Part 7

Important also is it to note that in their daily walks and talks together, Karl’s father took good care to cultivate in him the gift of imagination, which means so much to the moral as well as the mental growth of man. When they went hand in hand across the fields of Lochau, it was not only in rudiments of science that Witte instructed his son; he deftly awakened in him an appreciation of the sublimity and beauty in the workings of Nature. When he narrated to him stories from history, it was not merely to interest him in the study of history; the emphasis was on some moral trait exemplified by the particular story. In familiarising him with the life of Lochau itself, in introducing him to its shops and cottage-homes, the effort was tactfully made to awaken and broaden his sympathies. Always it was one of Witte’s chief objects to keep his son as free as possible from anything that might make for harshness, narrowness, and intolerance in later years.

Even when Karl was not more than three or four years old, his father did not deem it too early to attempt by rebuke and admonition to instil into him the idea that he ought to guard his tongue closely to avoid hurting the feelings of other people. All children, as is well known, are inclined to “speak out in meeting,” and frequently their “cute” comments, which many parents applaud as evidences of keen observational power, convey a sting to the person commented on. So soon as this universal trait of childhood appeared in little Karl his father set about suppressing it, and at the same time sought to utilise it as an aid in his moral education. The occasion arose following a thoughtless remark by the child regarding some slight eccentricity in the behaviour of a certain Herr N., a friend of the family. When father and son were alone, the former asked:

“Why did you speak of Herr N. as you did?”

“Because what I said was true.”

“I grant that. It was true—it was, indeed, very true. But that is no reason you should have said it. It was neither good nor kind of you. Did you not see how disturbed he became? He would say nothing back, perhaps because of the love he bears for us. But it pained him very much that a child should say anything so unpleasant to him. If he is unhappy to-day, the fault is yours.”

Witte tells us that it was not long before Karl acquired the excellent habit of “putting himself in the other fellow’s place” before uttering censorious judgments. Similarly, and with equal success, his father endeavoured to broaden his sympathies so as to include the brute creation. It happened one day, when Karl was about three years old, that there were at his home a number of guests, who made much of the child, naturally to his great delight. While they were talking to him the family dog came into the room, and Karl, as any child might, playfully caught it by the tail and drew it to him. As he did so, his father, putting out his hand, caught Karl himself by his long hair and pulled it exactly as he was pulling the tail of the dog. Karl turned, saw his father’s indignant look, blushed crimson, and released the dog.

At once his father released him, and demanded:

“How did you like that?”

“Not at all,” was the embarrassed answer.

“Well, then, do you think the dog liked it? Now go out to the yard.”

“I sent him out,” Witte says, “not only as a punishment, but because I saw that some of my guests were about to open their lips to take his part and to blame me—in his presence!—for my treatment of him. But one of them, speaking suddenly, said:

“‘God bless you, dear friend. If Karl, as I believe he is certain to do, shall grow to be a good man, he will thank you heartily for this lesson. I wish to Heaven we thus and always handled our children. Then they would be sure to learn to treat animals kindly, and by so much the more to treat their fellow-men kindly!”

And Witte adds, dryly:

“After this, none of those present thought it well to say anything in criticism of me.”

He had, in fact, taken precisely the course best calculated to impress on Karl the vitally important principle of kindness to all living creatures. For he had brought this principle home to him in a way the child’s mind could readily grasp, and without unnecessary harshness and “nagging,” which, after all, only arouse those contrariant ideas that it should be the great aim of education to suppress. And it was thus that Witte and his wife always acted in the upbringing of their boy through the critical formative period of early childhood. The moment any undesirable characteristic made its appearance they hastened to awaken in him a sense of its extreme undesirability by words and conduct that appealed forcefully both to his understanding and to his emotions.

Particularly did they appeal—and here is a point deserving of special emphasis—to his sense of filial love. That they were able to make their appeal unfailingly successful, that the child always found in it a compelling motive for good behaviour, was due to the fact that their whole attitude toward him made him realise that he was an object of devoted, though not over-indulgent, love on their part. Never rebuked without a sufficient cause, and always more in sorrow than in anger; given a free hand in all things except those injurious or detrimental to him; made a companion and a playmate by both parents—he soon perceived, as any child would, that they had nothing more warmly at heart than his best interests and his happiness. Loved as he was, he gave out abundant love in return, and the great ambition of his childhood became a passionate desire to please his father and mother.

Hence it was that Witte, in carrying out his policy of early intellectual training, found no more potent spur to incite his boy to study the subjects given him than the simple statement, “You know, dear Karl, you must learn all you can, so that you will be able to care for your mother and me when we are old and feeble.” Hence, too, the child acquired habits of obedience, self-control, and truthfulness, largely because of his anxiety not to bring pain to his parents. They, however, it is to be noted, were careful to discipline him firmly if he did commit a fault, but always in a way that caused him to appreciate the reasonableness of the punishment inflicted on him.

Such was the manner of Karl Witte’s education up to the age of nine. By that time he had learned so much, and was so well trained in the use of his mental powers, that his father decided to send him to college. At nine and a half, to the amazement of all Germany, he entered the University of Leipzig. There, as at the universities of Göttingen, Giessen, and Heidelberg, where he also prosecuted his studies, his career was brilliant in the extreme. No subject—and he applied himself to many subjects—seemed beyond his powers. In 1814, before he had passed his fourteenth birthday, he was granted the degree of Ph.D. for a thesis on the “Conchoid of Nicomedes,” a curve of the fourth degree. Two years later he was made a Doctor of Laws, and appointed to the teaching staff of the University of Berlin.

Before beginning to teach, however, it was thought best for him to spend some time in foreign travel, which he was enabled to do, thanks to the generosity of no less a personage than the King of Prussia, who had been following his university career with lively interest. Abroad, therefore, Karl Witte went, chiefly to study law, the teaching of which he had definitely selected as his profession. But toward the close of 1818 an incident occurred which, while it did not turn him from law, opened up to him another field of intellectual activity, and the one in which he ultimately won his greatest fame.

While sojourning in Florence he chanced to make the acquaintance of a talented woman who, discussing with him the masters of Italian literature, half in jest and half in earnest warned him not to attempt to read Dante, whom he could never hope to “understand.” Naturally this roused his curiosity, and he promptly bought an elaborate edition of the “Divine Comedy.” Reading this through, he then read what the commentators had to say about it, and was shocked at what he considered the inadequacy and positive error of their views. “Some day,” said he to himself, “I will certainly make an effort to promote a better appreciation of Dante.” This resolution he carried into effect five years later by the publication, in Germany, of one of the most important literary essays of the nineteenth century. It was entitled “On Misunderstanding Dante,” and concerning it a modern authority on the study of Dante, Philip H. Wicksteed, declares:

“If the history of the revival of interest in Dante which has characterised this century shall ever be written, Karl Witte will be the chief hero of the tale. He was little more than a boy when, in 1823, he entered the lists against existing Dante scholars, all and sundry, demonstrated that there was not one of them that knew his trade, and announced his readiness to teach it to them. The amazing thing is that he fully accomplished his vaunt. His essay exercised a growing influence in Germany, and then in Europe; and after five-and-forty years of indefatigable and fruitful toil he was able to look back upon his youthful attempt as containing the germ of all his subsequent work on Dante. But now, instead of the audacious young heretic and revolutionist, he was the acknowledged master of the most prominent Dante scholars in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, England, and America.”

In fact, from the time of the publication of this preliminary paper, almost to the time of his death, Dante essays, translations, commentaries, came from the pen of Karl Witte, to delight an ever-widening circle of Dante scholars, and incidentally to promote the study of Italian history. To understand Dante, Witte iterated and reiterated, it is absolutely necessary to have a knowledge of mediæval Italy. Especially must one study the religious pre-occupation of the age, as seen in the rise of Saint Francis and Saint Dominic, the Thomist reconstitution of theology and the contemporary consolidation of the hierarchy, and the attitude of the period toward the Albigenses and other heretics. This knowledge one must gain if he would fully appreciate the true significance of the “Divine Comedy” as the portrayal of man given over to sin and prevented by his lusts from recovering the path to virtue, till the Christian religion teaches him, by the light of understanding, to recognise sin and free himself from it, and then offers to his transported vision the divine revelation of the secret and bliss of Heaven.

Yet all the while the propagation of his views on Dante and the fostering of a love for Dante were but an avocation with Karl Witte. His vocation, his life-work, was the teaching of the principles of law, both in the class-room and by the pen. It was in 1821, soon after his return from Italy, that he was established as lecturer on jurisprudence at the University of Breslau, being appointed to a full professorship two years later, and transferred to Halle in 1834. There he passed the remainder of his long and distinguished life, which did not terminate until March 6, 1883, when he passed away sincerely mourned as “a devout Christian and elder of the church, a scholar overwhelmed with honours and distinctions, a tender husband and father.”

Thus the “forcing” process to which his father had subjected him did not in the least hurt Karl Witte. It is one which any conscientious and intelligent parent may make use of for his own children if he so desires. And, to my way of thinking, children reared in this way will have a far better chance for success and happiness in after years than would otherwise be theirs.

V

THE PROBLEM OF LAZINESS

From what has already been said, it is evident that there are at least three fundamental principles to be observed by all parents who would give their children a good start in life. Care must be taken to set the little ones a really good parental example; they must be surrounded from the dawn of consciousness by a favourable environment; and the effort should be made by direct instruction to develop in them habits of right thinking and acting before wrong habits have time to get formed. To these three principles a fourth must now be added: the exercise of constant vigilance to detect and correct any physical disabilities, no matter how trivial they may seem to be.

As was noted when discussing the case of the boy who “goes wrong,” even comparatively slight physical defects, by causing neural stress, may contribute directly to the making of the juvenile delinquent. So, too, mental development may be hampered by unfavourable conditions of bodily health. This, of course, has long been recognised in a general way. But in essential details it still is a fact far too little appreciated by the majority of parents. Nay, it is ignored or misunderstood even by some scientific students of the nature of man, as is shown, for example, by the varying views held to-day regarding that widespread human frailty, laziness.

Only a short time ago, looking through some scientific works bearing on a complicated educational problem, I was greatly struck by two pronouncements concerning laziness. On the one hand I found an eminent physiologist declaring unreservedly, “The love of work and activity is an acquired characteristic rather than a natural one; for the human tendency is toward the line of least effort.” And opposed to this another authority asserted with equal emphasis, “There never was a child born into this world who was born into it lazy.”

To reconcile these statements is a manifest impossibility. Yet it is certain that each of them finds in facts of everyday observation a strong body of evidence to support it. The average child of tender years, as every parent knows, is supremely active and energetic. He is always in motion, always busying himself about something, his mind alert and inquiring, his hands ceaselessly occupied in testing, exploring, putting together, and taking to pieces. Left to himself, he often will display an amazing tenacity of purpose and vigour of performance.

Of one child, less than a year old, a close observer has recorded, “He would over and over again seem to be trying to solve the problem of the hinge to his nursery door, patiently and with riveted attention opening and shutting the door. Day after day saw him at his self-appointed task.” Another, fourteen months old, while playing with a tin can, was seen to put the cover on and off “not less than seventy-nine times without stopping for a moment.” The incessant questioning with which children bombard their parents is another impressive indication of their exuberant, irrepressible activity and energy. But, for that matter, the whole life of the average child goes to corroborate the dictum that the people of this world come into it free from the taint of laziness.

When, however, we look at the same child grown to manhood, or even a few years removed from early youth, more often than not his behaviour seems to bear out the contrary view that man is naturally lazy and acquires love of work, if at all, only under strong compulsion. “To get results from my boys, to induce them to apply themselves to their books and their studies,” many a despairing school-teacher has lamented, “I have to be forever watching and driving them.” In college, office, factory, workshop, and store, one hears the same complaint. There is perpetual waste of time, dawdling, loitering, gossiping—a seeming passion for the ways of slothful ease and aversion from sustained endeavour. To a large extent, too, the history even of those who have won distinction as leaders of thought and action seemingly justifies the doctrine that mankind is naturally prone to idleness rather than to productive activity, and that any tendency in the latter direction is invariably a characteristic acquired in the course of individual development.

Thus Charles Darwin, world-famous for his splendid contributions to the advance of science, was so lazy in boyhood that his father predicted he would turn out a ne’er-do-well and a disgrace to the family. His great contemporary, Sir Charles Lyell, similarly had as a boy a profound dislike for work of any sort. Heinrich Heine, on his own confession, idled away his time in school, and was “horribly bored” by the instruction given him at Göttingen. According to an American psychologist, Edgar James Swift, who has made an extensive study of the boyhood of great men, Wordsworth up to the age of seventeen was so lazy as to be “wholly incapable of continued application to prescribed work.” Of Patrick Henry it is recorded by an early biographer that in boyhood “he was too idle to gain any solid advantage from the opportunities which were thrown in his way.” And, after his schooling was done, indolence caused him to fail dismally in several business ventures before he took up the study of law.

When James Russell Lowell was a boy his relatives were greatly distressed by his laziness, and he was suspended by the authorities of Harvard University “on account of continual neglect of his college duties.” A boyhood friend who had unusual facilities for observation is credited with having repeatedly declared that “there never was so idle a dog as young Humphry,” afterward Sir Humphry Davy of scientific renown. “My master,” Samuel Johnson once remarked, in speaking of his school-boy days, “whipped me very hard. Without that, sir, I should have done nothing.” Balzac, who wrote so many novels, yet did not let one appear until it had undergone repeated revision, confessed that not only in boyhood but throughout the years of his literary labours he was tormented by longings for an existence of pleasure-seeking leisure. Through the lips of his famous character, Raphael de Valentin, here is what he says of himself:

“Since the age of reason until the day when I had finished my task, I observed, read, wrote without ceasing, and my life was like a long imposition; an effeminate lover of oriental indolence, enamoured of my dreams, sensual, I have always worked, refusing to allow myself to taste the joys of Parisian life; gourmand, I have been temperate; enjoying movement and sea voyages, longing to visit other countries, still finding pleasure, like a child, in making ducks and drakes on the water, I remained constantly seated, pen in hand.”

Taking into consideration facts like these, the evidence would certainly seem to be in favour of the view that, in yielding to a desire for idleness, men are, after all, only following the dictate of Nature. But, recalling the intense activity, the abounding energy of childhood, recalling also the demonstrable truth that in most cases even the laziest of school-boys has had a past characterised by the reverse of laziness, just as he may have, like Darwin, Lyell, and the rest, a future of marvellous accomplishment, the mind must once more incline to the opposite belief.

It may be, and, as will be shown, it undoubtedly is, somewhat of an exaggeration to say that there never has been a congenitally lazy man. But to say this is far nearer the truth than to regard laziness as something rooted in the constitution of our being, and love of activity as merely an acquired characteristic. On the contrary, the sharp contrast between the activity and energy of the average child and the idling propensities of the average man, points unmistakably to the development of laziness as a parasitic growth interfering with the normal processes and tendencies of nature. Laziness, in other words, must be looked upon as essentially a pathological condition.

Instead, therefore, of condemning the lazy man, as the moralists would, it is the part of wisdom to view him as a victim of disease and as standing in need of careful treatment. Nature intended him to be vigorous, forceful, a being of achievement; circumstances have made him listless, inert, responsive but in feeble measure to the spur of honour, ambition, pride, love, or necessity. Sometimes, to be sure, he is contented with his laziness, and would almost resent an attempt to rescue him from it; more frequently he writhes in secret over a defect which he realises exposes him to the contempt and ridicule of his more virile fellow-men, and renders his life an empty, profitless existence. As one unhappy victim confessed in a moment of extraordinary self-revelation:

“I begin, but do not finish. When I conceive a work, a feverish impatience seizes me to reach the desired aim; I should like to attain it at once. But to accomplish something, patient and continuous efforts are required. I never accomplish anything.... One dull day, in one of the suburbs, I saw a large piece of waste land, more covered with fragments of earthenware than with grass. Three or four houses had been commenced, charming little dwellings of red brick and white stone; the walls had been there for two or three years, but the floors and ceilings were lacking, the roofs had never been tiled, and one could see across the ever wide-open windows. My mind is in a similar condition—a rough plain with several pretty houses, the roofs of which will never be finished.” (_The Fortnightly Review_, vol. lxix, p. 763.)

What, then, is the cause of laziness? How should one proceed in the attempt to cure it? Still more important in this complex and severely competitive age, with its incessant demand for vigour and effectiveness of performance, what are the preventive measures that may be taken in the interest alike of the individual and society?

Only a few years ago it would have been impossible to answer these questions in any but the vaguest and most general way. It might have been said—indeed, it was said—that laziness is essentially an infirmity of the will. No statement could be more correct, but also none could be more futile in the absence of any clear appreciation of the factors determining the weakness or strength of one’s will-power. For, as somebody has truly said, the will is not an isolated entity, absolutely independent of, and superior to, the organism through which it operates. Having a controlling force, it still is, to a large extent, itself controlled by material as well as by psychical circumstances, by bodily states and by the impressions the mind absorbs from the environment. Consequently the solution of the problem of laziness depends at bottom on the ascertainment of the factors hurtful to efficient willing.

This task quite recently has been essayed with remarkable success, and, especially by a little group of French investigators, with immediate reference to the problem presented by the lazy man. Laziness in all its phases has been studied with the resourcefulness and painstaking precision characteristic of the new school of medical psychologists, to whom we are already so heavily indebted for a better understanding of the mind of man both in its normal and its abnormal aspects. And with respect to laziness they have likewise made some interesting and important discoveries.