Annex 2: The Three Laws of Learning

Annex 2

The word “trivium” comes from the Latin prefix “tri” meaning “three,” and the Latin root “via” meaning “way,” or “road.” The word literally means “the three-fold way or road.” The trivium refers to the three stages, or ways, of learning that coincide with a child’s cognitive development as he matures. We should begin an in-depth look at the trivium–the three stages of learning–by reminding ourselves that the trivium is not some arbitrary theory of teaching methodology or new fad of learning philosophy. Rather, the trivium was developed by long trial and error, through the observation of the ancients in the way children learn during the whole course of their instruction from young child to young adult. They realized that time after time, they followed three stages in the learning process. They simply pointed out what was obviously there; what God had designed: that there are three stages, which they named Grammar, Dialectic, and Rhetoric; and they progress in that order. Think of Sir Isaac Newton. He didn’t invent the three laws of motion (God did that when He created the universe), but after careful observation, he defined them by stating what was already there. So it is with the trivium. We might even call the trivium the three laws of learning.

A. How We Learn & the Trivium

There are two ways to look at the trivium. The first has to do with the affinity that children have for thinking about things, for seeing things in one light or another depending on their stage of brain development. It is a well-known fact that when a baby is born, his nervous system isn’t fully developed yet. There is a process of myelinization of the nervous system that must occur, and this process takes years. First he is able to hold his head up, then roll over, crawl, walk, run, jump, and finally do things like ballet or basketball or synchronized swimming with style and grace. Just as a child’s physical coordination and motor skills develop and become more refined over time, following a definable progression; his cognitive coordination and thinking skills also develop and become more refined over time, following a definable progression.

Therefore a child will first embark on the stage of brain development that classicists term the grammar stage. In this stage he has a natural affinity for storing up a tremendous amount of information on any number of things, from nursery rhymes to math facts, and recalling that information at will. He will then progress to the stage termed the dialectic, where his abilities to reason are honed and sharpened, and everything is turned into an exercise in argumentation. And lastly he will advance to the rhetoric stage, where self-discovery and expression are the paramount concerns, and where cognitive abilities come into their full flower of maturity.

The second way to look at the Trivium is just this: that anyone learning something new goes through these three stages as well. A baby learning his native language starts with vocabulary first (the grammar stage), advancing on to stringing that vocabulary together in meaningful ways (the dialectic stage), and ending with finally becoming proficient in completely expressing his thought in the common standard of language usage (the rhetoric stage.) A teenager learning to drive or an adult learning to operate a personal computer does the same thing: commit the vocabulary, the rules, the basics of the subject to memory (grammar), string the isolated parts together to make a meaningful whole (dialectic), then become proficient in the operation of the car or the computer or whatever the subject happens to be (rhetoric.)

B. The Grammar Stage

With that under our belt, let us look at the grammar stage more completely. Simply defined, it is the learning of the body of knowledge of a subject, and most classicists would agree that this is best done by memorization. Most of us have been trained to have an aversion to rote memorization, but it is not harmful, and neither does it have to be dull. I would venture to say that no baby had to be forced to learn to talk, but rather he enjoyed the process immensely. In reality, a child begins learning the grammar of things when he is born and continues from there, but in formal education the grammar stage coincides with the elementary years. In terms of cognitive ability, children at this age automatically zero in on the concrete facts. Therefore it is fine at this stage to concentrate on the concrete and leave the analytical and the abstract out of it.

There is a big push in modern educational theory to introduce abstract concepts to elementary children, and while there is some overlap of the stages with individual children maturing in their thinking individually, for the most part they are not developmentally able to grasp abstracts at this age. Resist the pressure to have young children wrestling with underlying abstract mathematical concepts; feel free to be the only one in miles that does not emphasize self-expression to the detriment of all else in writing class. Ideally, an understanding of anything is not the goal at this age, but rather: have they memorized their math facts and demonstrated that by being able to do computations; have they memorized their phonics and spelling rules and demonstrated that by being able to read and spell correctly; and so on. The problem with attempting to teach abstracts at this age is that children do not yet have the ability to connect relationships between factors, nor do they have the ability to question and reason out the validity of what they have been told, but they have the ability to believe that what they have been told is the truth. That is the beauty of the grammar stage.

C. The Dialectic [Logic] Stage

The dialectic stage is defined as learning to reason, and the body of knowledge learned in the grammar stage is the stuff learning to reason is practiced on. In the grammar stage children learned facts; in the dialectic stage children try to understand the facts they have learned, and begin to relate those facts to one another in a significant way. This stage coincides with middle or junior high school, although it may actually begin for individual children earlier than that, in 5th or 6th grade. It is in the dialectic that the emphasis in cognitive skills shifts from the concrete to the analytical. This is where children are naturally inclined to ask the question “Why?” This is where they question what they have learned in the grammar stage to see if it is in fact true. Truth holds up very well under examination, and only proves its nature by this process. While not advocating children question the things they were taught, if what they were taught is true, we need have no fear of it being questioned, even if that questioning runs to things such as the existence of God or the veracity of the Word. Therefore teaching the science of Logic is critical at this stage. It gives children the tools they need to question accurately and arrive at valid conclusions. We might be conditioned to react with shock or discipline, even, when children at this age question, argue, or want to know why. If we can understand that going through this process is the necessary step to arrive at the next one and therefore on to maturity, perhaps we can temper our response and help children learn to question and reason while maintaining an attitude of honor and respect.

D. The Rhetoric Stage

The last stage is the rhetoric stage, which focuses on learning the science of communication and the art of expression. In the grammar stage children learned facts; in the dialectic stage children began to understand those facts, and in the rhetoric stage children learn to express what they now understand in the most compelling manner possible. This stage roughly coincides with high school. Cognitively speaking, this stage is where abstract thought reaches its zenith. In this stage, the unknown can be explored because the known is understood; the hypothetical can be introduced and grasped with the mind. The mental jump can be made from the natural to the spiritual, from the practical to the theoretical. Self-expression finally comes into its own in the language arts; “hard” sciences and advanced mathematics are more easily mastered; history can be applied to economics and political science; and Bible study can turn to apologetics.

E. The Stages & the Subjects

From this explanation of the stages of the trivium, we can see that each instructional stage corresponds to a related stage in cognitive development: the grammar stage to concrete thinking, the dialectic stage to analytical thinking, and the rhetoric stage to abstract thinking. The stages themselves also bear the name of individual subjects which are at the heart of that stage. The subject of grammar, which is the science of correct language usage, is best learned in the grammar stage; the subject of logic, which is the science of right thinking, is best learned in the dialectic stage; and the subject of rhetoric, which is the science of expression, is best learned in the rhetoric stage. Each of these subjects give our children valuable tools of learning which enables them to grasp, understand, and act on any other subject, area of study, or problem encountered in college and in adult life.

Some confusion in understanding the trivium has resulted from the names of the stages themselves sharing the names of these individual subjects. We must remember that each stage represents a distinct way of teaching and learning and thinking about each subject in the curriculum, while at the same time zeroing in on a particular field of study uniquely relevant to that stage. In discussing the trivium it is helpful to distinguish between the stages of grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric; and the subjects of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.

F. The Trivium in Summary

The trivium is most easily understood first by realizing that it is not some fly-by-night modern educational theory, but tried and true laws of learning. It can be looked at in two ways: as instructional stages that correspond to cognitive development, and as a natural process that is followed anytime any person of any age learns something new. As instructional stages, the trivium follows this progression: the grammar stage, emphasizing memorization of concrete facts and corresponding to the elementary grades; the dialectic stage, emphasizing understanding and analytical thinking and corresponding to the junior high grades; and the rhetoric stage, emphasizing expression and abstract thinking and corresponding to the high school grades. The stages of instruction should not be confused with the specific core subjects of grammar, logic, and rhetoric; which are best taught during their corresponding stage and provide the tools of learning which are the goal of the trivium. Comprehending these basics about the trivium will go far in helping to unravel the mystery of how the trivium ought to be applied to each subject in each stage. [1


[1] [Note added on 2/Jul/2017] Unfortunately this site, consulted in 2003, has been since then removed. Emphases added.

Transcribed here in Salto, on the 4th of July 2017


Annex 1: The Lost Tools of Learning (Dorothy Sayers)

Annex 1:

A. Introduction

That I, whose experience of teaching is extremely limited, should presume to discuss education is a matter, surely, that calls for no apology. It is a kind of behavior to which the present climate of opinion is wholly favorable. Bishops air their opinions about economics; biologists, about metaphysics; inorganic chemists, about theology; the most irrelevant people are appointed to highly technical ministries; and plain, blunt men write to the papers to say that Epstein and Picasso do not know how to draw. Up to a certain point, and provided the the criticisms are made with a reasonable modesty, these activities are commendable. Too much specialization is not a good thing. There is also one excellent reason why the various amateur may feel entitled to have an opinion about education. For if we are not all professional teachers, we have all, at some time or another, been taught. Even if we learnt nothing–perhaps in particular if we learnt nothing–our contribution to the discussion may have a potential value.

However, it is in the highest degree improbable that the reforms I propose will ever be carried into effect. Neither the parents, nor the training colleges, nor the examination boards, nor the boards of governors, nor the ministries of education, would countenance them for a moment. For they amount to this: that if we are to produce a society of educated people, fitted to preserve their intellectual freedom amid the complex pressures of our modern society, we must turn back the wheel of progress some four or five hundred years, to the point at which education began to lose sight of its true object, towards the end of the Middle Ages.

Before you dismiss me with the appropriate phrase–reactionary, romantic, mediaevalist, laudator temporis acti (praiser of times past), or whatever tag comes first to hand–I will ask you to consider one or two miscellaneous questions that hang about at the back, perhaps, of all our minds, and occasionally pop out to worry us.

When we think about the remarkably early age at which the young men went up to university in, let us say, Tudor times, and thereafter were held fit to assume responsibility for the conduct of their own affairs, are we altogether comfortable about that artificial prolongation of intellectual childhood and adolescence into the years of physical maturity which is so marked in our own day? To postpone the acceptance of responsibility to a late date brings with it a number of psychological complications which, while they may interest the psychiatrist, are scarcely beneficial either to the individual or to society. The stock argument in favor of postponing the school-leaving age and prolonging the period of education generally is there there is now so much more to learn than there was in the Middle Ages. This is partly true, but not wholly. The modern boy and girl are certainly taught more subjects–but does that always mean that they actually know more?

Has it ever struck you as odd, or unfortunate, that today, when the proportion of literacy throughout Western Europe is higher than it has ever been, people should have become susceptible to the influence of advertisement and mass propaganda to an extent hitherto unheard of and unimagined? Do you put this down to the mere mechanical fact that the press and the radio and so on have made propaganda much easier to distribute over a wide area? Or do you sometimes have an uneasy suspicion that the product of modern educational methods is less good than he or she might be at disentangling fact from opinion and the proven from the plausible?

Have you ever, in listening to a debate among adult and presumably responsible people, been fretted by the extraordinary inability of the average debater to speak to the question, or to meet and refute the arguments of speakers on the other side? Or have you ever pondered upon the extremely high incidence of irrelevant matter which crops up at committee meetings, and upon the very great rarity of persons capable of acting as chairmen of committees? And when you think of this, and think that most of our public affairs are settled by debates and committees, have you ever felt a certain sinking of the heart?

Have you ever followed a discussion in the newspapers or elsewhere and noticed how frequently writers fail to define the terms they use? Or how often, if one man does define his terms, another will assume in his reply that he was using the terms in precisely the opposite sense to that in which he has already defined them? Have you ever been faintly troubled by the amount of slipshod syntax going about? And, if so, are you troubled because it is inelegant or because it may lead to dangerous misunderstanding?

Do you ever find that young people, when they have left school, not only forget most of what they have learnt (that is only to be expected), but forget also, or betray that they have never really known, how to tackle a new subject for themselves? Are you often bothered by coming across grown-up men and women who seem unable to distinguish between a book that is sound, scholarly, and properly documented, and one that is, to any trained eye, very conspicuously none of these things? Or who cannot handle a library catalogue? Or who, when faced with a book of reference, betray a curious inability to extract from it the passages relevant to the particular question which interests them?

Do you often come across people for whom, all their lives, a “subject” remains a “subject,” divided by watertight bulkheads from all other “subjects,” so that they experience very great difficulty in making an immediate mental connection between let us say, algebra and detective fiction, sewage disposal and the price of salmon–or, more generally, between such spheres of knowledge as philosophy and economics, or chemistry and art?

Are you occasionally perturbed by the things written by adult men and women for adult men and women to read? We find a well-known biologist writing in a weekly paper to the effect that: “It is an argument against the existence of a Creator” (I think he put it more strongly; but since I have, most unfortunately, mislaid the reference, I will put his claim at its lowest)–“an argument against the existence of a Creator that the same kind of variations which are produced by natural selection can be produced at will by stock breeders.” One might feel tempted to say that it is rather an argument for the existence of a Creator. Actually, of course, it is neither; all it proves is that the same material causes (recombination of the chromosomes, by crossbreeding, and so forth) are sufficient to account for all observed variations–just as the various combinations of the same dozen tones are materially sufficient to account for Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and the noise the cat makes by walking on the keys. But the cat’s performance neither proves nor disproves the existence of Beethoven; and all that is proved by the biologist’s argument is that he was unable to distinguish between a material and a final cause.

Here is a sentence from no less academic a source than a front- page article in the Times Literary Supplement: “The Frenchman, Alfred Epinas, pointed out that certain species (e.g., ants and wasps) can only face the horrors of life and death in association.” I do not know what the Frenchman actually did say; what the Englishman says he said is patently meaningless. We cannot know whether life holds any horror for the ant, nor in what sense the isolated wasp which you kill upon the window-pane can be said to “face” or not to “face” the horrors of death. The subject of the article is mass behavior in man; and the human motives have been unobtrusively transferred from the main proposition to the supporting instance. Thus the argument, in effect, assumes what it set out to prove–a fact which would become immediately apparent if it were presented in a formal syllogism. This is only a small and haphazard example of a vice which pervades whole books–particularly books written by men of science on metaphysical subjects.

Another quotation from the same issue of the TLS comes in fittingly here to wind up this random collection of disquieting thoughts–this time from a review of Sir Richard Livingstone’s “Some Tasks for Education”: “More than once the reader is reminded of the value of an intensive study of at least one subject, so as to learn the meaning of knowledge’ and what precision and persistence is needed to attain it. Yet there is elsewhere full recognition of the distressing fact that a man may be master in one field and show no better judgment than his neighbor anywhere else; he remembers what he has learnt, but forgets altogether how he learned it.”

I would draw your attention particularly to that last sentence, which offers an explanation of what the writer rightly calls the “distressing fact” that the intellectual skills bestowed upon us by our education are not readily transferable to subjects other than those in which we acquired them: “he remembers what he has learnt, but forgets altogether how he learned it.”

Is not the great defect of our education today–a defect traceable through all the disquieting symptoms of trouble that I have mentioned–that although we often succeed in teaching our pupils “subjects,” we fail lamentably on the whole in teaching them how to think: they learn everything, except the art of learning. It is as though we had taught a child, mechanically and by rule of thumb, to play “The Harmonious Blacksmith” upon the piano, but had never taught him the scale or how to read music; so that, having memorized “The Harmonious Blacksmith,” he still had not the faintest notion how to proceed from that to tackle “The Last Rose of Summer.” Why do I say, “as though”? In certain of the arts and crafts, we sometimes do precisely this–requiring a child to “express himself” in paint before we teach him how to handle the colors and the brush. There is a school of thought which believes this to be the right way to set about the job. But observe: it is not the way in which a trained craftsman will go about to teach himself a new medium. He, having learned by experience the best way to economize labor and take the thing by the right end, will start off by doodling about on an odd piece of material, in order to “give himself the feel of the tool.”

B. The Mediaeval Scheme of Education

Let us now look at the mediaeval scheme of education–the syllabus of the Schools. It does not matter, for the moment, whether it was devised for small children or for older students, or how long people were supposed to take over it. What matters is the light it throws upon what the men of the Middle Ages supposed to be the object and the right order of the educative process.

The syllabus was divided into two parts: the Trivium and Quadrivium. The second part–the Quadrivium–consisted of “subjects,” and need not for the moment concern us. The interesting thing for us is the composition of the Trivium, which preceded the Quadrivium and was the preliminary discipline for it. It consisted of three parts: Grammar, Dialectic, and Rhetoric, in that order.

Now the first thing we notice is that two at any rate of these “subjects” are not what we should call “subjects” at all: they are only methods of dealing with subjects. Grammar, indeed, is a “subject” in the sense that it does mean definitely learning a language–at that period it meant learning Latin. But language itself is simply the medium in which thought is expressed. The whole of the Trivium was, in fact, intended to teach the pupil the proper use of the tools of learning, before he began to apply them to “subjects” at all. First, he learned a language; not just how to order a meal in a foreign language, but the structure of a language, and hence of language itself–what it was, how it was put together, and how it worked. Secondly, he learned how to use language; how to define his terms and make accurate statements; how to construct an argument and how to detect fallacies in argument. Dialectic, that is to say, embraced Logic and Disputation. Thirdly, he learned to express himself in language– how to say what he had to say elegantly and persuasively.

At the end of his course, he was required to compose a thesis upon some theme set by his masters or chosen by himself, and afterwards to defend his thesis against the criticism of the faculty. By this time, he would have learned–or woe betide him– not merely to write an essay on paper, but to speak audibly and intelligibly from a platform, and to use his wits quickly when heckled. There would also be questions, cogent and shrewd, from those who had already run the gauntlet of debate.

It is, of course, quite true that bits and pieces of the mediaeval tradition still linger, or have been revived, in the ordinary school syllabus of today. Some knowledge of grammar is still required when learning a foreign language–perhaps I should say, “is again required,” for during my own lifetime, we passed through a phase when the teaching of declensions and conjugations was considered rather reprehensible, and it was considered better to pick these things up as we went along. School debating societies flourish; essays are written; the necessity for “self- expression” is stressed, and perhaps even over-stressed. But these activities are cultivated more or less in detachment, as belonging to the special subjects in which they are pigeon-holed rather than as forming one coherent scheme of mental training to which all “subjects” stand in a subordinate relation. “Grammar” belongs especially to the “subject” of foreign languages, and essay-writing to the “subject” called “English”; while Dialectic has become almost entirely divorced from the rest of the curriculum, and is frequently practiced unsystematically and out of school hours as a separate exercise, only very loosely related to the main business of learning. Taken by and large, the great difference of emphasis between the two conceptions holds good: modern education concentrates on “teaching subjects,” leaving the method of thinking, arguing, and expressing one’s conclusions to be picked up by the scholar as he goes along’ mediaeval education concentrated on first forging and learning to handle the tools of learning, using whatever subject came handy as a piece of material on which to doodle until the use of the tool became second nature.

“Subjects” of some kind there must be, of course. One cannot learn the theory of grammar without learning an actual language, or learn to argue and orate without speaking about something in particular. The debating subjects of the Middle Ages were drawn largely from theology, or from the ethics and history of antiquity. Often, indeed, they became stereotyped, especially towards the end of the period, and the far-fetched and wire-drawn absurdities of Scholastic argument fretted Milton and provide food for merriment even to this day. Whether they were in themselves any more hackneyed and trivial then the usual subjects set nowadays for “essay writing” I should not like to say: we may ourselves grow a little weary of “A Day in My Holidays” and all the rest of it. But most of the merriment is misplaced, because the aim and object of the debating thesis has by now been lost sight of.

A glib speaker in the Brains Trust once entertained his audience (and reduced the late Charles Williams to helpless rage by asserting that in the Middle Ages it was a matter of faith to know how many archangels could dance on the point of a needle. I need not say, I hope, that it never was a “matter of faith”; it was simply a debating exercise, whose set subject was the nature of angelic substance: were angels material, and if so, did they occupy space? The answer usually adjudged correct is, I believe, that angels are pure intelligences; not material, but limited, so that they may have location in space but not extension. An analogy might be drawn from human thought, which is similarly non-material and similarly limited. Thus, if your thought is concentrated upon one thing–say, the point of a needle–it is located there in the sense that it is not elsewhere; but although it is “there,” it occupies no space there, and there is nothing to prevent an infinite number of different people’s thoughts being concentrated upon the same needle-point at the same time. The proper subject of the argument is thus seen to be the distinction between location and extension in space; the matter on which the argument is exercised happens to be the nature of angels (although, as we have seen, it might equally well have been something else; the practical lesson to be drawn from the argument is not to use words like “there” in a loose and unscientific way, without specifying whether you mean “located there” or “occupying space there.”

Scorn in plenty has been poured out upon the mediaeval passion for hair-splitting; but when we look at the shameless abuse made, in print and on the platform, of controversial expressions with shifting and ambiguous connotations, we may feel it in our hearts to wish that every reader and hearer had been so defensively armored by his education as to be able to cry: “Distinguo.”

For we let our young men and women go out unarmed, in a day when armor was never so necessary. By teaching them all to read, we have left them at the mercy of the printed word. By the invention of the film and the radio, we have made certain that no aversion to reading shall secure them from the incessant battery of words, words, words. They do not know what the words mean; they do not know how to ward them off or blunt their edge or fling them back; they are a prey to words in their emotions instead of being the masters of them in their intellects. We who were scandalized in 1940 when men were sent to fight armored tanks with rifles, are not scandalized when young men and women are sent into the world to fight massed propaganda with a smattering of “subjects”; and when whole classes and whole nations become hypnotized by the arts of the spell binder, we have the impudence to be astonished. We dole out lip-service to the importance of education–lip- service and, just occasionally, a little grant of money; we postpone the school-leaving age, and plan to build bigger and better schools; the teachers slave conscientiously in and out of school hours; and yet, as I believe, all this devoted effort is largely frustrated, because we have lost the tools of learning, and in their absence can only make a botched and piecemeal job of it.

C. What Then?

What, then, are we to do? We cannot go back to the Middle Ages. That is a cry to which we have become accustomed. We cannot go back–or can we? Distinguo. I should like every term in that proposition defined. Does “go back” mean a retrogression in time, or the revision of an error? The first is clearly impossible per se; the second is a thing which wise men do every day. “Cannot”– does this mean that our behavior is determined irreversibly, or merely that such an action would be very difficult in view of the opposition it would provoke? Obviously the twentieth century is not and cannot be the fourteenth; but if “the Middle Ages” is, in this context, simply a picturesque phrase denoting a particular educational theory, there seems to be no a priori reason why we should not “go back” to it–with modifications–as we have already “gone back” with modifications, to, let us say, the idea of playing Shakespeare’s plays as he wrote them, and not in the “modernized” versions of Cibber and Garrick, which once seemed to be the latest thing in theatrical progress.

Let us amuse ourselves by imagining that such progressive retrogression is possible. Let us make a clean sweep of all educational authorities, and furnish ourselves with a nice little school of boys and girls whom we may experimentally equip for the intellectual conflict along lines chosen by ourselves. We will endow them with exceptionally docile parents; we will staff our school with teachers who are themselves perfectly familiar with the aims and methods of the Trivium; we will have our building and staff large enough to allow our classes to be small enough for adequate handling; and we will postulate a Board of Examiners willing and qualified to test the products we turn out. Thus prepared, we will attempt to sketch out a syllabus–a modern Trivium “with modifications” and we will see where we get to.

But first: what age shall the children be? Well, if one is to educate them on novel lines, it will be better that they should have nothing to unlearn; besides, one cannot begin a good thing too early, and the Trivium is by its nature not learning, but a preparation for learning. We will, therefore, “catch ’em young,” requiring of our pupils only that they shall be able to read, write, and cipher.

My views about child psychology are, I admit, neither orthodox nor enlightened. Looking back upon myself (since I am the child I know best and the only child I can pretend to know from inside) I recognize three states of development. These, in a rough-and- ready fashion, I will call the Poll-Parrot, the Pert, and the Poetic–the latter coinciding, approximately, with the onset of puberty. The Poll-Parrot stage is the one in which learning by heart is easy and, on the whole, pleasurable; whereas reasoning is difficult and, on the whole, little relished. At this age, one readily memorizes the shapes and appearances of things; one likes to recite the number-plates of cars; one rejoices in the chanting of rhymes and the rumble and thunder of unintelligible polysyllables; one enjoys the mere accumulation of things. The Pert age, which follows upon this (and, naturally, overlaps it to some extent), is characterized by contradicting, answering back, liking to “catch people out” (especially one’s elders); and by the propounding of conundrums. Its nuisance-value is extremely high. It usually sets in about the Fourth Form. The Poetic age is popularly known as the “difficult” age. It is self-centered; it yearns to express itself; it rather specializes in being misunderstood; it is restless and tries to achieve independence; and, with good luck and good guidance, it should show the beginnings of creativeness; a reaching out towards a synthesis of what it already knows, and a deliberate eagerness to know and do some one thing in preference to all others. Now it seems to me that the layout of the Trivium adapts itself with a singular appropriateness to these three ages: Grammar to the Poll-Parrot, Dialectic to the Pert, and Rhetoric to the Poetic age.

D. The Grammar Stage

Let us begin, then, with Grammar. This, in practice, means the grammar of some language in particular; and it must be an inflected language. The grammatical structure of an uninflected language is far too analytical to be tackled by any one without previous practice in Dialectic. Moreover, the inflected languages interpret the uninflected, whereas the uninflected are of little use in interpreting the inflected. I will say at once, quite firmly, that the best grounding for education is the Latin grammar. I say this, not because Latin is traditional and mediaeval, but simply because even a rudimentary knowledge of Latin cuts down the labor and pains of learning almost any other subject by at least fifty percent. It is the key to the vocabulary and structure of all the Teutonic languages, as well as to the technical vocabulary of all the sciences and to the literature of the entire Mediterranean civilization, together with all its historical documents.

Those whose pedantic preference for a living language persuades them to deprive their pupils of all these advantages might substitute Russian, whose grammar is still more primitive. Russian is, of course, helpful with the other Slav dialects. There is something also to be said for Classical Greek. But my own choice is Latin. Having thus pleased the Classicists among you, I will proceed to horrify them by adding that I do not think it either wise or necessary to cramp the ordinary pupil upon the Procrustean bed of the Augustan Age, with its highly elaborate and artificial verse forms and oratory. Post-classical and mediaeval Latin, which was a living language right down to the end of the Renaissance, is easier and in some ways livelier; a study of it helps to dispel the widespread notion that learning and literature came to a full stop when Christ was born and only woke up again at the Dissolution of the Monasteries.

Latin should be begun as early as possible–at a time when inflected speech seems no more astonishing than any other phenomenon in an astonishing world; and when the chanting of “Amo, amas, amat” is as ritually agreeable to the feelings as the chanting of “eeny, meeny, miney, moe.”

During this age we must, of course, exercise the mind on other things besides Latin grammar. Observation and memory are the faculties most lively at this period; and if we are to learn a contemporary foreign language we should begin now, before the facial and mental muscles become rebellious to strange intonations. Spoken French or German can be practiced alongside the grammatical discipline of the Latin.

In English, meanwhile, verse and prose can be learned by heart, and the pupil’s memory should be stored with stories of every kind–classical myth, European legend, and so forth. I do not think that the classical stories and masterpieces of ancient literature should be made the vile bodies on which to practice the techniques of Grammar–that was a fault of mediaeval education which we need not perpetuate. The stories can be enjoyed and remembered in English, and related to their origin at a subsequent stage. Recitation aloud should be practiced, individually or in chorus; for we must not forget that we are laying the groundwork for Disputation and Rhetoric.

The grammar of History should consist, I think, of dates, events, anecdotes, and personalities. A set of dates to which one can peg all later historical knowledge is of enormous help later on in establishing the perspective of history. It does not greatly matter which dates: those of the Kings of England will do very nicely, provided that they are accompanied by pictures of costumes, architecture, and other everyday things, so that the mere mention of a date calls up a very strong visual presentment of the whole period.

Geography will similarly be presented in its factual aspect, with maps, natural features, and visual presentment of customs, costumes, flora, fauna, and so on; and I believe myself that the discredited and old-fashioned memorizing of a few capitol cities, rivers, mountain ranges, etc., does no harm. Stamp collecting may be encouraged.

Science, in the Poll-Parrot period, arranges itself naturally and easily around collections–the identifying and naming of specimens and, in general, the kind of thing that used to be called “natural philosophy.” To know the name and properties of things is, at this age, a satisfaction in itself; to recognize a devil’s coach-horse at sight, and assure one’s foolish elders, that, in spite of its appearance, it does not sting; to be able to pick out Cassiopeia and the Pleiades, and perhaps even to know who Cassiopeia and the Pleiades were; to be aware that a whale is not a fish, and a bat not a bird–all these things give a pleasant sensation of superiority; while to know a ring snake from an adder or a poisonous from an edible toadstool is a kind of knowledge that also has practical value.

The grammar of Mathematics begins, of course, with the multiplication table, which, if not learnt now, will never be learnt with pleasure; and with the recognition of geometrical shapes and the grouping of numbers. These exercises lead naturally to the doing of simple sums in arithmetic. More complicated mathematical processes may, and perhaps should, be postponed, for the reasons which will presently appear.

So far (except, of course, for the Latin), our curriculum contains nothing that departs very far from common practice. The difference will be felt rather in the attitude of the teachers, who must look upon all these activities less as “subjects” in themselves than as a gathering-together of material for use in the next part of the Trivium. What that material is, is only of secondary importance; but it is as well that anything and everything which can be usefully committed to memory should be memorized at this period, whether it is immediately intelligible or not. The modern tendency is to try and force rational explanations on a child’s mind at too early an age. Intelligent questions, spontaneously asked, should, of course, receive an immediate and rational answer; but it is a great mistake to suppose that a child cannot readily enjoy and remember things that are beyond his power to analyze–particularly if those things have a strong imaginative appeal (as, for example, “Kubla Kahn”), an attractive jingle (like some of the memory-rhymes for Latin genders), or an abundance of rich, resounding polysyllables (like the Quicunque vult).

This reminds me of the grammar of Theology. I shall add it to the curriculum, because theology is the mistress-science without which the whole educational structure will necessarily lack its final synthesis. Those who disagree about this will remain content to leave their pupil’s education still full of loose ends. This will matter rather less than it might, since by the time that the tools of learning have been forged the student will be able to tackle theology for himself, and will probably insist upon doing so and making sense of it. Still, it is as well to have this matter also handy and ready for the reason to work upon. At the grammatical age, therefore, we should become acquainted with the story of God and Man in outline–i.e., the Old and New Testaments presented as parts of a single narrative of Creation, Rebellion, and Redemption–and also with the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments. At this early stage, it does not matter nearly so much that these things should be fully understood as that they should be known and remembered.

E. The Logic Stage

It is difficult to say at what age, precisely, we should pass from the first to the second part of the Trivium. Generally speaking, the answer is: so soon as the pupil shows himself disposed to pertness and interminable argument. For as, in the first part, the master faculties are Observation and Memory, so, in the second, the master faculty is the Discursive Reason. In the first, the exercise to which the rest of the material was, as it were, keyed, was the Latin grammar; in the second, the key- exercise will be Formal Logic. It is here that our curriculum shows its first sharp divergence from modern standards. The disrepute into which Formal Logic has fallen is entirely unjustified; and its neglect is the root cause of nearly all those disquieting symptoms which we have noted in the modern intellectual constitution. Logic has been discredited, partly because we have come to suppose that we are conditioned almost entirely by the intuitive and the unconscious. There is no time to argue whether this is true; I will simply observe that to neglect the proper training of the reason is the best possible way to make it true. Another cause for the disfavor into which Logic has fallen is the belief that it is entirely based upon universal assumptions that are either unprovable or tautological. This is not true. Not all universal propositions are of this kind. But even if they were, it would make no difference, since every syllogism whose major premise is in the form “All A is B” can be recast in hypothetical form. Logic is the art of arguing correctly: “If A, then B.” The method is not invalidated by the hypothetical nature of A. Indeed, the practical utility of Formal Logic today lies not so much in the establishment of positive conclusions as in the prompt detection and exposure of invalid inference.

Let us now quickly review our material and see how it is to be related to Dialectic. On the Language side, we shall now have our vocabulary and morphology at our fingertips; henceforward we can concentrate on syntax and analysis (i.e., the logical construction of speech) and the history of language (i.e., how we came to arrange our speech as we do in order to convey our thoughts).

Our Reading will proceed from narrative and lyric to essays, argument and criticism, and the pupil will learn to try his own hand at writing this kind of thing. Many lessons–on whatever subject–will take the form of debates; and the place of individual or choral recitation will be taken by dramatic performances, with special attention to plays in which an argument is stated in dramatic form.

Mathematics–algebra, geometry, and the more advanced kinds of arithmetic–will now enter into the syllabus and take its place as what it really is: not a separate “subject” but a sub- department of Logic. It is neither more nor less than the rule of the syllogism in its particular application to number and measurement, and should be taught as such, instead of being, for some, a dark mystery, and, for others, a special revelation, neither illuminating nor illuminated by any other part of knowledge.

History, aided by a simple system of ethics derived from the grammar of theology, will provide much suitable material for discussion: Was the behavior of this statesman justified? What was the effect of such an enactment? What are the arguments for and against this or that form of government? We shall thus get an introduction to constitutional history–a subject meaningless to the young child, but of absorbing interest to those who are prepared to argue and debate. Theology itself will furnish material for argument about conduct and morals; and should have its scope extended by a simplified course of dogmatic theology (i.e., the rational structure of Christian thought), clarifying the relations between the dogma and the ethics, and lending itself to that application of ethical principles in particular instances which is properly called casuistry. Geography and the Sciences will likewise provide material for Dialectic.

But above all, we must not neglect the material which is so abundant in the pupils’ own daily life.

There is a delightful passage in Leslie Paul’s “The Living Hedge” which tells how a number of small boys enjoyed themselves for days arguing about an extraordinary shower of rain which had fallen in their town–a shower so localized that it left one half of the main street wet and the other dry. Could one, they argued, properly say that it had rained that day on or over the town or only in the town? How many drops of water were required to constitute rain? And so on. Argument about this led on to a host of similar problems about rest and motion, sleep and waking, est and non est, and the infinitesimal division of time. The whole passage is an admirable example of the spontaneous development of the ratiocinative faculty and the natural and proper thirst of the awakening reason for the definition of terms and exactness of statement. All events are food for such an appetite.

An umpire’s decision; the degree to which one may transgress the spirit of a regulation without being trapped by the letter: on such questions as these, children are born casuists, and their natural propensity only needs to be developed and trained–and especially, brought into an intelligible relationship with the events in the grown-up world. The newspapers are full of good material for such exercises: legal decisions, on the one hand, in cases where the cause at issue is not too abstruse; on the other, fallacious reasoning and muddleheaded arguments, with which the correspondence columns of certain papers one could name are abundantly stocked.

Wherever the matter for Dialectic is found, it is, of course, highly important that attention should be focused upon the beauty and economy of a fine demonstration or a well-turned argument, lest veneration should wholly die. Criticism must not be merely destructive; though at the same time both teacher and pupils must be ready to detect fallacy, slipshod reasoning, ambiguity, irrelevance, and redundancy, and to pounce upon them like rats. This is the moment when precis-writing may be usefully undertaken; together with such exercises as the writing of an essay, and the reduction of it, when written, by 25 or 50 percent.

It will, doubtless, be objected that to encourage young persons at the Pert age to browbeat, correct, and argue with their elders will render them perfectly intolerable. My answer is that children of that age are intolerable anyhow; and that their natural argumentativeness may just as well be canalized to good purpose as allowed to run away into the sands. It may, indeed, be rather less obtrusive at home if it is disciplined in school; and anyhow, elders who have abandoned the wholesome principle that children should be seen and not heard have no one to blame but themselves.

Once again, the contents of the syllabus at this stage may be anything you like. The “subjects” supply material; but they are all to be regarded as mere grist for the mental mill to work upon. The pupils should be encouraged to go and forage for their own information, and so guided towards the proper use of libraries and books for reference, and shown how to tell which sources are authoritative and which are not.

F. The Rhetoric Stage

Towards the close of this stage, the pupils will probably be beginning to discover for themselves that their knowledge and experience are insufficient, and that their trained intelligences need a great deal more material to chew upon. The imagination– usually dormant during the Pert age–will reawaken, and prompt them to suspect the limitations of logic and reason. This means that they are passing into the Poetic age and are ready to embark on the study of Rhetoric. The doors of the storehouse of knowledge should now be thrown open for them to browse about as they will. The things once learned by rote will be seen in new contexts; the things once coldly analyzed can now be brought together to form a new synthesis; here and there a sudden insight will bring about that most exciting of all discoveries: the realization that truism is true.

It is difficult to map out any general syllabus for the study of Rhetoric: a certain freedom is demanded. In literature, appreciation should be again allowed to take the lead over destructive criticism; and self-expression in writing can go forward, with its tools now sharpened to cut clean and observe proportion. Any child who already shows a disposition to specialize should be given his head: for, when the use of the tools has been well and truly learned, it is available for any study whatever. It would be well, I think, that each pupil should learn to do one, or two, subjects really well, while taking a few classes in subsidiary subjects so as to keep his mind open to the inter-relations of all knowledge. Indeed, at this stage, our difficulty will be to keep “subjects” apart; for Dialectic will have shown all branches of learning to be inter-related, so Rhetoric will tend to show that all knowledge is one. To show this, and show why it is so, is pre-eminently the task of the mistress science. But whether theology is studied or not, we should at least insist that children who seem inclined to specialize on the mathematical and scientific side should be obliged to attend some lessons in the humanities and vice versa. At this stage, also, the Latin grammar, having done its work, may be dropped for those who prefer to carry on their language studies on the modern side; while those who are likely never to have any great use or aptitude for mathematics might also be allowed to rest, more or less, upon their oars. Generally speaking, whatsoever is mere apparatus may now be allowed to fall into the background, while the trained mind is gradually prepared for specialization in the “subjects” which, when the Trivium is completed, it should be perfectly will equipped to tackle on its own. The final synthesis of the Trivium–the presentation and public defense of the thesis–should be restored in some form; perhaps as a kind of “leaving examination” during the last term at school.

The scope of Rhetoric depends also on whether the pupil is to be turned out into the world at the age of 16 or whether he is to proceed to the university. Since, really, Rhetoric should be taken at about 14, the first category of pupil should study Grammar from about 9 to 11, and Dialectic from 12 to 14; his last two school years would then be devoted to Rhetoric, which, in this case, would be of a fairly specialized and vocational kind, suiting him to enter immediately upon some practical career. A pupil of the second category would finish his Dialectical course in his preparatory school, and take Rhetoric during his first two years at his public school. At 16, he would be ready to start upon those “subjects” which are proposed for his later study at the university: and this part of his education will correspond to the mediaeval Quadrivium. What this amounts to is that the ordinary pupil, whose formal education ends at 16, will take the Trivium only; whereas scholars will take both the Trivium and the Quadrivium.

G. The Trivium Defended

Is the Trivium, then, a sufficient education for life? Properly taught, I believe that it should be. At the end of the Dialectic, the children will probably seem to be far behind their coevals brought up on old-fashioned “modern” methods, so far as detailed knowledge of specific subjects is concerned. But after the age of 14 they should be able to overhaul the others hand over fist. Indeed, I am not at all sure that a pupil thoroughly proficient in the Trivium would not be fit to proceed immediately to the university at the age of 16, thus proving himself the equal of his mediaeval counterpart, whose precocity astonished us at the beginning of this discussion. This, to be sure, would make hay of the English public-school system, and disconcert the universities very much. It would, for example, make quite a different thing of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race.

But I am not here to consider the feelings of academic bodies: I am concerned only with the proper training of the mind to encounter and deal with the formidable mass of undigested problems presented to it by the modern world. For the tools of learning are the same, in any and every subject; and the person who knows how to use them will, at any age, get the mastery of a new subject in half the time and with a quarter of the effort expended by the person who has not the tools at his command. To learn six subjects without remembering how they were learnt does nothing to ease the approach to a seventh; to have learnt and remembered the art of learning makes the approach to every subject an open door.

Before concluding these necessarily very sketchy suggestions, I ought to say why I think it necessary, in these days, to go back to a discipline which we had discarded. The truth is that for the last three hundred years or so we have been living upon our educational capital. The post-Renaissance world, bewildered and excited by the profusion of new “subjects” offered to it, broke away from the old discipline (which had, indeed, become sadly dull and stereotyped in its practical application) and imagined that henceforward it could, as it were, disport itself happily in its new and extended Quadrivium without passing through the Trivium. But the Scholastic tradition, though broken and maimed, still lingered in the public schools and universities: Milton, however much he protested against it, was formed by it–the debate of the Fallen Angels and the disputation of Abdiel with Satan have the tool-marks of the Schools upon them, and might, incidentally, profitably figure as set passages for our Dialectical studies. Right down to the nineteenth century, our public affairs were mostly managed, and our books and journals were for the most part written, by people brought up in homes, and trained in places, where that tradition was still alive in the memory and almost in the blood. Just so, many people today who are atheist or agnostic in religion, are governed in their conduct by a code of Christian ethics which is so rooted that it never occurs to them to question it.

But one cannot live on capital forever. However firmly a tradition is rooted, if it is never watered, though it dies hard, yet in the end it dies. And today a great number–perhaps the majority–of the men and women who handle our affairs, write our books and our newspapers, carry out our research, present our plays and our films, speak from our platforms and pulpits–yes, and who educate our young people–have never, even in a lingering traditional memory, undergone the Scholastic discipline. Less and less do the children who come to be educated bring any of that tradition with them. We have lost the tools of learning–the axe and the wedge, the hammer and the saw, the chisel and the plane– that were so adaptable to all tasks. Instead of them, we have merely a set of complicated jigs, each of which will do but one task and no more, and in using which eye and hand receive no training, so that no man ever sees the work as a whole or “looks to the end of the work.”

What use is it to pile task on task and prolong the days of labor, if at the close the chief object is left unattained? It is not the fault of the teachers–they work only too hard already. The combined folly of a civilization that has forgotten its own roots is forcing them to shore up the tottering weight of an educational structure that is built upon sand. They are doing for their pupils the work which the pupils themselves ought to do. For the sole true end of education is simply this: to teach men how to learn for themselves; and whatever instruction fails to do this is effort spent in vain.

“The Lost Tools of Learning”, written Miss Dorothy Sayers, was presented by her at Oxford in 1947.

From: [1]


For Dorothy Sayers see:


[1] [Note added on 2/Jul/2017] Unfortunately this site, consulted in 2003, has been since then removed. Emphases added.

Transcribed here in Salto, on the 4th of July 2017.

“Classical Education” & “Classics Education”: An Introduction

NOTE by Eduardo Chaves:

I wrote the following article in the form of a “Letter To A Young Daughter on the Education of her Child (and my Grandchild), Olivia“.  The daughter was (and is) Andrea Chaves, the granddaughter was (and is) Olivia, born on March 11, 2002. The date the letter was written was July 22nd, 2003, when Olivia was a little over one year old — but her mother was already concerned about her education. The major source of concern at that time was whether, when the time came, to send Olivia to school or to educate her at home. I tried to address some of the issues — in a rather academic manner, since that is what I am: an academic.

I publicly share this material now because I met a group of young people here in Brazil interested in the very same issues.

I will publish two more articles with what I list here as two Annexes. Originally there were five Annexes, but three of them were links to sites, most of which cannot be found at the places they were fourteen years ago.

Thank you. If you came as far as here, I hope you enjoy the rest.

o O o

  1. Some Terminological Difficulties
  2. Classics Education
  3. Classical Education
  4. Classical Education and Classics Education
  5. Notes

o O o

Campinas, July 22, 2003


You asked me about my views on classical education. You have been reading about it in many places, especially in the context of Home Education.

I will try to summarize them. You may be surprised that my summary is going to take almost ten pages, without the Annexes (which take about fifty pages more), but that’s me…

Forgive me my “professional” distortions… From now on I will turn my professorial style on. At the end I become personal again… 🙂

1. Some Terminological Difficulties

First, some brief terminological issues. Technically there is a difference between the expressions “classical education” and “classics education”.

Classical Education” would seem to refer to an education such as a person living in ancient times was likely to receive.

Classics Education” would seem to refer to an education that, today, ought to be centered on the reading of the classics.

The first refers to education such as it was then (at a not too precisely specified time in the past); the second, education such as it ought to be today (in the view of its proponents and defenders).

Confusion is sometimes added because some people also think that the best education, today, would be an education such as people in classical times had. See, for instance, the site  [1], from which I extracted the following quotation:

“Return to the proven educational methods of past centuries.

Classical Education returns to the time-honored educational theory of the past. The classical method was the only educational theory in practice in Western Civilization for over two millennia.

Educators are returning to classical education as modern educational methods continue to produce high school graduates who are not only functionally illiterate and lacking in critical thinking skills, but morally bankrupt as well.”

There is also a lot of divergence about what period should be described as the period of classical education, and so about what sort of education is meant when one refers to classical education. Most people believe that the period of to be taken into account in the expression “classical education” is that of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Others, however, as the quotation above indicates, consider this period to cover “over two millennia of Western Civilization”, that is, the period of the ancient Greeks and Romans (including Christian Antiquity), the Middle Ages and even the Modern Age (up to the end of the nineteenth century). Consequently, there are those who emphasize ancient Greek and Roman education as the core of classical education and those who would prefer to concentrate on what they call “Christian Classical Education”.

See, for instance, the site [2], from which I extracted the following quotation:

“The classical method that was developed in ancient Greece and Rome and established in the Middle Ages, was used almost exclusively in the Western world until the 19th century. The main focus was reading the Greek and Roman classics. To be in touch with literary arts marked one as accomplished. There can be no doubt literary education is more whole, more human, and more satisfying than today’s modern scientific technological education. But is even literary education enough? Good literature— Scott, Milton, Virgil — promotes courage insight, high morality, and imagination, but it can never do what the Bible does.

Why Go Back to Greeks Ways – Why not Return to Biblical Methods?

We understand this desire to return to a better way, but believe that, instead of returning to the ancient Greek ways, we need to return to the Biblical model. Our only hope for stable, ongoing, integrated culture is placing the word of God at the center of our thinking, speaking and acting. Literature and all literary arts must give the place to the mastered of Bible. And they themselves become servants to the word of God. The Bible warns us against Greek philosophies.”

To make matters even more confused, many people do not take this distinction between “classical education” and “classics education” seriously: some seem to consider the two expressions synonymous and others seem even to reverse the meanings that I suggested at the beginning of this section.

This being said, I will start discussing “classics education”.

2. Classics Education

The central thesis of Classics Education is that basic education, today, would be better promoted if children were required to read the best things that were ever written in fields such as literature, philosophy and science – the best that the human race has been able to think in the last 2,500 years (or thereabouts). That is why this movement is also called the “Great Books” movement.

Let me say at the outset that whatever the criticisms I make of Classics Education, I find it vastly superior to the multiculturalist alternative proposed to it by the left. Multiculturalists have criticized the Classics Education approach because they think that the “canon” (list of required readings) suggested by its defenders is chauvinistic: it includes mostly (or only) Dead White European Males… In place of this canon, multiculturalists would like to put living non-European so-called minorities (like women) who would naturally be “people of color” – like Rigoberta Menchú. Menchú is the Guatemalan Indian woman who in 1992 won the Nobel Peace Prize. Fortunately, if I may say so, the Swedes did not corrupt themselves to the point of giving her the Nobel Literature Prize. See Read Dinesh d’Souza’s references to multuculturalism and Menchú by searching through the analytical index to his books.

The Classics Education movement, with its “Back to the Classics” rallying cry, was mostly turned against an educational movement called Progressivism – identified with the names of John Dewey and William H. Kilpatrick.

The main emphases of Progressivism were:

  1. Education should prepare children (students) to be competent problem-solvers through the use of the scientific method and responsible citizens through the living of democratic procedures at home and in the school;
  2. Education should favor, as the basic learning method, active, project-based investigation by the child (the student), not passive assimilation of information transmitted through teaching;
  3. Education should be centered on the child (the student), not the teacher;
  4. Education should be oriented toward the future, not the past.

Although Progressivism may seem today quite sensible to many people, it seemed shocking to many when it first appeared, with its vociferous criticism of traditional education, because it seemed to neglect aspects of education that they considered important, such as:

  1. Moral education and character formation;
  2. The cultural tradition of the Western world (emphasis being placed, in some cases, on the Christian tradition);
  3. The important role of adults (parents and teachers) as well as of society (or of the community) in a child’s development.

Reading the classics was thought to be the way to rebalance things, placing the emphasis on morality and character (not problem-solving and living in a democracy), on essential and perennial issues confronting human beings (not the momentary and volatile interests of the child), and on our continuity with our past (tradition), not on abrupt new starts. To make problem-solving through scientific method and the issue of how to live in a democracy the goals of education is to place means in the place of real ends. The real end of education should be living the good life – which, in the view of the critics of Progressivism, was the virtuous life, that cannot be attained without character formation…

The proponents of Classics Education thought that the best way to achieve the sort of education they defended was through the reading of the classics – of the best that the Western world was able to produce during its history. These included literary, philosophical and even (more recently) scientific works.

The list of books that have been proposed as worth-reading is immense by the proponents of the Great Books Approach is easily located on the Internet.

But looking at the whole, this looks more like a reading list for a lifetime than a sensible curriculum. Therefore, each one ends up adapting the list to what seems feasible.

My criticisms?

I cannot deny, first, that I, personally, enjoy reading the classics. But I recognize that there is a lot of distance between what I personally enjoy and what I am willing to propose as educational agenda for everybody else.

I cannot deny, second, that I have strong sympathies for some aspects of Progressivism as an educational philosophy (although I do have criticisms of others aspects and especially of its tendency to radicalize).

Let me try to justify my views by clarifying my understanding of education.

Some animals are born ready to live their lives. Sea turtles, for instance, are this way. An adult female sea turtle lays her eggs in holes in the sand at the shore where she was born, covers them up, and takes off. Her duties as a mother are finished. When the time is due, the small see turtles hatch the eggs, come to the surface, walk to the sea, and swim away. Their genetic code told them to behave this way and will tell them, for the rest of their lives, how to behave.

Human beings, in comparison, seem to be born unfinished. If left on their own, after they are born, they simply die. Most of the functions that are going to be essential when they are adults, such as walking, talking, etc., have to be learned and human beings take what seems to be an awful long time to learn them. For being minimally competent at walking around, they take over one year; at talking with their fellow human beings, well over three years; at providing for themselves, if left alone, even considerably more than that.

That is why some people say that, in order to be fully capable of living their lives, human beings need two gestations: first, their biological gestation, in their mothers’ womb; second, their social gestation, with the assistance of mainly parents and teachers. This social gestation is what we call education.

Education, so conceived, is the process through which human beings become ready to perform as competent adults in society. In other words, education is the process through which human beings develop as human beings – it is a process of human development.

This development is not a development with pre-determined ends, however. Human beings are capable, starting more or less at adolescence, to choose the ends toward which they are going to develop, to define their own life projects – and then proceed to develop the competences and skills necessary to implement them. In other words, human beings are capable to dream their own dreams and to work to make them come true.

So education is the process through which human beings become capable of living their own lives – lives that are of their own choosing.

If this conception of education is correct, then Progressivism is correct in defending the following theses:

  1. That education should be oriented toward the future, not the past;
  2. That education should be centered on the child (the student), not the teacher;.
  3. That education should favor, as the basic learning method, active, project-based investigation by the child (the student), not passive assimilation of information transmitted through teaching.

As you can see, I only disagree with one of the theses that I attributed to Progressivism, namely:

  1. That Education should prepare children (students) to be competent problem-solvers through the use of the scientific method and responsible citizens through the living of democratic procedures at home and in the school.

Even so, my disagreement here is partial. I do believe that education should do that – but I am convinced that this is an overly restrictive goal for education.

I prefer to use the so-called Four Pillars of Education described by UNESCO as the framework that organizes the basic (not specific or professional) competences and skills that children ought to develop in order to succeed in becoming effective adults.

These Four Pillars are:

  • Learning to be
  • Learning to live together
  • Learning to do
  • Learning to learn

Learning to be implies that children should become autonomous individuals, who are free and responsible, as well as competent to define and live their own lives;

Learning to live together implies that children should become capable of living together with other people, cognizant and assertive of their own rights but also respecting of those of their fellow human beings.

Learning to do implies that children should become capable of not only working to sustain themselves but also acting to achieve their goals.

And learning to learn implies that children should become capable of learning in every sort of activity in which they engage themselves: work, play, leisure, and the daily human interactions.

Although I do think that children need to develop competences and skills and all of these areas, I do not think that all children should develop the same competences and skills. Children are different, they have different interests and talents, and they should be allowed to explore and develop them freely. That is why I endorse Progressivism’s view of a child-centered education and its view that children learn best when they actively engage themselves in activities in which they are truly interested – either because they simply do enjoy those activities or because they realize they contribute to the development of competences and skills that are important to their life project.

Children learn when they are doing things that are enjoyable in and for themselves or that are useful. Outside that, getting a child to learn something is an herculean task.

Getting now back to the classics.

I have no doubt that some children will enjoy reading the classics in and for themselves, because they recognize that reading those books is a pleasurable experience, and that other children will realize that reading the classics is useful for developing competences and skills that they want to develop – perhaps they want to become writers themselves.

For the remaining children, however, those who do not derive pleasure from reading the classics or those who do not see any usefulness in doing so, forcing them to read them is a waste of time and effort. Some of them might want to become astronauts, engineers, dentists, basketball players… I believe that we ought to allow them to develop the competences and skills needed for the chosen life project.

Before I end, I want to deal with a delicate question.

You may question me if I am not presupposing that children’s interests, their likes and dislikes, are set once-and-for-all. You may think that it is possible to change children’s interests: to get a child that loves dissecting animals to become interest in music, to get a child that loves reading poetry to become interested in building bridges…

My answer to that is that we should let children’s interests develop as much as possible without direct intervention. I do admit – and find quite important – what I like to call “indirect intervention”. We should endeavor to create for our children (and students) environments that are as rich as possible in learning opportunities, in every aspect of life. These environments should allow them to come into contact with all sorts of human activities, manual and mental, those that are pursued for pure enjoyment and those that are pursued because of their usefulness. In environments like this, they will surely develop worthy interests and will require no direct intervention by parents or teachers.

3. Classical Education

Let us now come to Classical Education.

Take a look first at some of the sites included in Annex IV [this Annex was removed].

Pay attention, then, to this quotation extracted from the site “Classical Christian Homeschooling” ( [3]):

“What is Classical Education?

The core of Classical Education is the Trivium, which simply put is a teaching model that seeks to tailor the curriculum subject matter to a child’s cognitive development. The trivium emphasizes concrete thinking and memorization of the facts of the subjects in grade school; analytical thinking and understanding of the subjects in middle school; and abstract thinking and articulation of the subjects in high school. Subjects unique to Classical Education which help accomplish the goals of the trivium are Grammar, the science of language usage; Logic, the science of right thinking; and Rhetoric, the science of verbal and written expression. Classical Christian Education is further characterized by a rich exposure to the history, art, and culture of Western Civilization, including its languages (Latin and Greek), its philosophy and literature (the Great Books of Western Civilization and the Christian tradition), and the development of a Biblical worldview with Theology in its proper place as the Queen of the Sciences.

Why Return to Classical Education?

The combination of the progression of learning from facts to understanding to expression (the stages of the trivium) and the additional classical subjects, work together to give children the tools to think for themselves and to be independent, life-long learners. That is the primary goal of Classical Education. It is to equip educated men and women able to approach previously unknown subject matter, problems, or life situations; and using the tools of learning which have been practiced and refined and internalized in school; to grasp the subject or problem, analyze it according to the standard of truth, and understand and do something about it. Classical Education therefore trains children for success in any field, whether it be marriage and family life, work dealing with society and individuals, business, or arts and the humanities. Furthermore, Classical Education has proven its effectiveness in training for scientific excellence, which depend on the arts of fact-finding, analyzation, adherence to truth, and the problem-solving skills of which Classical Education specializes. Secondarily, it works: children taught by this method routinely exhibit academic proficiency.”

Read, now, the article called “Tools of Learning”, by Dorothy Sayers, to which reference is made in the quotation. It is available as Annex 1 [in a different article in this same blog].

Read, now, the article called The Three Laws of Learning, that I placed as Annex 2, to which reference is also made in the above quotation (as a link, that I removed). [Annex 2 is in a different article in this same blog.]

I believe that by now you realize that what is called Classical Education (disregarded the religious underpinnings Christians may try to give to it) is a very serious attempt to help children develop three fundamental competences and skills that they will need whatever they may decide to do or make of their lives:

  • Competence in the use of language – first, the mother tongue, then forein languages;
  • Competence in thinking and reasoning – which is language independent;
  • Competence in communicating effectively – which is a mixture of language, logic and to some extent individual and group psychology (and which includes marketing skills, the ability to speak in public, etc.)

People in classical times knew that these were ESSENTIAL human competences and skills. That is why some elements of Classical Education are sometimes also called Essentialism.

And people in classical times also knew that these competences and skills were not sufficient – that is why they added the Quadrivium to their Trivium. But they knew the Trivium was the foundation that supported all the rest.

4. Classical Education and Classics Education

To finish what is already a very long letter, I want to  briefly discuss the following question: can a classical education be promoted through the reading of the classics?

My answer is simple and short. Sure, it can. But not all children will want to. Many will prefer to read mystery stories or contemporary novels; others will prefer to read scientific fiction; still others may not prefer to read much and will prefer to watch or even make movies; others will become interested in engineering, in business, in finances…

Rest assured that no matter what sort of activity children eventually choose to dedicate themselves to, they will have to develop the competences and skills which constitute the Trivium – and several more.

So, a final five-prong pedagogical counsel.

First, do not worry too much about Olivia’s education – avoid anxiety: relax and enjoy the task of helping her

Second, offer her first a loving environment, which I know you do.

Third, offer her an environment rich in learning opportunities – which I also know you do.

Fourth, trust her natural curiosity, her desire to learn: that is almost an instinct to her.

And fifth, fight whomever and whatever tries or tends to make her learning compulsory, painful, boring.

5. Notes

[1] [Note added on 2/Jul/2017] Unfortunately this site, consulted in 2003, has been since then removed and replaced by a set of YouTube videos.

[2] [Note added on 2/Jul/2017] Unfortunately this site, consulted in 2003, has been since then removed. Emphases added.

[3] [Note added on 2/Jul/2017] Unfortunately this site, consulted in 2003, has been since then removed and replaced by a set of YouTube videos.

Transcribed here in Salto, on the 4th of July 2017