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