribe certain definite acquirements and
accomplishments as qualifications for certain employments; and to secure
them, not by the ridiculous method of inflicting injuries on the persons who
have not yet mastered them, but by attaching certain privileges (not
pecuniary) to the employments.
Most acquirements carry their own privileges with them. Thus a baby has
to be pretty closely guarded and imprisoned because it cannot take care of
itself. It has even to be carried about (the most complete conceivable
infringement of its liberty) until it can walk. But nobody goes on carrying
children after they can walk lest they should walk into mischief, though
Arab boys make their sisters carry them, as our own spoiled children
sometimes make their nurses, out of mere laziness, because sisters in the
East and nurses in the West are kept in servitude. But in a society of equals
(the only reasonable and permanently possible sort of society) children are
in much greater danger of acquiring bandy legs through being left to walk
before they are strong enough than of being carried when they are well able
to walk. Anyhow, freedom of movement in a nursery is the reward of
learning to walk; and in precisely the same way freedom of movement in a
city is the reward of learning how to read public notices, and to count and
use money. The consequences are of course much larger than the mere
ability to read the name of a street or the number of a railway platform and
the destination of a train. When you enable a child to read these, you also
enable it to read this preface, to the utter destruction, you may quite
possibly think, of its morals and docility. You also expose it to the danger of
being run over by taxicabs and trains. The moral and physical risks of
education are enormous: every new power a child acquires, from speaking,
walking, and co-ordinating its vision, to conquering continents and
founding religions, opens up immense new possibilities of mischief. Teach

a child to write and you teach it how to forge: teach it to speak and you
teach it how to lie: teach it to walk and you teach it how to kick its mother
to death.
The great problem of slavery for those whose aim is to maintain it is the
problem of reconciling the efficiency of the slave with the helplessness that
keeps him in servitude; and this problem is fortunately not completely
soluble; for it is not in fact found possible for a duke to treat his solicitor or
his doctor as he treats his laborers, though they are all equally his slaves:
the laborer being in fact less dependent on his favor than the professional
man. Hence it is that men come to resent, of all things, protection, because
it so often means restriction of their liberty lest they should make a bad use
of it. If there are dangerous precipices about, it is much easier and cheaper
to forbid people to walk near the edge than to put up an effective fence: that
is why both legislators and parents and the paid deputies of parents are
always inhibiting and prohibiting and punishing and scolding and laming
and cramping and delaying progress and growth instead of making the
dangerous places as safe as possible and then boldly taking and allowing
others to take the irreducible minimum of risk.

English Physical Hardihood and Spiritual
Cowardice
It is easier to convert most people to the need for allowing their children
to run physical risks than moral ones. I can remember a relative of mine
who, when I was a small child, unused to horses and very much afraid of
them, insisted on putting me on a rather rumbustious pony with little spurs
on my heels (knowing that in my agitation I would use them
unconsciously), and being enormously amused at my terrors. Yet when that
same lady discovered that I had found a copy of The Arabian Nights and
was devouring it with avidity, she was horrified, and hid it away from me
lest it should break my soul as the pony might have broken my neck. This
way of producing hardy bodies and timid souls is so common in country
houses that you may spend hours in them listening to stories of broken
collar bones, broken backs, and broken necks without coming upon a single
spiritual adventure or daring thought.
But whether the risks to which liberty exposes us are moral or physical
our right to liberty involves the right to run them. A man who is not free to
risk his neck as an aviator or his soul as a heretic is not free at all; and the
right to liberty begins, not at the age of 21 years but of 21 seconds.

The Risks of Ignorance and Weakness
The difficulty with children is that they need protection from risks they
are too young to understand, and attacks they can neither avoid nor resist.
You may on academic grounds allow a child to snatch glowing coals from
the fire once. You will not do it twice. The risks of liberty we must let
everyone take; but the risks of ignorance and self-helplessness are another
matter. Not only children but adults need protection from them. At present
adults are often exposed to risks outside their knowledge or beyond their
comprehension or powers of resistance or foresight: for example, we have
to look on every day at marriages or financial speculations that may involve
far worse consequences than burnt fingers. And just as it is part of the
business of adults to protect children, to feed them, clothe them, shelter
them, and shift for them in all sorts of ways until they are able to shift for
themselves, it is coming more and more to be seen that this is true not only
of the relation between adults and children, but between adults and adults.
We shall not always look on indifferently at foolish marriages and financial
speculations, nor allow dead men to control live communities by ridiculous
wills and living heirs to squander and ruin great estates, nor tolerate a
hundred other absurd liberties that we allow today because we are too lazy
to find out the proper way to interfere. But the interference must be
regulated by some theory of the individual's rights. Though the right to live
is absolute, it is not unconditional. If a man is unbearably mischievous, he
must be killed. This is a mere matter of necessity, like the killing of a man-
eating tiger in a nursery, a venomous snake in the garden, or a fox in the
poultry yard. No society could be constructed on the assumption that such
extermination is a violation of the creature's right to live, and therefore must
not be allowed. And then at once arises the danger into which morality has
led us: the danger of persecution. One Christian spreading his doctrines
may seem more mischievous than a dozen thieves: throw him therefore to
the lions. A lying or disobedient child may corrupt a whole generation and
make human Society impossible: therefore thrash the vice out of him. And
so on until our whole system of abortion, intimidation, tyranny, cruelty and
the rest is in full swing again.

The Common Sense of Toleration
The real safeguard against this is the dogma of Toleration. I need not here
repeat the compact treatise on it which I prepared for the Joint Committee
on the Censorship of Stage Plays, and prefixed to The Shewing Up of
Blanco Posnet. It must suffice now to say that the present must not attempt
to schoolmaster the future by pretending to know good from evil in
tendency, or protect citizens against shocks to their opinions and
convictions, moral, political or religious: in other words it must not
persecute doctrines of any kind, or what is called bad taste, and must insist
on all persons facing such shocks as they face frosty weather or any of the
other disagreeable, dangerous, or bracing incidents of freedom. The
expediency of Toleration has been forced on us by the fact that progressive
enlightenment depends on a fair hearing for doctrines which at first appear
seditious, blasphemous, and immoral, and which deeply shock people who
never think originally, thought being with them merely a habit and an echo.
The deeper ground for Toleration is the nature of creation, which, as we
now know, proceeds by evolution. Evolution finds its way by experiment;
and this finding of the way varies according to the stage of development
reached, from the blindest groping along the line of least resistance to
intellectual speculation, with its practical sequel of hypothesis and
experimental verification; or to observation, induction, and deduction; or
even into so rapid and intuitive an integration of all these processes in a
single brain that we get the inspired guess of the man of genius and the
desperate resolution of the teacher of new truths who is first slain as a
blasphemous apostate and then worshipped as a prophet.
Here the law for the child is the same as for the adult. The high priest
must not rend his garments and cry "Crucify him" when he is shocked: the
atheist must not clamor for the suppression of Law's Serious Call because it
has for two centuries destroyed the natural happiness of innumerable
unfortunate children by persuading their parents that it is their religious
duty to be miserable. It, and the Sermon on the Mount, and Machiavelli's
Prince, and La Rochefoucauld's maxims, and Hymns Ancient and Modern,
and De Glanville's apologue, and Dr. Watts's rhymes, and Nietzsche's Gay

Science, and Ingersoll's Mistakes of Moses, and the speeches and pamphlets
of the people who want us to make war on Germany, and the Noodle's
Orations and articles of our politicians and journalists, must all be tolerated
not only because any of them may for all we know be on the right track but
because it is in the conflict of opinion that we win knowledge and wisdom.
However terrible the wounds suffered in that conflict, they are better than
the barren peace of death that follows when all the combatants are
slaughtered or bound hand and foot.
The difficulty at present is that though this necessity for Toleration is a
law of political science as well established as the law of gravitation, our
rulers are never taught political science: on the contrary, they are taught in
school that the master tolerates nothing that is disagreeable to him; that
ruling is simply being master; and that the master's method is the method of
violent punishment. And our citizens, all school taught, are walking in the
same darkness. As I write these lines the Home Secretary is explaining that
a man who has been imprisoned for blasphemy must not be released
because his remarks were painful to the feelings of his pious fellow
townsmen. Now it happens that this very Home Secretary has driven many
thousands of his fellow citizens almost beside themselves by the crudity of
his notions of government, and his simple inability to understand why he
should not use and make laws to torment and subdue people who do not
happen to agree with him. In a word, he is not a politician, but a grown-up
schoolboy who has at last got a cane in his hand. And as all the rest of us
are in the same condition (except as to command of the cane) the only
objection made to his proceedings takes the shape of clamorous demands
that he should be caned instead of being allowed to cane other people.

The Sin of Athanasius
It seems hopeless. Anarchists are tempted to preach a violent and
implacable resistance to all law as the only remedy; and the result of that
speedily is that people welcome any tyranny that will rescue them from
chaos. But there is really no need to choose between anarchy and tyranny. A
quite reasonable state of things is practicable if we proceed on human
assumptions and not on academic ones. If adults will frankly give up their
claim to know better than children what the purposes of the Life Force are,
and treat the child as an experiment like themselves, and possibly a more
successful one, and at the same time relinquish their monstrous parental
claims to personal private property in children, the rest must be left to
common sense. It is our attitude, our religion, that is wrong. A good
beginning might be made by enacting that any person dictating a piece of
conduct to a child or to anyone else as the will of God, or as absolutely
right, should be dealt with as a blasphemer: as, indeed, guilty of the
unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost. If the penalty were death, it
would rid us at once of that scourge of humanity, the amateur Pope. As an
Irish Protestant, I raise the cry of No Popery with hereditary zest. We are
overrun with Popes. From curates and governesses, who may claim a sort of
professional standing, to parents and uncles and nurserymaids and school
teachers and wiseacres generally, there are scores of thousands of human
insects groping through our darkness by the feeble phosphorescence of their
own tails, yet ready at a moment's notice to reveal the will of God on every
possible subject; to explain how and why the universe was made (in my
youth they added the exact date) and the circumstances under which it will
cease to exist; to lay down precise rules of right and wrong conduct; to
discriminate infallibly between virtuous and vicious character; and all this
with such certainty that they are prepared to visit all the rigors of the law,
and all the ruinous penalties of social ostracism on people, however
harmless their actions maybe who venture to laugh at their monstrous
conceit or to pay their assumptions the extravagant compliment of
criticizing them. As to children, who shall say what canings and birchings
and terrifyings and threats of hell fire and impositions and humiliations and

petty imprisonings and sendings to bed and standing in corners and the like
they have suffered because their parents and guardians and teachers knew
everything so much better than Socrates or Solon?
It is this ignorant uppishness that does the mischief. A stranger on the
planet might expect that its grotesque absurdity would provoke enough
ridicule to cure it; but unfortunately quite the contrary happens. Just as our
ill health delivers us into the hands of medical quacks and creates a
passionate demand for impudent pretences that doctors can cure the
diseases they themselves die of daily, so our ignorance and helplessness set
us clamoring for spiritual and moral quacks who pretend that they can save
our souls from their own damnation. If a doctor were to say to his patients,
"I am familiar with your symptoms, because I have seen other people in
your condition; and I will bring the very little knowledge we have to your
treatment; but except in that very shallow sense I dont know what is the
matter with you; and I cant undertake to cure you," he would be a lost man
professionally; and if a clergyman, on being called on to award a prize for
good conduct in the village school, were to say, "I am afraid I cannot say
who is the best-behaved child, because I really do not know what good
conduct is; but I will gladly take the teacher's word as to which child has
caused least inconvenience," he would probably be unfrocked, if not
excommunicated. And yet no honest and intellectually capable doctor or
parson can say more. Clearly it would not be wise of the doctor to say it,
because optimistic lies have such immense therapeutic value that a doctor
who cannot tell them convincingly has mistaken his profession. And a
clergyman who is not prepared to lay down the law dogmatically will not be
of much use in a village school, though it behoves him all the more to be
very careful what law he lays down. But unless both the clergyman and the
doctor are in the attitude expressed by these speeches they are not fit for
their work. The man who believes that he has more than a provisional
hypothesis to go upon is a born fool. He may have to act vigorously on it.
The world has no use for the Agnostic who wont believe anything because
anything might be false, and wont deny anything because anything might be
true. But there is a wide difference between saying, "I believe this; and I am
going to act on it," or, "I dont believe it; and I wont act on it," and saying,
"It is true; and it is my duty and yours to act on it," or, "It is false; and it is
my duty and yours to refuse to act on it." The difference is as great as that
between the Apostles' Creed and the Athanasian Creed. When you repeat

the Apostles' Creed you affirm that you believe certain things. There you
are clearly within your rights. When you repeat the Athanasian Creed, you
affirm that certain things are so, and that anybody who doubts that they are
so cannot be saved. And this is simply a piece of impudence on your part, as
you know nothing about it except that as good men as you have never heard
of your creed. The apostolic attitude is a desire to convert others to our
beliefs for the sake of sympathy and light: the Athanasian attitude is a desire
to murder people who dont agree with us. I am sufficient of an Athanasian
to advocate a law for the speedy execution of all Athanasians, because they
violate the fundamental proposition of my creed, which is, I repeat, that all
living creatures are experiments. The precise formula for the Superman, ci-
devant The Just Man Made Perfect, has not yet been discovered. Until it is,
every birth is an experiment in the Great Research which is being
conducted by the Life Force to discover that formula.

The Experiment Experimenting
And now all the modern schoolmaster abortionists will rise up beaming,
and say, "We quite agree. We regard every child in our school as a subject
for experiment. We are always experimenting with them. We challenge the
experimental test for our system. We are continually guided by our
experience in our great work of moulding the character of our future
citizens, etc. etc. etc." I am sorry to seem irreconcilable; but it is the Life
Force that has to make the experiment and not the schoolmaster; and the
Life Force for the child's purpose is in the child and not in the schoolmaster.
The schoolmaster is another experiment; and a laboratory in which all the
experiments began experimenting on one another would not produce
intelligible results. I admit, however, that if my schoolmasters had treated
me as an experiment of the Life Force: that is, if they had set me free to do
as I liked subject only to my political rights and theirs, they could not have
watched the experiment very long, because the first result would have been
a rapid movement on my part in the direction of the door, and my
disappearance there-through.
It may be worth inquiring where I should have gone to. I should say that
practically every time I should have gone to a much more educational place.
I should have gone into the country, or into the sea, or into the National
Gallery, or to hear a band if there was one, or to any library where there
were no schoolbooks. I should have read very dry and difficult books: for
example, though nothing would have induced me to read the budget of
stupid party lies that served as a text-book of history in school, I remember
reading Robertson's Charles V. and his history of Scotland from end to end
most laboriously. Once, stung by the airs of a schoolfellow who alleged that
he had read Locke On The Human Understanding, I attempted to read the
Bible straight through, and actually got to the Pauline Epistles before I
broke down in disgust at what seemed to me their inveterate crookedness of
mind. If there had been a school where children were really free, I should
have had to be driven out of it for the sake of my health by the teachers; for
the children to whom a literary education can be of any use are insatiable:
they will read and study far more than is good for them. In fact the real

difficulty is to prevent them from wasting their time by reading for the sake
of reading and studying for the sake of studying, instead of taking some
trouble to find out what they really like and are capable of doing some good
at. Some silly person will probably interrupt me here with the remark that
many children have no appetite for a literary education at all, and would
never open a book if they were not forced to. I have known many such
persons who have been forced to the point of obtaining University degrees.
And for all the effect their literary exercises has left on them they might just
as well have been put on the treadmill. In fact they are actually less literate
than the treadmill would have left them; for they might by chance have
picked up and dipped into a volume of Shakespear or a translation of
Homer if they had not been driven to loathe every famous name in
literature. I should probably know as much Latin as French, if Latin had not
been made the excuse for my school imprisonment and degradation.

Why We Loathe Learning and Love Sport
If we are to discuss the importance of art, learning, and intellectual
culture, the first thing we have to recognize is that we have very little of
them at present; and that this little has not been produced by compulsory
education: nay, that the scarcity is unnatural and has been produced by the
violent exclusion of art and artists from schools. On the other hand we have
quite a considerable degree of bodily culture: indeed there is a continual
outcry against the sacrifice of mental accomplishments to athletics. In other
words a sacrifice of the professed object of compulsory education to the
real object of voluntary education. It is assumed that this means that people
prefer bodily to mental culture; but may it not mean that they prefer liberty
and satisfaction to coercion and privation. Why is it that people who have
been taught Shakespear as a school subject loathe his plays and cannot by
any means be persuaded ever to open his works after they escape from
school, whereas there is still, 300 years after his death, a wide and steady
sale for his works to people who read his plays as plays, and not as task
work? If Shakespear, or for that matter, Newton and Leibnitz, are allowed
to find their readers and students they will find them. If their works are
annotated and paraphrased by dullards, and the annotations and paraphrases
forced on all young people by imprisonment and flogging and scolding,
there will not be a single man of letters or higher mathematician the more in
the country: on the contrary there will be less, as so many potential lovers
of literature and mathematics will have been incurably prejudiced against
them. Everyone who is conversant with the class in which child
imprisonment and compulsory schooling is carried out to the final extremity
of the university degree knows that its scholastic culture is a sham; that it
knows little about literature or art and a great deal about point-to-point
races; and that the village cobbler, who has never read a page of Plato, and
is admittedly a dangerously ignorant man politically, is nevertheless a
Socrates compared to the classically educated gentlemen who discuss
politics in country houses at election time (and at no other time) after their
day's earnest and skilful shooting. Think of the years and years of weary
torment the women of the piano-possessing class have been forced to spend

over the keyboard, fingering scales. How many of them could be bribed to
attend a pianoforte recital by a great player, though they will rise from sick
beds rather than miss Ascot or Goodwood?
Another familiar fact that teaches the same lesson is that many women
who have voluntarily attained a high degree of culture cannot add up their
own housekeeping books, though their education in simple arithmetic was
compulsory, whereas their higher education has been wholly voluntary.
Everywhere we find the same result. The imprisonment, the beating, the
taming and laming, the breaking of young spirits, the arrest of development,
the atrophy of all inhibitive power except the power of fear, are real: the
education is sham. Those who have been taught most know least.

Antichrist
Among the worst effects of the unnatural segregation of children in
schools and the equally unnatural constant association of them with adults
in the family is the utter defeat of the vital element in Christianity. Christ
stands in the world for that intuition of the highest humanity that we, being
members one of another, must not complain, must not scold, must not
strike, nor revile nor persecute nor revenge nor punish. Now family life and
school life are, as far as the moral training of children is concerned, nothing
but the deliberate inculcation of a routine of complaint, scolding,
punishment, persecution, and revenge as the natural and only possible way
of dealing with evil or inconvenience. "Aint nobody to be whopped for this
here?" exclaimed Sam Weller when he saw his employer's name written up
on a stage coach, and conceived the phenomenon as an insult which
reflected on himself. This exclamation of Sam Weller is at once the
negation of Christianity and the beginning and the end of current morality;
and so it will remain as long as the family and the school persist as we
know them: that is, as long as the rights of children are so utterly denied
that nobody will even take the trouble to ascertain what they are, and
coming of age is like the turning of a convict into the street after twenty-one
years penal servitude. Indeed it is worse; for the convict may have learnt
before his conviction how to live in freedom and may remember how to set
about it, however lamed his powers of freedom may have become through
disuse; but the child knows no other way of life but the slave's way. Born
free, as Rousseau says, he has been laid hands on by slaves from the
moment of his birth and brought up as a slave. How is he, when he is at last
set free, to be anything else than the slave he actually is, clamoring for war,
for the lash, for police, prisons, and scaffolds in a wild panic of delusion
that without these things he is lost. The grown-up Englishman is to the end
of his days a badly brought-up child, beyond belief quarrelsome, petulant,
selfish, destructive, and cowardly: afraid that the Germans will come and
enslave him; that the burglar will come and rob him; that the bicycle or
motor car will run over him; that the smallpox will attack him; and that the
devil will run away with him and empty him out like a sack of coals on a

blazing fire unless his nurse or his parents or his schoolmaster or his bishop
or his judge or his army or his navy will do something to frighten these bad
things away. And this Englishman, without the moral courage of a louse,
will risk his neck for fun fifty times every winter in the hunting field, and at
Badajos sieges and the like will ram his head into a hole bristling with
sword blades rather than be beaten in the one department in which he has
been brought up to consult his own honor. As a Sportsman (and war is
fundamentally the sport of hunting and fighting the most dangerous of the
beasts of prey) he feels free. He will tell you himself that the true sportsman
is never a snob, a coward, a duffer, a cheat, a thief, or a liar. Curious, is it
not, that he has not the same confidence in other sorts of man?
And even sport is losing its freedom. Soon everybody will be schooled,
mentally and physically, from the cradle to the end of the term of adult
compulsory military service, and finally of compulsory civil service lasting
until the age of superannuation. Always more schooling, more compulsion.
We are to be cured by an excess of the dose that has poisoned us. Satan is to
cast out Satan.

Under the Whip
Clearly this will not do. We must reconcile education with liberty. We
must find out some means of making men workers and, if need be, warriors,
without making them slaves. We must cultivate the noble virtues that have
their root in pride. Now no schoolmaster will teach these any more than a
prison governor will teach his prisoners how to mutiny and escape. Self-
preservation forces him to break the spirit that revolts against him, and to
inculcate submission, even to obscene assault, as a duty. A bishop once had
the hardihood to say that he would rather see England free than England
sober. Nobody has yet dared to say that he would rather see an England of
ignoramuses than an England of cowards and slaves. And if anyone did, it
would be necessary to point out that the antithesis is not a practical one, as
we have got at present an England of ignoramuses who are also cowards
and slaves, and extremely proud of it at that, because in school they are
taught to submit, with what they ridiculously call Oriental fatalism (as if
any Oriental has ever submitted more helplessly and sheepishly to robbery
and oppression than we Occidentals do), to be driven day after day into
compounds and set to the tasks they loathe by the men they hate and fear, as
if this were the inevitable destiny of mankind. And naturally, when they
grow up, they helplessly exchange the prison of the school for the prison of
the mine or the workshop or the office, and drudge along stupidly and
miserably, with just enough gregarious instinct to turn furiously on any
intelligent person who proposes a change. It would be quite easy to make
England a paradise, according to our present ideas, in a few years. There is
no mystery about it: the way has been pointed out over and over again. The
difficulty is not the way but the will. And we have no will because the first
thing done with us in childhood was to break our will. Can anything be
more disgusting than the spectacle of a nation reading the biography of
Gladstone and gloating over the account of how he was flogged at Eton,
two of his schoolfellows being compelled to hold him down whilst he was
flogged. Not long ago a public body in England had to deal with the case of
a schoolmaster who, conceiving himself insulted by the smoking of a
cigaret against his orders by a pupil eighteen years old, proposed to flog

him publicly as a satisfaction to what he called his honor and authority. I
had intended to give the particulars of this ease, but find the drudgery of
repeating such stuff too sickening, and the effect unjust to a man who was
doing only what others all over the country were doing as part of the
established routine of what is called education. The astounding part of it
was the manner in which the person to whom this outrage on decency
seemed quite proper and natural claimed to be a functionary of high
character, and had his claim allowed. In Japan he would hardly have been
allowed the privilege of committing suicide. What is to be said of a
profession in which such obscenities are made points of honor, or of
institutions in which they are an accepted part of the daily routine?
Wholesome people would not argue about the taste of such nastinesses:
they would spit them out; but we are tainted with flagellomania from our
childhood. When will we realize that the fact that we can become
accustomed to anything, however disgusting at first, makes it necessary for
us to examine carefully everything we have become accustomed to? Before
motor cars became common, necessity had accustomed us to a foulness in
our streets which would have horrified us had the street been our drawing-
room carpet. Before long we shall be as particular about our streets as we
now are about our carpets; and their condition in the nineteenth century will
become as forgotten and incredible as the condition of the corridors of
palaces and the courts of castles was as late as the eighteenth century. This
foulness, we can plead, was imposed on us as a necessity by the use of
horses and of huge retinues; but flogging has never been so imposed: it has
always been a vice, craved for on any pretext by those depraved by it. Boys
were flogged when criminals were hanged, to impress the awful warning on
them. Boys were flogged at boundaries, to impress the boundaries on their
memory. Other methods and other punishments were always available: the
choice of this one betrayed the sensual impulse which makes the practice an
abomination. But when its viciousness made it customary, it was practised
and tolerated on all hands by people who were innocent of anything worse
than stupidity, ill temper, and inability to discover other methods of
maintaining order than those they had always seen practised and approved
of. From children and animals it extended to slaves and criminals. In the
days of Moses it was limited to 39 lashes. In the early nineteenth century it
had become an open madness: soldiers were sentenced to a thousand lashes
for trifling offences, with the result (among others less mentionable) that the

Iron Duke of Wellington complained that it was impossible to get an order
obeyed in the British army except in two or three crack regiments. Such
frantic excesses of this disgusting neurosis provoked a reaction against it;
but the clamor for it by depraved persons never ceased, and was tolerated
by a nation trained to it from childhood in the schools until last year (1913),
when in what must be described as a paroxysm of sexual excitement
provoked by the agitation concerning the White Slave Traffic (the purely
commercial nature of which I was prevented from exposing on the stage by
the Censorship twenty years ago) the Government yielded to an outcry for
flagellation led by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and passed an Act under
which a judge can sentence a man to be flogged to the utmost extremity
with any instrument usable for such a purpose that he cares to prescribe.
Such an Act is not a legislative phenomenon but a psychopathic one. Its
effect on the White Slave Traffic was, of course, to distract public attention
from its real cause and from the people who really profit by it to imaginary
"foreign scoundrels," and to secure a monopoly of its organization for
women.
And all this evil is made possible by the schoolmaster with his cane and
birch, by the parents getting rid as best they can of the nuisance of children
making noise and mischief in the house, and by the denial to children of the
elementary rights of human beings.
The first man who enslaved and "broke in" an animal with a whip would
have invented the explosion engine instead could he have foreseen the curse
he was laying on his race. For men and women learnt thereby to enslave
and break in their children by the same means. These children, grown up,
knew no other methods of training. Finally the evil that was done for gain
by the greedy was refined on and done for pleasure by the lustful. Flogging
has become a pleasure purchasable in our streets, and inhibition a grown-up
habit that children play at. "Go and see what baby is doing; and tell him he
mustnt" is the last word of the nursery; and the grimmest aspect of it is that
it was first formulated by a comic paper as a capital joke.

Technical Instruction
Technical instruction tempts to violence (as a short cut) more than liberal
education. The sailor in Mr Rudyard Kipling's Captains Courageous,
teaching the boy the names of the ship's tackle with a rope's end, does not
disgust us as our schoolmasters do, especially as the boy was a spoiled boy.
But an unspoiled boy would not have needed that drastic medicine.
Technical training may be as tedious as learning to skate or to play the
piano or violin; but it is the price one must pay to achieve certain desirable
results or necessary ends. It is a monstrous thing to force a child to learn
Latin or Greek or mathematics on the ground that they are an indispensable
gymnastic for the mental powers. It would be monstrous even if it were
true; for there is no labor that might not be imposed on a child or an adult
on the same pretext; but as a glance at the average products of our public
school and university education shews that it is not true, it need not trouble
us. But it is a fact that ignorance of Latin and Greek and mathematics closes
certain careers to men (I do not mean artificial, unnecessary, noxious
careers like those of the commercial schoolmaster). Languages, even dead
ones, have their uses; and, as it seems to many of us, mathematics have
their uses. They will always be learned by people who want to learn them;
and people will always want to learn them as long as they are of any
importance in life: indeed the want will survive their importance:
superstition is nowhere stronger than in the field of obsolete acquirements.
And they will never be learnt fruitfully by people who do not want to learn
them either for their own sake or for use in necessary work. There is no
harder schoolmaster than experience; and yet experience fails to teach
where there is no desire to learn.
Still, one must not begin to apply this generalization too early. And this
brings me to an important factor in the case: the factor of evolution.

Docility and Dependence
If anyone, impressed by my view that the rights of a child are precisely
those of an adult, proceeds to treat a child as if it were an adult, he (or she)
will find that though the plan will work much better at some points than the
usual plan, at others it will not work at all; and this discovery may provoke
him to turn back from the whole conception of children's rights with a jest
at the expense of bachelors' and old maids' children. In dealing with
children what is needed is not logic but sense. There is no logical reason
why young persons should be allowed greater control of their property the
day after they are twenty-one than the day before it. There is no logical
reason why I, who strongly object to an adult standing over a boy of ten
with a Latin grammar, and saying, "you must learn this, whether you want
to or not," should nevertheless be quite prepared to stand over a boy of five
with the multiplication table or a copy book or a code of elementary good
manners, and practice on his docility to make him learn them. And there is
no logical reason why I should do for a child a great many little offices,
some of them troublesome and disagreeable, which I should not do for a
boy twice its age, or support a boy or girl when I would unhesitatingly
throw an adult on his own resources. But there are practical reasons, and
sensible reasons, and affectionate reasons for all these illogicalities.
Children do not want to be treated altogether as adults: such treatment
terrifies them and over-burdens them with responsibility. In truth, very few
adults care to be called on for independence and originality: they also are
bewildered and terrified in the absence of precedents and precepts and
commandments; but modern Democracy allows them a sanctioning and
cancelling power if they are capable of using it, which children are not. To
treat a child wholly as an adult would be to mock and destroy it. Infantile
docility and juvenile dependence are, like death, a product of Natural
Selection; and though there is no viler crime than to abuse them, yet there is
no greater cruelty than to ignore them. I have complained sufficiently of
what I suffered through the process of assault, imprisonment, and
compulsory lessons that taught me nothing, which are called my schooling.
But I could say a good deal also about the things I was not taught and

should have been taught, not to mention the things I was allowed to do
which I should not have been allowed to do. I have no recollection of being
taught to read or write; so I presume I was born with both faculties; but
many people seem to have bitter recollections of being forced reluctantly to
acquire them. And though I have the uttermost contempt for a teacher so ill
mannered and incompetent as to be unable to make a child learn to read and
write without also making it cry, still I am prepared to admit that I had
rather have been compelled to learn to read and write with tears by an
incompetent and ill mannered person than left in ignorance. Reading,
writing, and enough arithmetic to use money honestly and accurately,
together with the rudiments of law and order, become necessary conditions
of a child's liberty before it can appreciate the importance of its liberty, or
foresee that these accomplishments are worth acquiring. Nature has
provided for this by evolving the instinct of docility. Children are very
docile: they have a sound intuition that they must do what they are told or
perish. And adults have an intuition, equally sound, that they must take
advantage of this docility to teach children how to live properly or the
children will not survive. The difficulty is to know where to stop. To
illustrate this, let us consider the main danger of childish docility and
parental officiousness.

The Abuse of Docility
Docility may survive as a lazy habit long after it has ceased to be a
beneficial instinct. If you catch a child when it is young enough to be
instinctively docile, and keep it in a condition of unremitted tutelage under
the nurserymaid, the governess, the preparatory school, the secondary
school, and the university, until it is an adult, you will produce, not a self-
reliant, free, fully matured human being, but a grown-up schoolboy or
schoolgirl, capable of nothing in the way of original or independent action
except outbursts of naughtiness in the women and blackguardism in the
men. That is exactly what we get at present in our rich and consequently
governing classes: they pass from juvenility to senility without ever
touching maturity except in body. The classes which cannot afford this
sustained tutelage are notably more self-reliant and grown-up: an office boy
of fifteen is often more of a man than a university student of twenty.
Unfortunately this precocity is disabled by poverty, ignorance, narrowness,
and a hideous power of living without art or love or beauty and being rather
proud of it. The poor never escape from servitude: their docility is
preserved by their slavery. And so all become the prey of the greedy, the
selfish, the domineering, the unscrupulous, the predatory. If here and there
an individual refuses to be docile, ten docile persons will beat him or lock
him up or shoot him or hang him at the bidding of his oppressors and their
own. The crux of the whole difficulty about parents, schoolmasters, priests,
absolute monarchs, and despots of every sort, is the tendency to abuse
natural docility. A nation should always be healthily rebellious; but the king
or prime minister has yet to be found who will make trouble by cultivating
that side of the national spirit. A child should begin to assert itself early, and
shift for itself more and more not only in washing and dressing itself, but in
opinions and conduct; yet as nothing is so exasperating and so unlovable as
an uppish child, it is useless to expect parents and schoolmasters to
inculcate this uppishness. Such unamiable precepts as Always contradict an
authoritative statement, Always return a blow, Never lose a chance of a
good fight, When you are scolded for a mistake ask the person who scolds
you whether he or she supposes you did it on purpose, and follow the

question with a blow or an insult or some other unmistakable expression of
resentment, Remember that the progress of the world depends on your
knowing better than your elders, are just as important as those of The
Sermon on the Mount; but no one has yet seen them written up in letters of
gold in a schoolroom or nursery. The child is taught to be kind, to be
respectful, to be quiet, not to answer back, to be truthful when its elders
want to find out anything from it, to lie when the truth would shock or hurt
its elders, to be above all things obedient, and to be seen and not heard.
Here we have two sets of precepts, each warranted to spoil a child
hopelessly if the other be omitted. Unfortunately we do not allow fair play
between them. The rebellious, intractable, aggressive, selfish set provoke a
corrective resistance, and do not pretend to high moral or religious
sanctions; and they are never urged by grown-up people on young people.
They are therefore more in danger of neglect or suppression than the other
set, which have all the adults, all the laws, all the religions on their side.
How is the child to be secured its due share of both bodies of doctrine?

The Schoolboy and the Homeboy
In practice what happens is that parents notice that boys brought up at
home become mollycoddles, or prigs, or duffers, unable to take care of
themselves. They see that boys should learn to rough it a little and to mix
with children of their own age. This is natural enough. When you have
preached at and punished a boy until he is a moral cripple, you are as much
hampered by him as by a physical cripple; and as you do not intend to have
him on your hands all your life, and are generally rather impatient for the
day when he will earn his own living and leave you to attend to yourself,
you sooner or later begin to talk to him about the need for self-reliance,
learning to think, and so forth, with the result that your victim, bewildered
by your inconsistency, concludes that there is no use trying to please you,
and falls into an attitude of sulky resentment. Which is an additional
inducement to pack him off to school.
In school, he finds himself in a dual world, under two dispensations.
There is the world of the boys, where the point of honor is to be
untameable, always ready to fight, ruthless in taking the conceit out of
anyone who ventures to give himself airs of superior knowledge or taste,
and generally to take Lucifer for one's model. And there is the world of the
masters, the world of discipline, submission, diligence, obedience, and
continual and shameless assumption of moral and intellectual authority.
Thus the schoolboy hears both sides, and is so far better off than the
homebred boy who hears only one. But the two sides are not fairly
presented. They are presented as good and evil, as vice and virtue, as
villainy and heroism. The boy feels mean and cowardly when he obeys, and
selfish and rascally when he disobeys. He looses his moral courage just as
he comes to hate books and languages. In the end, John Ruskin, tied so
close to his mother's apron-string that he did not escape even when he went
to Oxford, and John Stuart Mill, whose father ought to have been
prosecuted for laying his son's childhood waste with lessons, were superior,
as products of training, to our schoolboys. They were very conspicuously
superior in moral courage; and though they did not distinguish themselves
at cricket and football, they had quite as much physical hardihood as any

civilized man needs. But it is to be observed that Ruskin's parents were wise
people who gave John a full share in their own life, and put up with his
presence both at home and abroad when they must sometimes have been
very weary of him; and Mill, as it happens, was deliberately educated to
challenge all the most sacred institutions of his country. The households
they were brought up in were no more average households than a
Montessori school is an average school.

The Comings of Age of Children
All this inculcated adult docility, which wrecks every civilization as it is
wrecking ours, is inhuman and unnatural. We must reconsider our
institution of the Coming of Age, which is too late for some purposes, and
too early for others. There should be a series of Coming of Ages for every
individual. The mammals have their first coming of age when they are
weaned; and it is noteworthy that this rather cruel and selfish operation on
the part of the parent has to be performed resolutely, with claws and teeth;
for your little mammal does not want to be weaned, and yields only to a
pretty rough assertion of the right of the parent to be relieved of the child as
soon as the child is old enough to bear the separation. The same thing
occurs with children: they hang on to the mother's apron-string and the
father's coat tails as long as they can, often baffling those sensitive parents
who know that children should think for themselves and fend for
themselves, but are too kind to throw them on their own resources with the
ferocity of the domestic cat. The child should have its first coming of age
when it is weaned, another when it can talk, another when it can walk,
another when it can dress itself without assistance; and when it can read,
write, count money, and pass an examination in going a simple errand
involving a purchase and a journey by rail or other public method of
locomotion, it should have quite a majority. At present the children of
laborers are soon mobile and able to shift for themselves, whereas it is
possible to find grown-up women in the rich classes who are actually afraid
to take a walk in the streets unattended and unprotected. It is true that this is
a superstition from the time when a retinue was part of the state of persons
of quality, and the unattended person was supposed to be a common person
of no quality, earning a living; but this has now become so absurd that
children and young women are no longer told why they are forbidden to go
about alone, and have to be persuaded that the streets are dangerous places,
which of course they are; but people who are not educated to live
dangerously have only half a life, and are more likely to die miserably after
all than those who have taken all the common risks of freedom from their
childhood onward as matters of course.

The Conflict of Wills
The world wags in spite of its schools and its families because both
schools and families are mostly very largely anarchic: parents and
schoolmasters are good-natured or weak or lazy; and children are docile and
affectionate and very shortwinded in their fits of naughtiness; and so most
families slummock along and muddle through until the children cease to be
children. In the few cases when the parties are energetic and determined, the
child is crushed or the parent is reduced to a cipher, as the case may be.
When the opposed forces are neither of them strong enough to annihilate
the other, there is serious trouble: that is how we get those feuds between
parent and child which recur to our memory so ironically when we hear
people sentimentalizing about natural affection. We even get tragedies; for
there is nothing so tragic to contemplate or so devastating to suffer as the
oppression of will without conscience; and the whole tendency of our
family and school system is to set the will of the parent and the school
despot above conscience as something that must be deferred to abjectly and
absolutely for its own sake.
The strongest, fiercest force in nature is human will. It is the highest
organization we know of the will that has created the whole universe. Now
all honest civilization, religion, law, and convention is an attempt to keep
this force within beneficent bounds. What corrupts civilization, religion,
law, and convention (and they are at present pretty nearly as corrupt as they
dare) is the constant attempts made by the wills of individuals and classes to
thwart the wills and enslave the powers of other individuals and classes.
The powers of the parent and the schoolmaster, and of their public
analogues the lawgiver and the judge, become instruments of tyranny in the
hands of those who are too narrow-minded to understand law and exercise
judgment; and in their hands (with us they mostly fall into such hands) law
becomes tyranny. And what is a tyrant? Quite simply a person who says to
another person, young or old, "You shall do as I tell you; you shall make
what I want; you shall profess my creed; you shall have no will of your
own; and your powers shall be at the disposal of my will." It has come to
this at last: that the phrase "she has a will of her own," or "he has a will of

his own" has come to denote a person of exceptional obstinacy and self-
assertion. And even persons of good natural disposition, if brought up to
expect such deference, are roused to unreasoning fury, and sometimes to the
commission of atrocious crimes, by the slightest challenge to their
authority. Thus a laborer may be dirty, drunken, untruthful, slothful,
untrustworthy in every way without exhausting the indulgence of the
country house. But let him dare to be "disrespectful" and he is a lost man,
though he be the cleanest, soberest, most diligent, most veracious, most
trustworthy man in the county. Dickens's instinct for detecting social
cankers never served him better than when he shewed us Mrs Heep
teaching her son to "be umble," knowing that if he carried out that precept
he might be pretty well anything else he liked. The maintenance of
deference to our wills becomes a mania which will carry the best of us to
any extremity. We will allow a village of Egyptian fellaheen or Indian
tribesmen to live the lowest life they please among themselves without
molestation; but let one of them slay an Englishman or even strike him on
the strongest provocation, and straightway we go stark mad, burning and
destroying, shooting and shelling, flogging and hanging, if only such
survivors as we may leave are thoroughly cowed in the presence of a man
with a white face. In the committee room of a local council or city
corporation, the humblest employees of the committee find defenders if
they complain of harsh treatment. Gratuities are voted, indulgences and
holidays are pleaded for, delinquencies are excused in the most sentimental
manner provided only the employee, however patent a hypocrite or
incorrigible a slacker, is hat in hand. But let the most obvious measure of
justice be demanded by the secretary of a Trade Union in terms which omit
all expressions of subservience, and it is with the greatest difficulty that the
cooler-headed can defeat angry motions that the letter be thrown into the
waste paper basket and the committee proceed to the next business.

The Demagogue's Opportunity
And the employee has in him the same fierce impulse to impose his will
without respect for the will of others. Democracy is in practice nothing but
a device for cajoling from him the vote he refuses to arbitrary authority. He
will not vote for Coriolanus; but when an experienced demagogue comes
along and says, "Sir: you are the dictator: the voice of the people is the
voice of God; and I am only your very humble servant," he says at once,
"All right: tell me what to dictate," and is presently enslaved more
effectually with his own silly consent than Coriolanus would ever have
enslaved him without asking his leave. And the trick by which the
demagogue defeats Coriolanus is played on him in his turn by his inferiors.
Everywhere we see the cunning succeeding in the world by seeking a rich
or powerful master and practising on his lust for subservience. The political
adventurer who gets into parliament by offering himself to the poor voter,
not as his representative but as his will-less soulless "delegate," is himself
the dupe of a clever wife who repudiates Votes for Women, knowing well
that whilst the man is master, the man's mistress will rule. Uriah Heep may
be a crawling creature; but his crawling takes him upstairs.
Thus does the selfishness of the will turn on itself, and obtain by flattery
what it cannot seize by open force. Democracy becomes the latest trick of
tyranny: "womanliness" becomes the latest wile of prostitution.
Between parent and child the same conflict wages and the same
destruction of character ensues. Parents set themselves to bend the will of
their children to their own—to break their stubborn spirit, as they call it—
with the ruthlessness of Grand Inquisitors. Cunning, unscrupulous children
learn all the arts of the sneak in circumventing tyranny: children of better
character are cruelly distressed and more or less lamed for life by it.

Our Quarrelsomeness
As between adults, we find a general quarrelsomeness which makes
political reform as impossible to most Englishmen as to hogs. Certain
sections of the nation get cured of this disability. University men, sailors,
and politicians are comparatively free from it, because the communal life of
the University, the fact that in a ship a man must either learn to consider
others or else go overboard or into irons, and the habit of working on
committees and ceasing to expect more of one's own way than is included
in the greatest common measure of the committee, educate the will socially.
But no one who has ever had to guide a committee of ordinary private
Englishmen through their first attempts at collective action, in committee or
otherwise, can retain any illusions as to the appalling effects on our national
manners and character of the organization of the home and the school as
petty tyrannies, and the absence of all teaching of self-respect and training
in self-assertion. Bullied and ordered about, the Englishman obeys like a
sheep, evades like a knave, or tries to murder his oppressor. Merely
criticized or opposed in committee, or invited to consider anybody's views
but his own, he feels personally insulted and wants to resign or leave the
room unless he is apologized to. And his panic and bewilderment when he
sees that the older hands at the work have no patience with him and do not
intend to treat him as infallible, are pitiable as far as they are anything but
ludicrous. That is what comes of not being taught to consider other people's
wills, and left to submit to them or to over-ride them as if they were the
winds and the weather. Such a state of mind is incompatible not only with
the democratic introduction of high civilization, but with the
comprehension and maintenance of such civilized institutions as have been
introduced by benevolent and intelligent despots and aristocrats.

We Must Reform Society before we can Reform
Ourselves
When we come to the positive problem of what to do with children if we
are to give up the established plan, we find the difficulties so great that we
begin to understand why so many people who detest the system and look
back with loathing on their own schooldays, must helplessly send their
children to the very schools they themselves were sent to, because there is
no alternative except abandoning the children to undisciplined
vagabondism. Man in society must do as everybody else does in his class:
only fools and romantic novices imagine that freedom is a mere matter of
the readiness of the individual to snap his fingers at convention. It is true
that most of us live in a condition of quite unnecessary inhibition, wearing
ugly and uncomfortable clothes, making ourselves and other people
miserable by the heathen horrors of mourning, staying away from the
theatre because we cannot afford the stalls and are ashamed to go to the pit,
and in dozens of other ways enslaving ourselves when there are comfortable
alternatives open to us without any real drawbacks. The contemplation of
these petty slaveries, and of the triumphant ease with which sensible people
throw them off, creates an impression that if we only take Johnson's advice
to free our minds from cant, we can achieve freedom. But if we all freed our
minds from cant we should find that for the most part we should have to go
on doing the necessary work of the world exactly as we did it before until
we organized new and free methods of doing it. Many people believed in
secondary co-education (boys and girls taught together) before schools like
Bedales were founded: indeed the practice was common enough in
elementary schools and in Scotland; but their belief did not help them until
Bedales and St George's were organized; and there are still not nearly
enough co-educational schools in existence to accommodate all the children
of the parents who believe in co-education up to university age, even if they
could always afford the fees of these exceptional schools. It may be
edifying to tell a duke that our public schools are all wrong in their
constitution and methods, or a costermonger that children should be treated
as in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister instead of as they are treated at the

elementary school at the corner of his street; but what are the duke and the
coster to do? Neither of them has any effective choice in the matter: their
children must either go to the schools that are, or to no school at all. And as
the duke thinks with reason that his son will be a lout or a milksop or a prig
if he does not go to school, and the coster knows that his son will become
an illiterate hooligan if he is left to the streets, there is no real alternative for
either of them. Child life must be socially organized: no parent, rich or
poor, can choose institutions that do not exist; and the private enterprise of
individual school masters appealing to a group of well-to-do parents,
though it may shew what can be done by enthusiasts with new methods,
cannot touch the mass of our children. For the average parent or child
nothing is really available except the established practice; and this is what
makes it so important that the established practice should be a sound one,
and so useless for clever individuals to disparage it unless they can organize
an alternative practice and make it, too, general.

The Pursuit of Manners
If you cross-examine the duke and the coster, you will find that they are
not concerned for the scholastic attainments of their children. Ask the duke
whether he could pass the standard examination of twelve-year-old children
in elementary schools, and he will admit, with an entirely placid smile, that
he would almost certainly be ignominiously plucked. And he is so little
ashamed of or disadvantaged by his condition that he is not prepared to
spend an hour in remedying it. The coster may resent the inquiry instead of
being amused by it; but his answer, if true, will be the same. What they both
want for their children is the communal training, the apprenticeship to
society, the lessons in holding one's own among people of all sorts with
whom one is not, as in the home, on privileged terms. These can be
acquired only by "mixing with the world," no matter how wicked the world
is. No parent cares twopence whether his children can write Latin
hexameters or repeat the dates of the accession of all the English monarchs
since the Conqueror; but all parents are earnestly anxious about the manners
of their children. Better Claude Duval than Kaspar Hauser. Laborers who
are contemptuously anti-clerical in their opinions will send their daughters
to the convent school because the nuns teach them some sort of gentleness
of speech and behavior. And peers who tell you that our public schools are
rotten through and through, and that our Universities ought to be razed to
the foundations, send their sons to Eton and Oxford, Harrow and
Cambridge, not only because there is nothing else to be done, but because
these places, though they turn out blackguards and ignoramuses and
boobies galore, turn them out with the habits and manners of the society
they belong to. Bad as those manners are in many respects, they are better
than no manners at all. And no individual or family can possibly teach
them. They can be acquired only by living in an organized community in
which they are traditional.
Thus we see that there are reasons for the segregation of children even in
families where the great reason: namely, that children are nuisances to
adults, does not press very hardly, as, for instance, in the houses of the very
poor, who can send their children to play in the streets, or the houses of the

very rich, which are so large that the children's quarters can be kept out of
the parents' way like the servants' quarters.

Not too much Wind on the Heath, Brother
What, then, is to be done? For the present, unfortunately, little except
propagating the conception of Children's Rights. Only the achievement of
economic equality through Socialism can make it possible to deal
thoroughly with the question from the point of view of the total interest of
the community, which must always consist of grown-up children. Yet
economic equality, like all simple and obvious arrangements, seems
impossible to people brought up as children are now. Still, something can
be done even within class limits. Large communities of children of the same
class are possible today; and voluntary organization of outdoor life for
children has already begun in Boy Scouting and excursions of one kind or
another. The discovery that anything, even school life, is better for the child
than home life, will become an over-ridden hobby; and we shall presently
be told by our faddists that anything, even camp life, is better than school
life. Some blundering beginnings of this are already perceptible. There is a
movement for making our British children into priggish little barefooted
vagabonds, all talking like that born fool George Borrow, and supposed to
be splendidly healthy because they would die if they slept in rooms with the
windows shut, or perhaps even with a roof over their heads. Still, this is a
fairly healthy folly; and it may do something to establish Mr Harold Cox's
claim of a Right to Roam as the basis of a much needed law compelling
proprietors of land to provide plenty of gates in their fences, and to leave
them unlocked when there are no growing crops to be damaged nor bulls to
be encountered, instead of, as at present, imprisoning the human race in
dusty or muddy thoroughfares between walls of barbed wire.
The reaction against vagabondage will come from the children
themselves. For them freedom will not mean the expensive kind of
savagery now called "the simple life." Their natural disgust with the visions
of cockney book fanciers blowing themselves out with "the wind on the
heath, brother," and of anarchists who are either too weak to understand that
men are strong and free in proportion to the social pressure they can stand
and the complexity of the obligations they are prepared to undertake, or too
strong to realize that what is freedom to them may be terror and

bewilderment to others, will drive them back to the home and the school if
these have meanwhile learned the lesson that children are independent
human beings and have rights.

Wanted: a Child's Magna Charta
Whether we shall presently be discussing a Juvenile Magna Charta or
Declaration of Rights by way of including children in the Constitution is a
question on which I leave others to speculate. But if it could once be
established that a child has an adult's Right of Egress from uncomfortable
places and unpleasant company, and there were children's lawyers to sue
pedagogues and others for assault and imprisonment, there would be an
amazing change in the behavior of schoolmasters, the quality of school
books, and the amenities of school life. That Consciousness of Consent
which, even in its present delusive form, has enabled Democracy to oust
tyrannical systems in spite of all its vulgarities and stupidities and rancors
and ineptitudes and ignorances, would operate as powerfully among
children as it does now among grown-ups. No doubt the pedagogue would
promptly turn demagogue, and woo his scholars by all the arts of
demagogy; but none of these arts can easily be so dishonorable or
mischievous as the art of caning. And, after all, if larger liberties are
attached to the acquisition of knowledge, and the child finds that it can no
more go to the seaside without a knowledge of the multiplication and pence
tables than it can be an astronomer without mathematics, it will learn the
multiplication table, which is more than it always does at present, in spite of
all the canings and keepings in.

The Pursuit of Learning
When the Pursuit of Learning comes to mean the pursuit of learning by
the child instead of the pursuit of the child by Learning, cane in hand, the
danger will be precocity of the intellect, which is just as undesirable as
precocity of the emotions. We still have a silly habit of talking and thinking
as if intellect were a mechanical process and not a passion; and in spite of
the German tutors who confess openly that three out of every five of the
young men they coach for examinations are lamed for life thereby; in spite
of Dickens and his picture of little Paul Dombey dying of lessons, we
persist in heaping on growing children and adolescent youths and maidens
tasks Pythagoras would have declined out of common regard for his own
health and common modesty as to his own capacity. And this overwork is
not all the effect of compulsion; for the average schoolmaster does not
compel his scholars to learn: he only scolds and punishes them if they do
not, which is quite a different thing, the net effect being that the school
prisoners need not learn unless they like. Nay, it is sometimes remarked that
the school dunce—meaning the one who does not like—often turns out well
afterwards, as if idleness were a sign of ability and character. A much more
sensible explanation is that the so-called dunces are not exhausted before
they begin the serious business of life. It is said that boys will be boys; and
one can only add one wishes they would. Boys really want to be manly, and
are unfortunately encouraged thoughtlessly in this very dangerous and
overstraining aspiration. All the people who have really worked (Herbert
Spencer for instance) warn us against work as earnestly as some people
warn us against drink. When learning is placed on the voluntary footing of
sport, the teacher will find himself saying every day "Run away and play:
you have worked as much as is good for you." Trying to make children
leave school will be like trying to make them go to bed; and it will be
necessary to surprise them with the idea that teaching is work, and that the
teacher is tired and must go play or rest or eat: possibilities always
concealed by that infamous humbug the current schoolmaster, who achieves
a spurious divinity and a witch doctor's authority by persuading children
that he is not human, just as ladies persuade them that they have no legs.

Children and Game: a Proposal
Of the many wild absurdities of our existing social order perhaps the
most grotesque is the costly and strictly enforced reservation of large tracts
of country as deer forests and breeding grounds for pheasants whilst there is
so little provision of the kind made for children. I have more than once
thought of trying to introduce the shooting of children as a sport, as the
children would then be preserved very carefully for ten months in the year,
thereby reducing their death rate far more than the fusillades of the
sportsmen during the other two would raise it. At present the killing of a fox
except by a pack of foxhounds is regarded with horror; but you may and do
kill children in a hundred and fifty ways provided you do not shoot them or
set a pack of dogs on them. It must be admitted that the foxes have the best
of it; and indeed a glance at our pheasants, our deer, and our children will
convince the most sceptical that the children have decidedly the worst of it.
This much hope, however, can be extracted from the present state of
things. It is so fantastic, so mad, so apparently impossible, that no scheme
of reform need ever henceforth be discredited on the ground that it is
fantastic or mad or apparently impossible. It is the sensible schemes,
unfortunately, that are hopeless in England. Therefore I have great hopes
that my own views, though fundamentally sensible, can be made to appear
fantastic enough to have a chance.
First, then, I lay it down as a prime condition of sane society, obvious as
such to anyone but an idiot, that in any decent community, children should
find in every part of their native country, food, clothing, lodging,
instruction, and parental kindness for the asking. For the matter of that, so
should adults; but the two cases differ in that as these commodities do not
grow on the bushes, the adults cannot have them unless they themselves
organize and provide the supply, whereas the children must have them as if
by magic, with nothing to do but rub the lamp, like Aladdin, and have their
needs satisfied.

The Parents' Intolerable Burden
There is nothing new in this: it is how children have always had and must
always have their needs satisfied. The parent has to play the part of
Aladdin's djinn; and many a parent has sunk beneath the burden of this
service. All the novelty we need is to organize it so that instead of the
individual child fastening like a parasite on its own particular parents, the
whole body of children should be thrown not only upon the whole body of
parents, but upon the celibates and childless as well, whose present
exemption from a full share in the social burden of children is obviously
unjust and unwholesome. Today it is easy to find a widow who has at great
cost to herself in pain, danger, and disablement, borne six or eight children.
In the same town you will find rich bachelors and old maids, and married
couples with no children or with families voluntarily limited to two or three.
The eight children do not belong to the woman in any real or legal sense.
When she has reared them they pass away from her into the community as
independent persons, marrying strangers, working for strangers, spending
on the community the life that has been built up at her expense. No more
monstrous injustice could be imagined than that the burden of rearing the
children should fall on her alone and not on the celibates and the selfish as
well.
This is so far recognized that already the child finds, wherever it goes, a
school for it, and somebody to force it into the school; and more and more
these schools are being driven by the mere logic of facts to provide the
children with meals, with boots, with spectacles, with dentists and doctors.
In fact, when the child's parents are destitute or not to be found, bread,
lodging, and clothing are provided. It is true that they are provided
grudgingly and on conditions infamous enough to draw down abundant fire
from Heaven upon us every day in the shape of crime and disease and vice;
but still the practice of keeping children barely alive at the charge of the
community is established; and there is no need for me to argue about it. I
propose only two extensions of the practice. One is to provide for all the
child's reasonable human wants, on which point, if you differ from me, I
shall take leave to say that you are socially a fool and personally an

inhuman wretch. The other is that these wants should be supplied in
complete freedom from compulsory schooling or compulsory anything
except restraint from crime, though, as they can be supplied only by social
organization, the child must be conscious of and subject to the conditions of
that organization, which may involve such portions of adult responsibility
and duty as a child may be able to bear according to its age, and which will
in any case prevent it from forming the vagabond and anarchist habit of
mind.
One more exception might be necessary: compulsory freedom. I am sure
that a child should not be imprisoned in a school. I am not so sure that it
should not sometimes be driven out into the open—imprisoned in the
woods and on the mountains, as it were. For there are frowsty children, just
as there are frowsty adults, who dont want freedom. This morbid result of
over-domestication would, let us hope, soon disappear with its cause.

Mobilization
Those who see no prospect held out to them by this except a country in
which all the children shall be roaming savages, should consider, first,
whether their condition would be any worse than that of the little caged
savages of today, and second, whether either children or adults are so apt to
run wild that it is necessary to tether them fast to one neighborhood to
prevent a general dissolution of society. My own observation leads me to
believe that we are not half mobilized enough. True, I cannot deny that we
are more mobile than we were. You will still find in the home counties old
men who have never been to London, and who tell you that they once went
to Winchester or St Albans much as if they had been to the South Pole; but
they are not so common as the clerk who has been to Paris or to Lovely
Lucerne, and who "goes away somewhere" when he has a holiday. His
grandfather never had a holiday, and, if he had, would no more have
dreamed of crossing the Channel than of taking a box at the Opera. But with
all allowance for the Polytechnic excursion and the tourist agency, our
inertia is still appalling. I confess to having once spent nine years in London
without putting my nose outside it; and though this was better, perhaps, than
the restless globe-trotting vagabondage of the idle rich, wandering from
hotel to hotel and never really living anywhere, yet I should no more have
done it if I had been properly mobilized in my childhood than I should have
worn the same suit of clothes all that time (which, by the way, I very nearly
did, my professional income not having as yet begun to sprout). There are
masses of people who could afford at least a trip to Margate, and a good
many who could afford a trip round the world, who are more immovable
than Aldgate pump. To others, who would move if they knew how,
travelling is surrounded with imaginary difficulties and terrors. In short, the
difficulty is not to fix people, but to root them up. We keep repeating the
silly proverb that a rolling stone gathers no moss, as if moss were a
desirable parasite. What we mean is that a vagabond does not prosper. Even
this is not true, if prosperity means enjoyment as well as responsibility and
money. The real misery of vagabondage is the misery of having nothing to
do and nowhere to go, the misery of being derelict of God and Man, the

misery of the idle, poor or rich. And this is one of the miseries of
unoccupied childhood. The unoccupied adult, thus afflicted, tries many
distractions which are, to say the least, unsuited to children. But one of
them, the distraction of seeing the world, is innocent and beneficial. Also it
is childish, being a continuation of what nurses call "taking notice," by
which a child becomes experienced. It is pitiable nowadays to see men and
women doing after the age of 45 all the travelling and sightseeing they
should have done before they were 15. Mere wondering and staring at
things is an important part of a child's education: that is why children can be
thoroughly mobilized without making vagabonds of them. A vagabond is at
home nowhere because he wanders: a child should wander because it ought
to be at home everywhere. And if it has its papers and its passports, and gets
what it requires not by begging and pilfering, but from responsible agents of
the community as of right, and with some formal acknowledgment of the
obligations it is incurring and a knowledge of the fact that these obligations
are being recorded: if, further, certain qualifications are exacted before it is
promoted from permission to go as far as its legs will carry it to using
mechanical aids to locomotion, it can roam without much danger of
gypsification.
Under such circumstances the boy or girl could always run away, and
never be lost; and on no other conditions can a child be free without being
also a homeless outcast.
Parents could also run away from disagreeable children or drive them out
of doors or even drop their acquaintance, temporarily or permanently,
without inhumanity. Thus both parties would be on their good behavior, and
not, as at present, on their filial or parental behavior, which, like all unfree
behavior, is mostly bad behavior.
As to what other results might follow, we had better wait and see; for
nobody now alive can imagine what customs and institutions would grow
up in societies of free children. Child laws and child fashions, child
manners and child morals are now not tolerated; but among free children
there would certainly be surprising developments in this direction. I do not
think there would be any danger of free children behaving as badly as
grown-up people do now because they have never been free. They could
hardly behave worse, anyhow.

Children's Rights and Parents' Wrongs
A very distinguished man once assured a mother of my acquaintance that
she would never know what it meant to be hurt until she was hurt through
her children. Children are extremely cruel without intending it; and in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the reason is that they do not conceive
their elders as having any human feelings. Serve the elders right, perhaps,
for posing as superhuman! The penalty of the impostor is not that he is
found out (he very seldom is) but that he is taken for what he pretends to be,
and treated as such. And to be treated as anything but what you really are
may seem pleasant to the imagination when the treatment is above your
merits; but in actual experience it is often quite the reverse. When I was a
very small boy, my romantic imagination, stimulated by early doses of
fiction, led me to brag to a still smaller boy so outrageously that he, being a
simple soul, really believed me to be an invincible hero. I cannot remember
whether this pleased me much; but I do remember very distinctly that one
day this admirer of mine, who had a pet goat, found the animal in the hands
of a larger boy than either of us, who mocked him and refused to restore the
animal to his rightful owner. Whereupon, naturally, he came weeping to me,
and demanded that I should rescue the goat and annihilate the aggressor.
My terror was beyond description: fortunately for me, it imparted such a
ghastliness to my voice and aspect as I under the eye of my poor little dupe,
advanced on the enemy with that hideous extremity of cowardice which is
called the courage of despair, and said "You let go that goat," that he
abandoned his prey and fled, to my unforgettable, unspeakable relief. I have
never since exaggerated my prowess in bodily combat.
Now what happened to me in the adventure of the goat happens very
often to parents, and would happen to schoolmasters if the prison door of
the school did not shut out the trials of life. I remember once, at school, the
resident head master was brought down to earth by the sudden illness of his
wife. In the confusion that ensued it became necessary to leave one of the
schoolrooms without a master. I was in the class that occupied that
schoolroom. To have sent us home would have been to break the
fundamental bargain with our parents by which the school was bound to

keep us out of their way for half the day at all hazards. Therefore an appeal
had to be made to our better feelings: that is, to our common humanity, not
to make a noise. But the head master had never admitted any common
humanity with us. We had been carefully broken in to regard him as a being
quite aloof from and above us: one not subject to error or suffering or death
or illness or mortality. Consequently sympathy was impossible; and if the
unfortunate lady did not perish, it was because, as I now comfort myself
with guessing, she was too much pre-occupied with her own pains, and
possibly making too much noise herself, to be conscious of the
pandemonium downstairs.
A great deal of the fiendishness of schoolboys and the cruelty of children
to their elders is produced just in this way. Elders cannot be superhuman
beings and suffering fellow-creatures at the same time. If you pose as a little
god, you must pose for better for worse.

How Little We Know About Our Parents
The relation between parent and child has cruel moments for the parent
even when money is no object, and the material worries are delegated to
servants and school teachers. The child and the parent are strangers to one
another necessarily, because their ages must differ widely. Read Goethe's
autobiography; and note that though he was happy in his parents and had
exceptional powers of observation, divination, and story-telling, he knew
less about his father and mother than about most of the other people he
mentions. I myself was never on bad terms with my mother: we lived
together until I was forty-two years old, absolutely without the smallest
friction of any kind; yet when her death set me thinking curiously about our
relations, I realized that I knew very little about her. Introduce me to a
strange woman who was a child when I was a child, a girl when I was a
boy, an adolescent when I was an adolescent; and if we take naturally to one
another I will know more of her and she of me at the end of forty days (I
had almost said of forty minutes) than I knew of my mother at the end of
forty years. A contemporary stranger is a novelty and an enigma, also a
possibility; but a mother is like a broomstick or like the sun in the heavens,
it does not matter which as far as one's knowledge of her is concerned: the
broomstick is there and the sun is there; and whether the child is beaten by
it or warmed and enlightened by it, it accepts it as a fact in nature, and does
not conceive it as having had youth, passions, and weaknesses, or as still
growing, yearning, suffering, and learning. If I meet a widow I may ask her
all about her marriage; but what son ever dreams of asking his mother about
her marriage, or could endure to hear of it without violently breaking off the
old sacred relationship between them, and ceasing to be her child or
anything more to her than the first man in the street might be?
Yet though in this sense the child cannot realize its parent's humanity, the
parent can realize the child's; for the parents with their experience of life
have none of the illusions about the child that the child has about the
parents; and the consequence is that the child can hurt its parents' feelings
much more than its parents can hurt the child's, because the child, even
when there has been none of the deliberate hypocrisy by which children are

taken advantage of by their elders, cannot conceive the parent as a fellow-
creature, whilst the parents know very well that the children are only
themselves over again. The child cannot conceive that its blame or
contempt or want of interest could possibly hurt its parent, and therefore
expresses them all with an indifference which has given rise to the term
enfant terrible (a tragic term in spite of the jests connected with it); whilst
the parent can suffer from such slights and reproaches more from a child
than from anyone else, even when the child is not beloved, because the
child is so unmistakably sincere in them.

Our Abandoned Mothers
Take a very common instance of this agonizing incompatibility. A widow
brings up her son to manhood. He meets a strange woman, and goes off
with and marries her, leaving his mother desolate. It does not occur to him
that this is at all hard on her: he does it as a matter of course, and actually
expects his mother to receive, on terms of special affection, the woman for
whom she has been abandoned. If he shewed any sense of what he was
doing, any remorse; if he mingled his tears with hers and asked her not to
think too hardly of him because he had obeyed the inevitable destiny of a
man to leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, she could give
him her blessing and accept her bereavement with dignity and without
reproach. But the man never dreams of such considerations. To him his
mother's feeling in the matter, when she betrays it, is unreasonable,
ridiculous, and even odious, as shewing a prejudice against his adorable
bride.
I have taken the widow as an extreme and obvious case; but there are
many husbands and wives who are tired of their consorts, or disappointed in
them, or estranged from them by infidelities; and these parents, in losing a
son or a daughter through marriage, may be losing everything they care for.
No parent's love is as innocent as the love of a child: the exclusion of all
conscious sexual feeling from it does not exclude the bitterness, jealousy,
and despair at loss which characterize sexual passion: in fact, what is called
a pure love may easily be more selfish and jealous than a carnal one.
Anyhow, it is plain matter of fact that naively selfish people sometimes try
with fierce jealousy to prevent their children marrying.

Family Affection
Until the family as we know it ceases to exist, nobody will dare to
analyze parental affection as distinguished from that general human
sympathy which has secured to many an orphan fonder care in a stranger's
house than it would have received from its actual parents. Not even Tolstoy,
in The Kreutzer Sonata, has said all that we suspect about it. When it
persists beyond the period at which it ceases to be necessary to the child's
welfare, it is apt to be morbid; and we are probably wrong to inculcate its
deliberate cultivation. The natural course is for the parents and children to
cast off the specific parental and filial relation when they are no longer
necessary to one another. The child does this readily enough to form fresh
ties, closer and more fascinating. Parents are not always excluded from such
compensations: it happens sometimes that when the children go out at the
door the lover comes in at the window. Indeed it happens now oftener than
it used to, because people remain much longer in the sexual arena. The
cultivated Jewess no longer cuts off her hair at her marriage. The British
matron has discarded her cap and her conscientious ugliness; and a bishop's
wife at fifty has more of the air of a femme galante than an actress had at
thirty-five in her grandmother's time. But as people marry later, the facts of
age and time still inexorably condemn most parents to comparative solitude
when their children marry. This may be a privation and may be a relief:
probably in healthy circumstances it is no worse than a salutary change of
habit; but even at that it is, for the moment at least, a wrench. For though
parents and children sometimes dislike one another, there is an experience
of succor and a habit of dependence and expectation formed in infancy
which naturally attaches a child to its parent or to its nurse (a foster parent)
in a quite peculiar way. A benefit to the child may be a burden to the parent;
but people become attached to their burdens sometimes more than the
burdens are attached to them; and to "suffer little children" has become an
affectionate impulse deep in our nature.
Now there is no such impulse to suffer our sisters and brothers, our aunts
and uncles, much less our cousins. If we could choose our relatives, we
might, by selecting congenial ones, mitigate the repulsive effect of the

obligation to like them and to admit them to our intimacy. But to have a
person imposed on us as a brother merely because he happens to have the
same parents is unbearable when, as may easily happen, he is the sort of
person we should carefully avoid if he were anyone else's brother. All
Europe (except Scotland, which has clans instead of families) draws the line
at second cousins. Protestantism draws it still closer by making the first
cousin a marriageable stranger; and the only reason for not drawing it at
sisters and brothers is that the institution of the family compels us to spend
our childhood with them, and thus imposes on us a curious relation in
which familiarity destroys romantic charm, and is yet expected to create a
specially warm affection. Such a relation is dangerously factitious and
unnatural; and the practical moral is that the less said at home about specific
family affection the better. Children, like grown-up people, get on well
enough together if they are not pushed down one another's throats; and
grown-up relatives will get on together in proportion to their separation and
their care not to presume on their blood relationship. We should let
children's feelings take their natural course without prompting. I have seen
a child scolded and called unfeeling because it did not occur to it to make a
theatrical demonstration of affectionate delight when its mother returned
after an absence: a typical example of the way in which spurious family
sentiment is stoked up. We are, after all, sociable animals; and if we are let
alone in the matter of our affections, and well brought up otherwise, we
shall not get on any the worse with particular people because they happen to
be our brothers and sisters and cousins. The danger lies in assuming that we
shall get on any better.
The main point to grasp here is that families are not kept together at
present by family feeling but by human feeling. The family cultivates
sympathy and mutual help and consolation as any other form of kindly
association cultivates them; but the addition of a dictated compulsory
affection as an attribute of near kinship is not only unnecessary, but
positively detrimental; and the alleged tendency of modern social
development to break up the family need alarm nobody. We cannot break up
the facts of kinship nor eradicate its natural emotional consequences. What
we can do and ought to do is to set people free to behave naturally and to
change their behavior as circumstances change. To impose on a citizen of
London the family duties of a Highland cateran in the eighteenth century is
as absurd as to compel him to carry a claymore and target instead of an

umbrella. The civilized man has no special use for cousins; and he may
presently find that he has no special use for brothers and sisters. The parent
seems likely to remain indispensable; but there is no reason why that
natural tie should be made the excuse for unnatural aggravations of it, as
crushing to the parent as they are oppressive to the child. The mother and
father will not always have to shoulder the burthen of maintenance which
should fall on the Atlas shoulders of the fatherland and motherland. Pending
such reforms and emancipations, a shattering break-up of the parental home
must remain one of the normal incidents of marriage. The parent is left
lonely and the child is not. Woe to the old if they have no impersonal
interests, no convictions, no public causes to advance, no tastes or hobbies!
It is well to be a mother but not to be a mother-in-law; and if men were cut
off artificially from intellectual and public interests as women are, the
father-in-law would be as deplorable a figure in popular tradition as the
mother-in-law.
It is not to be wondered at that some people hold that blood relationship
should be kept a secret from the persons related, and that the happiest
condition in this respect is that of the foundling who, if he ever meets his
parents or brothers or sisters, passes them by without knowing them. And
for such a view there is this to be said: that our family system does
unquestionably take the natural bond between members of the same family,
which, like all natural bonds, is not too tight to be borne, and superimposes
on it a painful burden of forced, inculcated, suggested, and altogether
unnecessary affection and responsibility which we should do well to get rid
of by making relatives as independent of one another as possible.

The Fate of the Family
The difficulty of inducing people to talk sensibly about the family is the
same as that which I pointed out in a previous volume as confusing
discussions of marriage. Marriage is not a single invariable institution: it
changes from civilization to civilization, from religion to religion, from
civil code to civil code, from frontier to frontier. The family is still more
variable, because the number of persons constituting a family, unlike the
number of persons constituting a marriage, varies from one to twenty:
indeed, when a widower with a family marries a widow with a family, and
the two produce a third family, even that very high number may be
surpassed. And the conditions may vary between opposite extremes: for
example, in a London or Paris slum every child adds to the burden of
poverty and helps to starve the parents and all the other children, whereas in
a settlement of pioneer colonists every child, from the moment it is big
enough to lend a hand to the family industry, is an investment in which the
only danger is that of temporary over-capitalization. Then there are the
variations in family sentiment. Sometimes the family organization is as
frankly political as the organization of an army or an industry: fathers being
no more expected to be sentimental about their children than colonels about
soldiers, or factory owners about their employees, though the mother may
be allowed a little tenderness if her character is weak. The Roman father
was a despot: the Chinese father is an object of worship: the sentimental
modern western father is often a play-fellow looked to for toys and pocket-
money. The farmer sees his children constantly: the squire sees them only
during the holidays, and not then oftener than he can help: the tram
conductor, when employed by a joint stock company, sometimes never sees
them at all.
Under such circumstances phrases like The Influence of Home Life, The
Family, The Domestic Hearth, and so on, are no more specific than The
Mammals, or The Man In The Street; and the pious generalizations founded
so glibly on them by our sentimental moralists are unworkable. When
households average twelve persons with the sexes about equally
represented, the results may be fairly good. When they average three the

results may be very bad indeed; and to lump the two together under the
general term The Family is to confuse the question hopelessly. The modern
small family is much too stuffy: children "brought up at home" in it are
unfit for society. But here again circumstances differ. If the parents live in
what is called a garden suburb, where there is a good deal of social
intercourse, and the family, instead of keeping itself to itself, as the evil old
saying is, and glowering at the neighbors over the blinds of the long street
in which nobody knows his neighbor and everyone wishes to deceive him
as to his income and social importance, is in effect broken up by school life,
by out-of-door habits, and by frank neighborly intercourse through dances
and concerts and theatricals and excursions and the like, families of four
may turn out much less barbarous citizens than families of ten which attain
the Boer ideal of being out of sight of one another's chimney smoke.
All one can say is, roughly, that the homelier the home, and the more
familiar the family, the worse for everybody concerned. The family ideal is
a humbug and a nuisance: one might as reasonably talk of the barrack ideal,
or the forecastle ideal, or any other substitution of the machinery of social
organization for the end of it, which must always be the fullest and most
capable life: in short, the most godly life. And this significant word reminds
us that though the popular conception of heaven includes a Holy Family, it
does not attach to that family the notion of a separate home, or a private
nursery or kitchen or mother-in-law, or anything that constitutes the family
as we know it. Even blood relationship is miraculously abstracted from it;
and the Father is the father of all children, the mother the mother of all
mothers and babies, and the Son the Son of Man and the Savior of his
brothers: one whose chief utterance on the subject of the conventional
family was an invitation to all of us to leave our families and follow him,
and to leave the dead to bury the dead, and not debauch ourselves at that
gloomy festival the family funeral, with its sequel of hideous mourning and
grief which is either affected or morbid.

Family Mourning
I do not know how far this detestable custom of mourning is carried in
France; but judging from the appearance of the French people I should say
that a Frenchwoman goes into mourning for her cousins to the seventeenth
degree. The result is that when I cross the Channel I seem to have reached a
country devastated by war or pestilence. It is really suffering only from the
family. Will anyone pretend that England has not the best of this striking
difference? Yet it is such senseless and unnatural conventions as this that
make us so impatient of what we call family feeling. Even apart from its
insufferable pretensions, the family needs hearty discrediting; for there is
hardly any vulnerable part of it that could not be amputated with advantage.

Art Teaching
By art teaching I hasten to say that I do not mean giving children lessons
in freehand drawing and perspective. I am simply calling attention to the
fact that fine art is the only teacher except torture. I have already pointed
out that nobody, except under threat of torture, can read a school book. The
reason is that a school book is not a work of art. Similarly, you cannot listen
to a lesson or a sermon unless the teacher or the preacher is an artist. You
cannot read the Bible if you have no sense of literary art. The reason why
the continental European is, to the Englishman or American, so surprisingly
ignorant of the Bible, is that the authorized English version is a great work
of literary art, and the continental versions are comparatively artless. To
read a dull book; to listen to a tedious play or prosy sermon or lecture; to
stare at uninteresting pictures or ugly buildings: nothing, short of disease, is
more dreadful than this. The violence done to our souls by it leaves injuries
and produces subtle maladies which have never been properly studied by
psycho-pathologists. Yet we are so inured to it in school, where practically
all the teachers are bores trying to do the work of artists, and all the books
artless, that we acquire a truly frightful power of enduring boredom. We
even acquire the notion that fine art is lascivious and destructive to the
character. In church, in the House of Commons, at public meetings, we sit
solemnly listening to bores and twaddlers because from the time we could
walk or speak we have been snubbed, scolded, bullied, beaten and
imprisoned whenever we dared to resent being bored or twaddled at, or to
express our natural impatience and derision of bores and twaddlers. And
when a man arises with a soul of sufficient native strength to break the
bonds of this inculcated reverence and to expose and deride and tweak the
noses of our humbugs and panjandrums, like Voltaire or Dickens, we are
shocked and scandalized, even when we cannot help laughing. Worse, we
dread and persecute those who can see and declare the truth, because their
sincerity and insight reflects on our delusion and blindness. We are all like
Nell Gwynne's footman, who defended Nell's reputation with his fists, not
because he believed her to be what he called an honest woman, but because

he objected to be scorned as the footman of one who was no better than she
should be.
This wretched power of allowing ourselves to be bored may seem to give
the fine arts a chance sometimes. People will sit through a performance of
Beethoven's ninth symphony or of Wagner's Ring just as they will sit
through a dull sermon or a front bench politician saying nothing for two
hours whilst his unfortunate country is perishing through the delay of its
business in Parliament. But their endurance is very bad for the ninth
symphony, because they never hiss when it is murdered. I have heard an
Italian conductor (no longer living) take the adagio of that symphony at a
lively allegretto, slowing down for the warmer major sections into the
speed and manner of the heroine's death song in a Verdi opera; and the
listeners, far from relieving my excruciation by rising with yells of fury and
hurling their programs and opera glasses at the miscreant, behaved just as
they do when Richter conducts it. The mass of imposture that thrives on this
combination of ignorance with despairing endurance is incalculable. Given
a public trained from childhood to stand anything tedious, and so saturated
with school discipline that even with the doors open and no schoolmasters
to stop them they will sit there helplessly until the end of the concert or
opera gives them leave to go home; and you will have in great capitals
hundreds of thousands of pounds spent every night in the season on
professedly artistic entertainments which have no other effect on fine art
than to exacerbate the hatred in which it is already secretly held in England.
Fortunately, there are arts that cannot be cut off from the people by bad
performances. We can read books for ourselves; and we can play a good
deal of fine music for ourselves with the help of a pianola. Nothing stands
between us and the actual handwork of the great masters of painting except
distance; and modern photographic methods of reproduction are in some
cases quite and in many nearly as effective in conveying the artist's message
as a modern edition of Shakespear's plays is in conveying the message that
first existed in his handwriting. The reproduction of great feats of musical
execution is already on the way: the phonograph, for all its wheezing and
snarling and braying, is steadily improving in its manners; and what with
this improvement on the one hand, and on the other that blessed selective
faculty which enables us to ignore a good deal of disagreeable noise if there
is a thread of music in the middle of it (few critics of the phonograph seem
to be conscious of the very considerable mechanical noise set up by choirs

and orchestras) we have at last reached a point at which, for example, a
person living in an English village where the church music is the only
music, and that music is made by a few well-intentioned ladies with the
help of a harmonium, can hear masses by Palestrina very passably executed,
and can thereby be led to the discovery that Jackson in F and Hymns
Ancient and Modern are not perhaps the last word of beauty and propriety
in the praise of God.
In short, there is a vast body of art now within the reach of everybody.
The difficulty is that this art, which alone can educate us in grace of body
and soul, and which alone can make the history of the past live for us or the
hope of the future shine for us, which alone can give delicacy and nobility
to our crude lusts, which is the appointed vehicle of inspiration and the
method of the communion of saints, is actually branded as sinful among us
because, wherever it arises, there is resistance to tyranny, breaking of
fetters, and the breath of freedom. The attempt to suppress art is not wholly
successful: we might as well try to suppress oxygen. But it is carried far
enough to inflict on huge numbers of people a most injurious art starvation,
and to corrupt a great deal of the art that is tolerated. You will find in
England plenty of rich families with little more culture than their dogs and
horses. And you will find poor families, cut off by poverty and town life
from the contemplation of the beauty of the earth, with its dresses of leaves,
its scarves of cloud, and its contours of hill and valley, who would
positively be happier as hogs, so little have they cultivated their humanity
by the only effective instrument of culture: art. The dearth is artificially
maintained even when there are the means of satisfying it. Story books are
forbidden, picture post cards are forbidden, theatres are forbidden, operas
are forbidden, circuses are forbidden, sweetmeats are forbidden, pretty
colors are forbidden, all exactly as vice is forbidden. The Creator is
explicitly prayed to, and implicitly convicted of indecency every day. An
association of vice and sin with everything that is delightful and of
goodness with everything that is wretched and detestable is set up. All the
most perilous (and glorious) appetites and propensities are at once inflamed
by starvation and uneducated by art. All the wholesome conditions which
art imposes on appetite are waived: instead of cultivated men and women
restrained by a thousand delicacies, repelled by ugliness, chilled by
vulgarity, horrified by coarseness, deeply and sweetly moved by the graces
that art has revealed to them and nursed in them, we get indiscriminate

rapacity in pursuit of pleasure and a parade of the grossest stimulations in
catering for it. We have a continual clamor for goodness, beauty, virtue, and
sanctity, with such an appalling inability to recognize it or love it when it
arrives that it is more dangerous to be a great prophet or poet than to
promote twenty companies for swindling simple folk out of their savings.
Do not for a moment suppose that uncultivated people are merely
indifferent to high and noble qualities. They hate them malignantly. At best,
such qualities are like rare and beautiful birds: when they appear the whole
country takes down its guns; but the birds receive the statuary tribute of
having their corpses stuffed.
And it really all comes from the habit of preventing children from being
troublesome. You are so careful of your boy's morals, knowing how
troublesome they may be, that you keep him away from the Venus of Milo
only to find him in the arms of the scullery maid or someone much worse.
You decide that the Hermes of Praxiteles and Wagner's Tristan are not
suited for young girls; and your daughter marries somebody appallingly
unlike either Hermes or Tristan solely to escape from your parental
protection. You have not stifled a single passion nor averted a single danger:
you have depraved the passions by starving them, and broken down all the
defences which so effectively protect children brought up in freedom. You
have men who imagine themselves to be ministers of religion openly
declaring that when they pass through the streets they have to keep out in
the wheeled traffic to avoid the temptations of the pavement. You have them
organizing hunts of the women who tempt them—poor creatures whom no
artist would touch without a shudder—and wildly clamoring for more
clothes to disguise and conceal the body, and for the abolition of pictures,
statues, theatres, and pretty colors. And incredible as it seems, these
unhappy lunatics are left at large, unrebuked, even admired and revered,
whilst artists have to struggle for toleration. To them an undraped human
body is the most monstrous, the most blighting, the most obscene, the most
unbearable spectacle in the universe. To an artist it is, at its best, the most
admirable spectacle in nature, and, at its average, an object of indifference.
If every rag of clothing miraculously dropped from the inhabitants of
London at noon tomorrow (say as a preliminary to the Great Judgment), the
artistic people would not turn a hair; but the artless people would go mad
and call on the mountains to hide them. I submit that this indicates a
thoroughly healthy state on the part of the artists, and a thoroughly morbid

one on the part of the artless. And the healthy state is attainable in a cold
country like ours only by familiarity with the undraped figure acquired
through pictures, statues, and theatrical representations in which an illusion
of natural clotheslessness is produced and made poetic.
In short, we all grow up stupid and mad to just the extent to which we
have not been artistically educated; and the fact that this taint of stupidity
and madness has to be tolerated because it is general, and is even boasted of
as characteristically English, makes the situation all the worse. It is
becoming exceedingly grave at present, because the last ray of art is being
cut off from our schools by the discontinuance of religious education.

The Impossibility of Secular Education
Now children must be taught some sort of religion. Secular education is
an impossibility. Secular education comes to this: that the only reason for
ceasing to do evil and learning to do well is that if you do not you will be
caned. This is worse than being taught in a church school that if you
become a dissenter you will go to hell; for hell is presented as the
instrument of something eternal, divine, and inevitable: you cannot evade it
the moment the schoolmaster's back is turned. What confuses this issue and
leads even highly intelligent religious persons to advocate secular education
as a means of rescuing children from the strife of rival proselytizers is the
failure to distinguish between the child's personal subjective need for a
religion and its right to an impartially communicated historical objective
knowledge of all the creeds and Churches. Just as a child, no matter what its
race and color may be, should know that there are black men and brown
men and yellow men, and, no matter what its political convictions may be,
that there are Monarchists and Republicans and Positivists, Socialists and
Unsocialists, so it should know that there are Christians and Mahometans
and Buddhists and Shintoists and so forth, and that they are on the average
just as honest and well-behaved as its own father. For example, it should not
be told that Allah is a false god set up by the Turks and Arabs, who will all
be damned for taking that liberty; but it should be told that many English
people think so, and that many Turks and Arabs think the converse about
English people. It should be taught that Allah is simply the name by which
God is known to Turks and Arabs, who are just as eligible for salvation as
any Christian. Further, that the practical reason why a Turkish child should
pray in a mosque and an English child in a church is that as worship is
organized in Turkey in mosques in the name of Mahomet and in England in
churches in the name of Christ, a Turkish child joining the Church of
England or an English child following Mahomet will find that it has no
place for its worship and no organization of its religion within its reach.
Any other teaching of the history and present facts of religion is false
teaching, and is politically extremely dangerous in an empire in which a

huge majority of the fellow subjects of the governing island do not profess
the religion of that island.
But this objectivity, though intellectually honest, tells the child only what
other people believe. What it should itself believe is quite another matter.
The sort of Rationalism which says to a child "You must suspend your
judgment until you are old enough to choose your religion" is Rationalism
gone mad. The child must have a conscience and a code of honor (which is
the essence of religion) even if it be only a provisional one, to be revised at
its confirmation. For confirmation is meant to signalize a spiritual coming
of age, and may be a repudiation. Really active souls have many
confirmations and repudiations as their life deepens and their knowledge
widens. But what is to guide the child before its first confirmation? Not
mere orders, because orders must have a sanction of some sort or why
should the child obey them? If, as a Secularist, you refuse to teach any
sanction, you must say "You will be punished if you disobey." "Yes," says
the child to itself, "if I am found out; but wait until your back is turned and I
will do as I like, and lie about it." There can be no objective punishment for
successful fraud; and as no espionage can cover the whole range of a child's
conduct, the upshot is that the child becomes a liar and schemer with an
atrophied conscience. And a good many of the orders given to it are not
obeyed after all. Thus the Secularist who is not a fool is forced to appeal to
the child's vital impulse towards perfection, to the divine spark; and no
resolution not to call this impulse an impulse of loyalty to the Fellowship of
the Holy Ghost, or obedience to the Will of God, or any other standard
theological term, can alter the fact that the Secularist has stepped outside
Secularism and is educating the child religiously, even if he insists on
repudiating that pious adverb and substituting the word metaphysically.

Natural Selection as a Religion
We must make up our minds to it therefore that whatever measures we
may be forced to take to prevent the recruiting sergeants of the Churches,
free or established, from obtaining an exclusive right of entry to schools, we
shall not be able to exclude religion from them. The most horrible of all
religions: that which teaches us to regard ourselves as the helpless prey of a
series of senseless accidents called Natural Selection, is allowed and even
welcomed in so-called secular schools because it is, in a sense, the negation
of all religion; but for school purposes a religion is a belief which affects
conduct; and no belief affects conduct more radically and often so
disastrously as the belief that the universe is a product of Natural Selection.
What is more, the theory of Natural Selection cannot be kept out of schools,
because many of the natural facts that present the most plausible appearance
of design can be accounted for by Natural Selection; and it would be so
absurd to keep a child in delusive ignorance of so potent a factor in
evolution as to keep it in ignorance of radiation or capillary attraction. Even
if you make a religion of Natural Selection, and teach the child to regard
itself as the irresponsible prey of its circumstances and appetites (or its
heredity as you will perhaps call them), you will none the less find that its
appetites are stimulated by your encouragement and daunted by your
discouragement; that one of its appetites is an appetite for perfection; that if
you discourage this appetite and encourage the cruder acquisitive appetites
the child will steal and lie and be a nuisance to you; and that if you
encourage its appetite for perfection and teach it to attach a peculiar
sacredness to it and place it before the other appetites, it will be a much
nicer child and you will have a much easier job, at which point you will, in
spite of your pseudoscientific jargon, find yourself back in the old-
fashioned religious teaching as deep as Dr. Watts and in fact fathoms
deeper.

Moral Instruction Leagues
And now the voices of our Moral Instruction Leagues will be lifted,
asking whether there is any reason why the appetite for perfection should
not be cultivated in rationally scientific terms instead of being associated
with the story of Jonah and the great fish and the thousand other tales that
grow up round religions. Yes: there are many reasons; and one of them is
that children all like the story of Jonah and the whale (they insist on its
being a whale in spite of demonstrations by Bible smashers without any
sense of humor that Jonah would not have fitted into a whale's gullet—as if
the story would be credible of a whale with an enlarged throat) and that no
child on earth can stand moral instruction books or catechisms or any other
statement of the case for religion in abstract terms. The object of a moral
instruction book is not to be rational, scientific, exact, proof against
controversy, nor even credible: its object is to make children good; and if it
makes them sick instead its place is the waste-paper basket.
Take for an illustration the story of Elisha and the bears. To the authors of
the moral instruction books it is in the last degree reprehensible. It is
obviously not true as a record of fact; and the picture it gives us of the
temper of God (which is what interests an adult reader) is shocking and
blasphemous. But it is a capital story for a child. It interests a child because
it is about bears; and it leaves the child with an impression that children
who poke fun at old gentlemen and make rude remarks about bald heads are
not nice children, which is a highly desirable impression, and just as much
as a child is capable of receiving from the story. When a story is about God
and a child, children take God for granted and criticize the child. Adults do
the opposite, and are thereby led to talk great nonsense about the bad effect
of Bible stories on infants.
But let no one think that a child or anyone else can learn religion from a
teacher or a book or by any academic process whatever. It is only by an
unfettered access to the whole body of Fine Art: that is, to the whole body
of inspired revelation, that we can build up that conception of divinity to
which all virtue is an aspiration. And to hope to find this body of art
purified from all that is obsolete or dangerous or fierce or lusty, or to pick

and choose what will be good for any particular child, much less for all
children, is the shallowest of vanities. Such schoolmasterly selection is
neither possible nor desirable. Ignorance of evil is not virtue but imbecility:
admiring it is like giving a prize for honesty to a man who has not stolen
your watch because he did not know you had one. Virtue chooses good
from evil; and without knowledge there can be no choice. And even this is a
dangerous simplification of what actually occurs. We are not choosing: we
are growing. Were you to cut all of what you call the evil out of a child, it
would drop dead. If you try to stretch it to full human stature when it is ten
years old, you will simply pull it into two pieces and be hanged. And when
you try to do this morally, which is what parents and schoolmasters are
doing every day, you ought to be hanged; and some day, when we take a
sensible view of the matter, you will be; and serve you right. The child does
not stand between a good and a bad angel: what it has to deal with is a
middling angel who, in normal healthy cases, wants to be a good angel as
fast as it can without killing itself in the process, which is a dangerous one.
Therefore there is no question of providing the child with a carefully
regulated access to good art. There is no good art, any more than there is
good anything else in the absolute sense. Art that is too good for the child
will either teach it nothing or drive it mad, as the Bible has driven many
people mad who might have kept their sanity had they been allowed to read
much lower forms of literature. The practical moral is that we must read
whatever stories, see whatever pictures, hear whatever songs and
symphonies, go to whatever plays we like. We shall not like those which
have nothing to say to us; and though everyone has a right to bias our
choice, no one has a right to deprive us of it by keeping us from any work
of art or any work of art from us.
I may now say without danger of being misunderstood that the popular
English compromise called Cowper Templeism (unsectarian Bible
education) is not so silly as it looks. It is true that the Bible inculcates half a
dozen religions: some of them barbarous; some cynical and pessimistic;
some amoristic and romantic; some sceptical and challenging; some kindly,
simple, and intuitional; some sophistical and intellectual; none suited to the
character and conditions of western civilization unless it be the Christianity
which was finally suppressed by the Crucifixion, and has never been put
into practice by any State before or since. But the Bible contains the ancient
literature of a very remarkable Oriental race; and the imposition of this

literature, on whatever false pretences, on our children left them more
literate than if they knew no literature at all, which was the practical
alternative. And as our Authorized Version is a great work of art as well, to
know it was better than knowing no art, which also was the practical
alternative. It is at least not a school book; and it is not a bad story book,
horrible as some of the stories are. Therefore as between the Bible and the
blank represented by secular education, the choice is with the Bible.

The Bible
But the Bible is not sufficient. The real Bible of modern Europe is the
whole body of great literature in which the inspiration and revelation of
Hebrew Scripture has been continued to the present day. Nietzsche's Thus
Spake Zoroaster is less comforting to the ill and unhappy than the Psalms;
but it is much truer, subtler, and more edifying. The pleasure we get from
the rhetoric of the book of Job and its tragic picture of a bewildered soul
cannot disguise the ignoble irrelevance of the retort of God with which it
closes, or supply the need of such modern revelations as Shelley's
Prometheus or The Niblung's Ring of Richard Wagner. There is nothing in
the Bible greater in inspiration than Beethoven's ninth symphony; and the
power of modern music to convey that inspiration to a modern man is far
greater than that of Elizabethan English, which is, except for people steeped
in the Bible from childhood like Sir Walter Scott and Ruskin, a dead
language.
Besides, many who have no ear for literature or for music are accessible
to architecture, to pictures, to statues, to dresses, and to the arts of the stage.
Every device of art should be brought to bear on the young; so that they
may discover some form of it that delights them naturally; for there will
come to all of them that period between dawning adolescence and full
maturity when the pleasures and emotions of art will have to satisfy
cravings which, if starved or insulted, may become morbid and seek
disgraceful satisfactions, and, if prematurely gratified otherwise than
poetically, may destroy the stamina of the race. And it must be borne in
mind that the most dangerous art for this necessary purpose is the art that
presents itself as religious ecstasy. Young people are ripe for love long
before they are ripe for religion. Only a very foolish person would
substitute the Imitation of Christ for Treasure Island as a present for a boy
or girl, or for Byron's Don Juan as a present for a swain or lass. Pickwick is
the safest saint for us in our nonage. Flaubert's Temptation of St Anthony is
an excellent book for a man of fifty, perhaps the best within reach as a
healthy study of visionary ecstasy; but for the purposes of a boy of fifteen
Ivanhoe and the Templar make a much better saint and devil. And the boy

of fifteen will find this out for himself if he is allowed to wander in a well-
stocked literary garden, and hear bands and see pictures and spend his
pennies on cinematograph shows. His choice may often be rather disgusting
to his elders when they want him to choose the best before he is ready for it.
The greatest Protestant Manifesto ever written, as far as I know, is Houston
Chamberlain's Foundations of the Nineteenth Century: everybody capable
of it should read it. Probably the History of Maria Monk is at the opposite
extreme of merit (this is a guess: I have never read it); but it is certain that a
boy let loose in a library would go for Maria Monk and have no use
whatever for Mr Chamberlain. I should probably have read Maria Monk
myself if I had not had the Arabian Nights and their like to occupy me
better. In art, children, like adults, will find their level if they are left free to
find it, and not restricted to what adults think good for them. Just at present
our young people are going mad over ragtimes, apparently because
syncopated rhythms are new to them. If they had learnt what can be done
with syncopation from Beethoven's third Leonora overture, they would
enjoy the ragtimes all the more; but they would put them in their proper
place as amusing vulgarities.

Artist Idolatry
But there are more dangerous influences than ragtimes waiting for people
brought up in ignorance of fine art. Nothing is more pitiably ridiculous than
the wild worship of artists by those who have never been seasoned in youth
to the enchantments of art. Tenors and prima donnas, pianists and violinists,
actors and actresses enjoy powers of seduction which in the middle ages
would have exposed them to the risk of being burnt for sorcery. But as they
exercise this power by singing, playing, and acting, no great harm is done
except perhaps to themselves. Far graver are the powers enjoyed by brilliant
persons who are also connoisseurs in art. The influence they can exercise on
young people who have been brought up in the darkness and wretchedness
of a home without art, and in whom a natural bent towards art has always
been baffled and snubbed, is incredible to those who have not witnessed
and understood it. He (or she) who reveals the world of art to them opens
heaven to them. They become satellites, disciples, worshippers of the
apostle. Now the apostle may be a voluptuary without much conscience.
Nature may have given him enough virtue to suffice in a reasonable
environment. But this allowance may not be enough to defend him against
the temptation and demoralization of finding himself a little god on the
strength of what ought to be a quite ordinary culture. He may find adorers
in all directions in our uncultivated society among people of stronger
character than himself, not one of whom, if they had been artistically
educated, would have had anything to learn from him or regarded him as in
any way extraordinary apart from his actual achievements as an artist.
Tartuffe is not always a priest. Indeed he is not always a rascal: he is often a
weak man absurdly credited with omniscience and perfection, and taking
unfair advantages only because they are offered to him and he is too weak
to refuse. Give everyone his culture, and no one will offer him more than
his due.
In thus delivering our children from the idolatry of the artist, we shall not
destroy for them the enchantment of art: on the contrary, we shall teach
them to demand art everywhere as a condition attainable by cultivating the
body, mind, and heart. Art, said Morris, is the expression of pleasure in

work. And certainly, when work is made detestable by slavery, there is no
art. It is only when learning is made a slavery by tyrannical teachers that art
becomes loathsome to the pupil.

"The Machine"
When we set to work at a Constitution to secure freedom for children, we
had better bear in mind that the children may not be at all obliged to us for
our pains. Rousseau said that men are born free; and this saying, in its
proper bearings, was and is a great and true saying; yet let it not lead us into
the error of supposing that all men long for freedom and embrace it when it
is offered to them. On the contrary, it has to be forced on them; and even
then they will give it the slip if it is not religiously inculcated and strongly
safeguarded.
Besides, men are born docile, and must in the nature of things remain so
with regard to everything they do not understand. Now political science and
the art of government are among the things they do not understand, and
indeed are not at present allowed to understand. They can be enslaved by a
system, as we are at present, because it happens to be there, and nobody
understands it. An intelligently worked Capitalist system, as Comte saw,
would give us all that most of us are intelligent enough to want. What
makes it produce such unspeakably vile results is that it is an automatic
system which is as little understood by those who profit by it in money as
by those who are starved and degraded by it: our millionaires and statesmen
are manifestly no more "captains of industry" or scientific politicians than
our bookmakers are mathematicians. For some time past a significant word
has been coming into use as a substitute for Destiny, Fate, and Providence.
It is "The Machine": the machine that has no god in it. Why do
governments do nothing in spite of reports of Royal Commissions that
establish the most frightful urgency? Why do our philanthropic millionaires
do nothing, though they are ready to throw bucketfuls of gold into the
streets? The Machine will not let them. Always the Machine. In short, they
dont know how.
They try to reform Society as an old lady might try to restore a broken
down locomotive by prodding it with a knitting needle. And this is not at all
because they are born fools, but because they have been educated, not into
manhood and freedom, but into blindness and slavery by their parents and
schoolmasters, themselves the victims of a similar misdirection, and

consequently of The Machine. They do not want liberty. They have not
been educated to want it. They choose slavery and inequality; and all the
other evils are automatically added to them.
And yet we must have The Machine. It is only in unskilled hands under
ignorant direction that machinery is dangerous. We can no more govern
modern communities without political machinery than we can feed and
clothe them without industrial machinery. Shatter The Machine, and you get
Anarchy. And yet The Machine works so detestably at present that we have
people who advocate Anarchy and call themselves Anarchists.

The Provocation to Anarchism
What is valid in Anarchism is that all Governments try to simplify their
task by destroying liberty and glorifying authority in general and their own
deeds in particular. But the difficulty in combining law and order with free
institutions is not a natural one. It is a matter of inculcation. If people are
brought up to be slaves, it is useless and dangerous to let them loose at the
age of twenty-one and say "Now you are free." No one with the tamed soul
and broken spirit of a slave can be free. It is like saying to a laborer brought
up on a family income of thirteen shillings a week, "Here is one hundred
thousand pounds: now you are wealthy." Nothing can make such a man
really wealthy. Freedom and wealth are difficult and responsible conditions
to which men must be accustomed and socially trained from birth. A nation
that is free at twenty-one is not free at all; just as a man first enriched at
fifty remains poor all his life, even if he does not curtail it by drinking
himself to death in the first wild ecstasy of being able to swallow as much
as he likes for the first time. You cannot govern men brought up as slaves
otherwise than as slaves are governed. You may pile Bills of Right and
Habeas Corpus Acts on Great Charters; promulgate American
Constitutions; burn the chateaux and guillotine the seigneurs; chop off the
heads of kings and queens and set up Democracy on the ruins of feudalism:
the end of it all for us is that already in the twentieth century there has been
as much brute coercion and savage intolerance, as much flogging and
hanging, as much impudent injustice on the bench and lustful rancor in the
pulpit, as much naive resort to torture, persecution, and suppression of free
speech and freedom of the press, as much war, as much of the vilest excess
of mutilation, rapine, and delirious indiscriminate slaughter of helpless non-
combatants, old and young, as much prostitution of professional talent,
literary and political, in defence of manifest wrong, as much cowardly
sycophancy giving fine names to all this villainy or pretending that it is
"greatly exaggerated," as we can find any record of from the days when the
advocacy of liberty was a capital offence and Democracy was hardly
thinkable. Democracy exhibits the vanity of Louis XIV, the savagery of
Peter of Russia, the nepotism and provinciality of Napoleon, the fickleness

of Catherine II: in short, all the childishnesses of all the despots without any
of the qualities that enabled the greatest of them to fascinate and dominate
their contemporaries.
And the flatterers of Democracy are as impudently servile to the
successful, and insolent to common honest folk, as the flatterers of the
monarchs. Democracy in America has led to the withdrawal of ordinary
refined persons from politics; and the same result is coming in England as
fast as we make Democracy as democratic as it is in America. This is true
also of popular religion: it is so horribly irreligious that nobody with the
smallest pretence to culture, or the least inkling of what the great prophets
vainly tried to make the world understand, will have anything to do with it
except for purely secular reasons.

Imagination
Before we can clearly understand how baleful is this condition of
intimidation in which we live, it is necessary to clear up the confusion made
by our use of the word imagination to denote two very different powers of
mind. One is the power to imagine things as they are not: this I call the
romantic imagination. The other is the power to imagine things as they are
without actually sensing them; and this I will call the realistic imagination.
Take for example marriage and war. One man has a vision of perpetual bliss
with a domestic angel at home, and of flashing sabres, thundering guns,
victorious cavalry charges, and routed enemies in the field. That is romantic
imagination; and the mischief it does is incalculable. It begins in silly and
selfish expectations of the impossible, and ends in spiteful disappointment,
sour grievance, cynicism, and misanthropic resistance to any attempt to
better a hopeless world. The wise man knows that imagination is not only a
means of pleasing himself and beguiling tedious hours with romances and
fairy tales and fools' paradises (a quite defensible and delightful amusement
when you know exactly what you are doing and where fancy ends and facts
begin), but also a means of foreseeing and being prepared for realities as yet
unexperienced, and of testing the possibility and desirability of serious
Utopias. He does not expect his wife to be an angel; nor does he overlook
the facts that war depends on the rousing of all the murderous
blackguardism still latent in mankind; that every victory means a defeat;
that fatigue, hunger, terror, and disease are the raw material which
romancers work up into military glory; and that soldiers for the most part go
to war as children go to school, because they are afraid not to. They are
afraid even to say they are afraid, as such candor is punishable by death in
the military code.
A very little realistic imagination gives an ambitious person enormous
power over the multitudinous victims of the romantic imagination. For the
romancer not only pleases himself with fictitious glories: he also terrifies
himself with imaginary dangers. He does not even picture what these
dangers are: he conceives the unknown as always dangerous. When you say
to a realist "You must do this" or "You must not do that," he instantly asks

what will happen to him if he does (or does not, as the case may be). Failing
an unromantic convincing answer, he does just as he pleases unless he can
find for himself a real reason for refraining. In short, though you can
intimidate him, you cannot bluff him. But you can always bluff the
romantic person: indeed his grasp of real considerations is so feeble that
you find it necessary to bluff him even when you have solid considerations
to offer him instead. The campaigns of Napoleon, with their atmosphere of
glory, illustrate this. In the Russian campaign Napoleon's marshals achieved
miracles of bluff, especially Ney, who, with a handful of men, monstrously
outnumbered, repeatedly kept the Russian troops paralyzed with terror by
pure bounce. Napoleon himself, much more a realist than Ney (that was
why he dominated him), would probably have surrendered; for sometimes
the bravest of the brave will achieve successes never attempted by the
cleverest of the clever. Wellington was a completer realist than Napoleon. It
was impossible to persuade Wellington that he was beaten until he actually
was beaten. He was unbluffable; and if Napoleon had understood the nature
of Wellington's strength instead of returning Wellington's snobbish
contempt for him by an academic contempt for Wellington, he would not
have left the attack at Waterloo to Ney and D'Erlon, who, on that field, did
not know when they were beaten, whereas Wellington knew precisely when
he was not beaten. The unbluffable would have triumphed anyhow,
probably, because Napoleon was an academic soldier, doing the academic
thing (the attack in columns and so forth) with superlative ability and
energy; whilst Wellington was an original soldier who, instead of outdoing
the terrible academic columns with still more terrible and academic
columns, outwitted them with the thin red line, not of heroes, but, as this
uncompromising realist never hesitated to testify, of the scum of the earth.

Government by Bullies
These picturesque martial incidents are being reproduced every day in
our ordinary life. We are bluffed by hardy simpletons and headstrong
bounders as the Russians were bluffed by Ney; and our Wellingtons are
threadbound by slave-democracy as Gulliver was threadbound by the
Lilliputians. We are a mass of people living in a submissive routine to
which we have been drilled from our childhood. When you ask us to take
the simplest step outside that routine, we say shyly, "Oh, I really couldnt,"
or "Oh, I shouldnt like to," without being able to point out the smallest harm
that could possibly ensue: victims, not of a rational fear of real dangers, but
of pure abstract fear, the quintessence of cowardice, the very negation of
"the fear of God." Dotted about among us are a few spirits relatively free
from this inculcated paralysis, sometimes because they are half-witted,
sometimes because they are unscrupulously selfish, sometimes because they
are realists as to money and unimaginative as to other things, sometimes
even because they are exceptionally able, but always because they are not
afraid of shadows nor oppressed with nightmares. And we see these few
rising as if by magic into power and affluence, and forming, with the
millionaires who have accidentally gained huge riches by the occasional
windfalls of our commerce, the governing class. Now nothing is more
disastrous than a governing class that does not know how to govern. And
how can this rabble of the casual products of luck, cunning, and folly, be
expected to know how to govern? The merely lucky ones and the hereditary
ones do not owe their position to their qualifications at all. As to the rest,
the realism which seems their essential qualification often consists not only
in a lack of romantic imagination, which lack is a merit, but of the realistic,
constructive, Utopian imagination, which lack is a ghastly defect. Freedom
from imaginative illusion is therefore no guarantee whatever of nobility of
character: that is why inculcated submissiveness makes us slaves to people
much worse than ourselves, and why it is so important that submissiveness
should no longer be inculcated.
And yet as long as you have the compulsory school as we know it, we
shall have submissiveness inculcated. What is more, until the active hours

of child life are organized separately from the active hours of adult life, so
that adults can enjoy the society of children in reason without being
tormented, disturbed, harried, burdened, and hindered in their work by them
as they would be now if there were no compulsory schools and no children
hypnotized into the belief that they must tamely go to them and be
imprisoned and beaten and over-tasked in them, we shall have schools
under one pretext or another; and we shall have all the evil consequences
and all the social hopelessness that result from turning a nation of potential
freemen and freewomen into a nation of two-legged spoilt spaniels with
everything crushed out of their nature except dread of the whip. Liberty is
the breath of life to nations; and liberty is the one thing that parents,
schoolmasters, and rulers spend their lives in extirpating for the sake of an
immediately quiet and finally disastrous life.

Notes on this etext:
This text was taken from a printed volume containing the
plays "Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets",
"Fanny's First Play", and the essay "A Treatise on Parents
and Children".

Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with
underlines ("_"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in
the printed text. Shaw intentionally spelled many words
according to a non-standard system. For example, "don't" is
given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr." is given as "Dr"
(without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as
"Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). The pound (currency)
symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds".

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