It is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history, which is considered within their grasp because it is merely a collection of facts.  But what is meant by this word “fact”?  Do you think the relations which determine the facts of history are so easy to grasp that the corresponding ideas are easily developed in the child’s mind!  Do you think that a real knowledge of events can exist apart from the knowledge of their causes and effects, and that history has so little relation to words that the one can be learnt without the other?  If you perceive nothing in a man’s actions beyond merely physical and external movements, what do you learn from history?  Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbed of all that makes it interesting, gives you neither pleasure nor information.  If you want to judge actions by their moral bearings, try to make these moral bearings intelligible to your scholars.  You will soon find out if they are old enough to learn history.

Remember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholar nor a philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man who is pledged to no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little with other men, and has less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices, and more time to reflect on the things that strike him in his intercourse with them.  My arguments are based less on theories than on facts, and I think I can find no better way to bring the facts home to you than by quoting continually some example from the observations which suggested my arguments.

I had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy mother of a family who took great pains with her children and their education.  One morning I was present while the eldest boy had his lessons.  His tutor, who had taken great pains to teach him ancient history, began upon the story of Alexander and lighted on the well-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor.  There is a picture of it, and the story is well worth study.  The tutor, worthy man, made several reflections which I did not like with regard to Alexander’s courage, but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in the eyes of his pupil.  At dinner they did not fail to get the little fellow talking, French fashion.  The eager spirit of a child of his age, and the confident expectation of applause, made him say a number of silly things, and among them from time to time there were things to the point, and these made people forget the rest.  At last came the story of Philip the Doctor.  He told it very distinctly and prettily.  After the usual meed of praise, demanded by his mother and expected by the child himself, they discussed what he had said.  Most of them blamed Alexander’s rashness, some of them, following the tutor’s example, praised his resolution, which showed me that none of those present really saw the beauty of the story.  “For my own part,” I said, “if there was any courage or any steadfastness at all in Alexander’s