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At
this point Helen pressed my hand to stop me. She was sobbing convulsively.
"It was poor Ginger," was all she could say at first. Later, when
she was able to talk about it, she said: "Poor Ginger! The words made a
distinct picture in my mind. I could see the way Ginger looked; all her
beauty gone, her beautiful arched neck drooping, all the spirit gone out of
her flashing eyes, all the playfulness gone out of her manner. Oh, how
terrible it was! I never knew before that there could be such a change in
anything. There were very few spots of sunshine in poor Ginger's life, and
the sadnesses were so many!" After a moment she added, mournfully,
"I fear some people's lives are just like Ginger's."
This
morning Helen was reading for the first time Bryant's poem, "Oh, mother
of a mighty race!" I said to her, "Tell me, when you have read the
poem through, who you think the mother is." When she came to the line,
"There's freedom at thy gates, and rest," she exclaimed: "It
means America! The gate, I suppose, is New York City, and Freedom is the
great statue of Liberty." After she had read "The
Battlefield," by the same author, I asked her which verse she thought
was the most beautiful. She replied, "I like this verse best:
'Truth
crushed to earth shall rise again;
The
eternal years of God are hers;
But
Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And
dies among his worshipers.'"
She
is at once transported into the midst of the events of a story. She rejoices
when justice wins, she is sad when virtue lies low, and her face glows with
admiration and reverence when heroic deeds are described. She even enters
into the spirit of battle; she says, "I think it is right for men to
fight against wrongs and tyrants."
Here
begins Miss Sullivan's connected account in the report of 1891:
During
the past three years Helen has continued to make rapid progress in the
acquisition of language. She has one advantage over ordinary children, that
nothing from without distracts her attention from her studies.
But
this advantage involves a corresponding disadvantage, the danger of unduly
severe mental application. Her mind is so constituted that she is in a state
of feverish unrest while conscious that there is something that she does not
comprehend. I have never known her to be willing to leave a lesson when she
felt that there was anything in it which she did not understand. If I
suggest her leaving a problem in arithmetic until the next day, she answers,
"I think it will make my mind stronger to do it now."
A
few evenings ago we were discussing the tariff. Helen wanted me to tell her
about it. I said: "No. You cannot understand it yet." She was
quiet for a moment, and then asked, with spirit: "How do you know that
I cannot understand? I have a good mind! You must remember, dear teacher,
that Greek parents were very particular with their children, and they used
to let them listen to wise words, and I think they understood some of
them." I have found it best not to tell her that she cannot understand,
because she is almost certain to become excited.
Not
long ago I tried to show her how to build a tower with her blocks. As the
design was somewhat complicated, the slightest jar made the structure fall.
After a time I became discouraged, and told her I was afraid she could not
make it stand, but that I would build it for her; but she did not approve of
this plan. She was determined to build the tower herself; and for nearly
three hours she worked away, patiently gathering up the blocks whenever they
fell, and beginning over again, until at last her perseverance was crowned
with success. The tower stood complete in every part.
Until
October, 1889, I had not deemed it best to confine Helen to any regular and
systematic course of study. For the first two years of her intellectual life
she was like a child in a strange country, where everything was new and
perplexing; and, until she gained a knowledge of language, it was not
possible to give her a definite course of instruction.
Moreover,
Helen's inquisitiveness was so great during these years that it would have
interfered with her progress in the acquisition of language, if a
consideration of the questions which were constantly occurring to her had
been deferred until the completion of a lesson. In all probability she would
have forgotten the question, and a good opportunity to explain something of
real interest to her would have been lost. Therefore it has always seemed
best to me to teach anything whenever my pupil needed to know it, whether it
had any bearing on the projected lesson or not, her inquiries have often led
us far away from the subject under immediate consideration.
Since
October, 1889, her work has been more regular and has included arithmetic,
geography, zoology, botany and reading.
She
has made considerable progress in the study of arithmetic. She readily
explains the processes of multiplication, addition, subtraction, and
division, and seems to understand the operations. She has nearly finished
Colburn's mental arithmetic, her last work being in improper fractions. She
has also done some good work in written arithmetic. Her mind works so
rapidly, that it often happens, that when I give her an example she will
give me the correct answer before I have time to write out the question. She
pays little attention to the language used in stating a problem, and seldom
stops to ask the meaning of unknown words or phrases until she is ready to
explain her work. Once, when a question puzzled her very much, I suggested
that we take a walk and then perhaps she would understand it. She shook her
head decidedly, and said: "My enemies would think I was running away. I
must stay and conquer them now," and she did.
The
intellectual improvement which Helen has made in the past two years is shown
more clearly in her greater command of language and in her ability to
recognize nicer shades of meaning in the use of words, than in any other
branch of her education.
Not
a day passes that she does not learn many new words, nor are these merely
the names of tangible and sensible objects. For instance, she one day wished
to know the meaning of the following words: PHENOMENON, COMPRISE, ENERGY,
REPRODUCTION, EXTRAORDINARY, PERPETUAL and MYSTERY. Some of these words have
successive steps of meaning, beginning with what is simple and leading on to
what is abstract. It would have been a hopeless task to make Helen
comprehend the more abstruse meanings of the word MYSTERY, but she
understood readily that it signified something hidden or concealed, and when
she makes greater progress she will grasp its more abstruse meaning as
easily as she now does the simpler signification. In investigating any
subject there must occur at the beginning words and phrases which cannot be
adequately understood until the pupil has made considerable advancement; yet
I have thought it best to go on giving my pupil simple definitions, thinking
that, although these may be somewhat vague and provisional, they will come
to one another's assistance, and that what is obscure to-day will be plain
to-morrow.
I
regard my pupil as a free and active being, whose own spontaneous impulses
must be my surest guide. I have always talked to Helen exactly as I would
talk to a seeing and hearing child, and I have insisted that other people
should do the same. Whenever any one asks me if she will understand this or
that word I always reply: "Never mind whether she understands each
separate word of a sentence or not. She will guess the meanings of the new
words from their connection with others which are already intelligible to
her."
In
selecting books for Helen to read, I have never chosen them with reference
to her deafness and blindness. She always reads such books as seeing and
hearing children of her age read and enjoy. Of course, in the beginning it
was necessary that the things described should be familiar and interesting,
and the English pure and simple. I remember distinctly when she first
attempted to read a little story. She had learned the printed letters, and
for some time had amused herself by making simple sentences, using slips on
which the words were printed in raised letters; but these sentences had no
special relation to one another. One morning we caught a mouse, and it
occurred to me, with a live mouse and a live cat to stimulate her interest,
that I might arrange some sentences in such a way as to form a little story,
and thus give her a new conception of the use of language. So I put the
following sentences in the frame, and gave it to Helen: "The cat is on
the box. A mouse is in the box. The cat can see the mouse. The cat would
like to eat the mouse. Do not let the cat get the mouse. The cat can have
some milk, and the mouse can have some cake." The word THE she did not
know, and of course she wished it explained. At that stage of her
advancement it would have been impossible to explain its use, and so I did
not try, but moved her finger on to the next word, which she recognized with
a bright smile. Then, as I put her hand upon puss sitting on the box, she
made a little exclamation of surprise, and the rest of the sentence became
perfectly clear to her. When she had read the words of the second sentence,
I showed her that there really was a mouse in the box. She then moved her
finger to the next line with an expression of eager interest. "The cat
can see the mouse." Here I made the cat look at the mouse, and let
Helen feel the cat. The expression of the little girl's countenance showed
that she was perplexed. I called her attention to the following line, and,
although she knew only the three words, CAT, EAT and MOUSE, she caught the
idea. She pulled the cat away and put her on the floor, at the same time
covering the box with the frame. When she read, "Do not let the cat get
the mouse!" she recognized the negation in the sentence, and seemed to
know that the cat must not get the mouse. GET and LET were new words. She
was familiar with the words of the last sentence, and was delighted when
allowed to act them out. By signs she made me understand that she wished
another story, and I gave her a book containing very short stories, written
in the most elementary style. She ran her fingers along the lines, finding
the words she knew and guessing at the meaning of others, in a way that
would convince the most conservative of educators that a little deaf child,
if given the opportunity, will learn to read as easily and naturally as
ordinary children.
I
am convinced that Helen's use of English is due largely to her familiarity
with books. She often reads for two or three hours in succession, and then
lays aside her book reluctantly. One day as we left the library I noticed
that she appeared more serious than usual, and I asked the cause. "I am
thinking how much wiser we always are when we leave here than we are when we
come," was her reply.
When
asked why she loved books so much, she once replied: "Because they tell
me so much that is interesting about things I cannot see, and they are never
tired or troubled like people. They tell me over and over what I want to
know."
While
reading from Dickens's "Child's History of England," we came to
the sentence, "Still the spirit of the Britons was not broken." I
asked what she thought that meant. She replied, "I think it means that
the brave Britons were not discouraged because the Romans had won so many
battles, and they wished all the more to drive them away." It would not
have been possible for her to define the words in this sentence; and yet she
had caught the author's meaning, and was able to give it in her own words.
The next lines are still more idiomatic, "When Suetonius left the
country, they fell upon his troops and retook the island of Anglesea."
Here is her interpretation of the sentence: "It means that when the
Roman general had gone away, the Britons began to fight again; and because
the Roman soldiers had no general to tell them what to do, they were
overcome by the Britons and lost the island they had captured."
She
prefers intellectual to manual occupations, and is not so fond of fancy work
as many of the blind children are; yet she is eager to join them in whatever
they are doing. She has learned to use the Caligraph typewriter, and writes
very correctly, but not rapidly as yet, having had less than a month's
practice.
More
than two years ago a cousin taught her the telegraph alphabet by making the
dots and dashes on the back of her hand with his finger. Whenever she meets
any one who is familiar with this system, she is delighted to use it in
conversation. I have found it a convenient medium of communicating with
Helen when she is at some distance from me, for it enables me to talk with
her by tapping upon the floor with my foot. She feels the vibrations and
understands what is said to her.
It
was hoped that one so peculiarly endowed by nature as Helen, would, if left
entirely to her own resources, throw some light upon such psychological
questions as were not exhaustively investigated by Dr. Howe; but their hopes
were not to be realized. In the case of Helen, as in that of Laura Bridgman,
disappointment was inevitable. It is impossible to isolate a child in the
midst of society, so that he shall not be influenced by the beliefs of those
with whom he associates. In Helen's case such an end could not have been
attained without depriving her of that intercourse with others, which is
essential to her nature.
It
must have been evident to those who watched the rapid unfolding of Helen's
faculties that it would not be possible to keep her inquisitive spirit for
any length of time from reaching out toward the unfathomable mysteries of
life. But great care has been taken not to lead her thoughts prematurely to
the consideration of subjects which perplex and confuse all minds. Children
ask profound questions, but they often receive shallow answers, or, to speak
more correctly, they are quieted by such answers.
"Were
did I come from?" and "Where shall I go when I die?" were
questions Helen asked when she was eight years old. But the explanations
which she was able to understand at that time did not satisfy, although they
forced her to remain silent, until her mind should begin to put forth its
higher powers, and generalize from innumerable impressions and ideas which
streamed in upon it from books and from her daily experiences. Her mind
sought for the cause of things.
As
her observation of phenomena became more extensive and her vocabulary richer
and more subtle, enabling her to express her own conceptions and ideas
clearly, and also to comprehend the thoughts and experiences of others, she
became acquainted with the limit of human creative power, and perceived that
some power, not human, must have created the earth, the sun, and the
thousand natural objects with which she was perfectly familiar.
Finally
she one day demanded a name for the power, the existence of which she had
already conceived in her own mind.
Through
Charles Kingsley's "Greek Heroes" she had become familiar with the
beautiful stories of the Greek gods and goddesses, and she must have met
with the words GOD, HEAVEN, SOUL, and a great many similar expressions in
books.
She
never asked the meaning of such words, nor made any comment when they
occurred; and until February, 1889, no one had ever spoken to her of God. At
that time, a dear relative who was also an earnest Christian, tried to tell
her about God but, as this lady did not use words suited to the
comprehension of the child, they made little impression upon Helen's mind.
When I subsequently talked with her she said: "I have something very
funny to tell you. A. says God made me and every one out of sand; but it
must be a joke. I am made of flesh and blood and bone, am I not?" Here
she examined her arm with evident satisfaction, laughing heartily to
herself. After a moment she went on: "A. says God is everywhere, and
that He is all love; but I do not think a person can be made out of love.
Love is only something in our hearts. Then A. said another very comical
thing. She says He (meaning God) is my dear father. It made me laugh quite
hard, for I know my father is Arthur Keller."
I
explained to her that she was not yet able to understand what had been told
her, and so easily led her to see that it would be better not to talk about
such things until she was wiser.
She
had met with the expression Mother Nature in the course of her reading, and
for a long time she was in the habit of ascribing to Mother Nature whatever
she felt to be beyond the power of man to accomplish. She would say, when
speaking of the growth of a plant, "Mother Nature sends the sunshine
and the rain to make the trees and the grass and the flowers grow." The
following extract from my notes will show what were her ideas at this time:
Helen
seemed a little serious after supper, and Mrs. H. asked her of what she was
thinking. "I am thinking how very busy dear Mother Nature is in the
springtime," she replied. When asked why, she answered: "Because
she has so many children to take care of. She is the mother of everything;
the flowers and trees and winds."
"How
does Mother Nature take care of the flowers?" I asked.
"She
sends the sunshine and rain to make them grow," Helen replied; and
after a moment she added, "I think the sunshine is Nature's warm smile,
and the raindrops are her tears."
Later
she said: "I do not know if Mother Nature made me. I think my mother
got me from heaven, but I do not know where that place is. I know that
daisies and pansies come from seeds which have been put in the ground; but
children do not grow out of the ground, I am sure. I have never seen a
plant-child! But I cannot imagine who made Mother Nature, can you? I love
the beautiful spring, because the budding trees and the blossoming flowers
and the tender green leaves fill my heart with joy. I must go now to see my
garden. The daisies and the pansies will think I have forgotten them."
After
May, 1890, it was evident to me that she had reached a point where it was
impossible to keep from her the religious beliefs held by those with whom
she was in daily contact. She almost overwhelmed me with inquiries which
were the natural outgrowth of her quickened intelligence.
Early
in May she wrote on her tablet the following list of questions:
"I
wish to write about things I do not understand. Who made the earth and the
seas, and everything? What makes the sun hot? Where was I before I came to
mother? I know that plants grow from seeds which are in the ground, but I am
sure people do not grow that way. I never saw a child-plant. Little birds
and chickens come out of eggs. I have seen them. What was the egg before it
was an egg? Why does not the earth fall, it is so very large and heavy? Tell
me something that Father Nature does. May I read the book called the Bible?
Please tell your little pupil many things when you have much time."
Can
any one doubt after reading these questions that the child who was capable
of asking them was also capable of understanding at least their elementary
answers? She could not, of course, have grasped such abstractions as a
complete answer to her questions would involve; but one's whole life is
nothing more than a continual advance in the comprehension of the meaning
and scope of such ideas.
Throughout
Helen's education I have invariably assumed that she can understand whatever
it is desirable for her to know. Unless there had been in Helen's mind some
such intellectual process as the questions indicate, any explanation of them
would have been unintelligible to her. Without that degree of mental
development and activity which perceives the necessity of superhuman
creative power, no explanation of natural phenomena is possible.
After
she had succeeded in formulating the ideas which had been slowly growing in
her mind, they seemed suddenly to absorb all her thoughts, and she became
impatient to have everything explained. As we were passing a large globe a
short time after she had written the questions, she stopped before it and
asked, "Who made the REAL world?" I replied, "No one knows
how the earth, the sun, and all the worlds which we call stars came to be;
but I will tell you how wise men have tried to account for their origin, and
to interpret the great and mysterious forces of nature."
She
knew that the Greeks had many gods to whom they ascribed various powers,
because they believed that the sun, the lightning, and a hundred other
natural forces, were independent and superhuman powers. But after a great
deal of thought and study, I told her, men came to believe that all forces
were manifestations of one power, and to that power they gave the name GOD.
She
was very still for a few minutes, evidently thinking earnestly. She then
asked, "Who made God?" I was compelled to evade her question, for
I could not explain to her the mystery of a self-existent being. Indeed,
many of her eager questions would have puzzled a far wiser person than I am.
Here are some of them: "What did God make the new worlds out of?"
"Where did He get the soil, and the water, and the seeds, and the first
animals?" "Where is God?" "Did you ever see God?" I
told her that God was everywhere, and that she must not think of Him as a
person, but as the life, the mind, the soul of everything. She interrupted
me: "Everything does not have life. The rocks have not life, and they
cannot think." It is often necessary to remind her that there are
infinitely many things that the wisest people in the world cannot explain.
No
creed or dogma has been taught to Helen, nor has any effort been made to
force religious beliefs upon her attention. Being fully aware of my own
incompetence to give her any adequate explanations of the mysteries which
underlie the names of God, soul, and immortality, I have always felt
obliged, by a sense of duty to my pupil, to say as little as possible about
spiritual matters. The Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks has explained to her in a
beautiful way the fatherhood of God.
She
has not as yet been allowed to read the Bible, because I do not see how she
can do so at present without getting a very erroneous conception of the
attributes of God. I have already told her in simple language of the
beautiful and helpful life of Jesus, and of His cruel death. The narrative
affected her greatly when first she listened to it.
When
she referred to our conversation again, it was to ask, "Why did not
Jesus go away, so that His enemies could not find Him?" She thought the
miracles of Jesus very strange. When told that Jesus walked on the sea to
meet His disciples, she said, decidedly, "It does not mean WALKED, it
means SWAM." When told of the instance in which Jesus raised the dead,
she was much perplexed, saying, "I did not know life could come back
into the dead body!"
One
day she said, sadly: "I am blind and deaf. That is why I cannot see
God." I taught her the word INVISIBLE, and told her we could not see
God with our eyes, because He was a spirit; but that when our hearts were
full of goodness and gentleness, then we saw Him because then we were more
like Him.
At
another time she asked, "What is a soul?" "No one knows what
the soul is like," I replied; "but we know that it is not the
body, and it is that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes, and which
Christian people believe will live on after the body is dead." I then
asked her, "Can you think of your soul as separate from your
body?" "Oh, yes!" she replied; "because last hour I was
thinking very hard of Mr. Anagnos, and then my mind,"--then changing
the word--"my soul was in Athens, but my body was here in the
study." At this moment another thought seemed to flash through her
mind, and she added, "But Mr. Anagnos did not speak to my soul." I
explained to her that the soul, too, is invisible, or in other words, that
it is without apparent form. "But if I write what my soul thinks,"
she said, "then it will be visible, and the words will be its
body."
A
long time ago Helen said to me, "I would like to live sixteen hundred
years." When asked if she would not like to live ALWAYS in a beautiful
country called heaven, her first question was, "Where is heaven?"
I was obliged to confess that I did not know, but suggested that it might be
on one of the stars. A moment after she said, "Will you please go first
and tell me all about it?" and then she added, "Tuscumbia is a
very beautiful little town." It was more than a year before she alluded
to the subject again, and when she did return to it, her questions were
numerous and persistent. She asked: "Where is heaven, and what is it
like? Why cannot we know as much about heaven as we do about foreign
countries?" I told her in very simple language that there may be many
places called heaven, but that essentially it was a condition--the
fulfilment of the heart's desire, the satisfaction of its wants; and that
heaven existed wherever RIGHT was acknowledged, believed in, and loved.
She
shrinks from the thought of death with evident dismay. Recently, on being
shown a deer which had been killed by her brother, she was greatly
distressed, and asked sorrowfully, "Why must everything die, even the
fleet-footed deer?" At another time she asked, "Do you not think
we would be very much happier always, if we did not have to die?" I
said, "No; because, if there were no death, our world would soon be so
crowded with living creatures that it would be impossible for any of them to
live comfortably." "But," said Helen, quickly, "I think
God could make some more worlds as well as He made this one."
When
friends have told her of the great happiness which awaits her in another
life, she instantly asked: "How do you know, if you have not been
dead?"
The
literal sense in which she sometimes takes common words and idioms shows how
necessary it is that we should make sure that she receives their correct
meaning. When told recently that Hungarians were born musicians, she asked
in surprise, "Do they sing when they are born?" When her friend
added that some of the pupils he had seen in Budapest had more than one
hundred tunes in their heads, she said, laughing, "I think their heads
must be very noisy." She sees the ridiculous quickly, and, instead of
being seriously troubled by metaphorical language, she is often amused at
her own too literal conception of its meaning.
Having
been told that the soul was without form, she was much perplexed at David's
words, "He leadeth my soul." "Has it feet? Can it walk? Is it
blind?" she asked; for in her mind the idea of being led was associated
with blindness.
Of
all the subjects which perplex and trouble Helen, none distresses her so
much as the knowledge of the existence of evil, and of the suffering which
results from it. For a long time it was possible to keep this knowledge from
her; and it will always be comparatively easy to prevent her from coming in
personal contact with vice and wickedness. The fact that sin exists, and
that great misery results from it, dawned gradually upon her mind as she
understood more and more clearly the lives and experiences of those around
her. The necessity of laws and penalties had to be explained to her. She
found it very hard to reconcile the presence of evil in the world with the
idea of God which had been presented to her mind.
One
day she asked, "Does God take care of us all the time?" She was
answered in the affirmative. "Then why did He let little sister fall
this morning, and hurt her head so badly?" Another time she was asking
about the power and goodness of God. She had been told of a terrible storm
at sea, in which several lives were lost, and she asked, "Why did not
God save the people if He can do all things?"
Surrounded
by loving friends and the gentlest influences, as Helen had always been, she
has, from the earliest stage of her intellectual enlightenment, willingly
done right. She knows with unerring instinct what is right, and does it
joyously. She does not think of one wrong act as harmless, of another as of
no consequence, and of another as not intended. To her pure soul all evil is
equally unlovely.
These
passages from the paper Miss Sullivan prepared for the meeting at
Chautauqua, in July, 1894, of the American Association to Promote the
Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, contain her latest written account of her
methods.
You
must not imagine that as soon as Helen grasped the idea that everything had
a name she at once became mistress of the treasury of the English language,
or that "her mental faculties emerged, full armed, from their then
living tomb, as Pallas Athene from the head of Zeus," as one of her
enthusiastic admirers would have us believe. At first, the words, phrases
and sentences which she used in expressing her thoughts were all
reproductions of what we had used in conversation with her, and which her
memory had unconsciously retained. And indeed, this is true of the language
of all children. Their language is the memory of the language they hear
spoken in their homes. Countless repetition of the conversation of daily
life has impressed certain words and phrases upon their memories, and when
they come to talk themselves, memory supplies the words they lisp. Likewise,
the language of educated people is the memory of the language of books.
Language
grows out of life, out of its needs and experiences. At first my little
pupil's mind was all but vacant. She had been living in a world she could
not realize. LANGUAGE and KNOWLEDGE are indissolubly connected; they are
interdependent. Good work in language presupposes and depends on a real
knowledge of things. As soon as Helen grasped the idea that everything had a
name, and that by means of the manual alphabet these names could be
transmitted from one to another, I proceeded to awaken her further interest
in the OBJECTS whose names she learned to spell with such evident joy. I
NEVER TAUGHT LANGUAGE FOR THE PURPOSE OF TEACHING IT; but invariably used
language as a medium for the communication of THOUGHT; thus the learning of
language was COINCIDENT with the acquisition of knowledge. In order to use
language intelligently, one must have something to talk ABOUT, and having
something to talk about is the result of having had experiences; no amount
of language training will enable our little children to use language with
ease and fluency unless they have something clearly in their minds which
they wish to communicate, or unless we succeed in awakening in them a desire
to know what is in the minds of others.
At
first I did not attempt to confine my pupil to any system. I always tried to
find out what interested her most, and made that the starting-point for the
new lesson, whether it had any bearing on the lesson I had planned to teach
or not. During the first two years of her intellectual life, I required
Helen to write very little. In order to write one must have something to
write about, and having something to write about requires some mental
preparation. The memory must be stored with ideas and the mind must be
enriched with knowledge before writing becomes a natural and pleasurable
effort. Too often, I think, children are required to write before they have
anything to say. Teach them to think and read and talk without
self-repression, and they will write because they cannot help it.
Helen
acquired language by practice and habit rather than by study of rules and
definitions. Grammar with its puzzling array of classifications,
nomenclatures, and paradigms, was wholly discarded in her education. She
learned language by being brought in contact with the LIVING language
itself; she was made to deal with it in everyday conversation, and in her
books, and to turn it over in a variety of ways until she was able to use it
correctly. No doubt I talked much more with my fingers, and more constantly
than I should have done with my mouth; for had she possessed the use of
sight and hearing, she would have been less dependent on me for
entertainment and instruction.
I
believe every child has hidden away somewhere in his being noble capacities
which may be quickened and developed if we go about it in the right way; but
we shall never properly develop the higher natures of our little ones while
we continue to fill their minds with the so-called rudiments. Mathematics
will never make them loving, nor will the accurate knowledge of the size and
shape of the world help them to appreciate its beauties. Let us lead them
during the first years to find their greatest pleasure in Nature. Let them
run in the fields, learn about animals, and observe real things. Children
will educate themselves under right conditions. They require guidance and
sympathy far more than instruction.
I
think much of the fluency with which Helen uses language is due to the fact
that nearly every impression which she receives comes through the medium of
language. But after due allowance has been made for Helen's natural aptitude
for acquiring language, and for the advantage resulting from her peculiar
environment, I think that we shall still find that the constant
companionship of good books has been of supreme importance in her education.
It may be true, as some maintain, that language cannot express to us much
beyond what we have lived and experienced; but I have always observed that
children manifest the greatest delight in the lofty, poetic language which
we are too ready to think beyond their comprehension. "This is all you
will understand," said a teacher to a class of little children, closing
the book which she had been reading to them. "Oh, please read us the
rest, even if we won't understand it," they pleaded, delighted with the
rhythm, and the beauty which they felt, even though they could not have
explained it. It is not necessary that a child should understand every word
in a book before he can read with pleasure and profit. Indeed, only such
explanations should be given as are really essential. Helen drank in
language which she at first could not understand, and it remained in her
mind until needed, when it fitted itself naturally and easily into her
conversation and compositions. Indeed, it is maintained by some that she
reads too much, that a great deal of originative force is dissipated in the
enjoyment of books; that when she might see and say things for herself, she
sees them only through the eyes of others, and says them in their language,
but I am convinced that original composition without the preparation of much
reading is an impossibility. Helen has had the best and purest models in
language constantly presented to her, and her conversation and her writing
are unconscious reproductions of what she has read. Reading, I think, should
be kept independent of the regular school exercises. Children should be
encouraged to read for the pure delight of it. The attitude of the child
toward his books should be that of unconscious receptivity. The great works
of the imagination ought to become a part of his life, as they were once of
the very substance of the men who wrote them. It is true, the more sensitive
and imaginative the mind is that receives the thought-pictures and images of
literature, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. Helen has the
vitality of feeling, the freshness and eagerness of interest, and the
spiritual insight of the artistic temperament, and naturally she has a more
active and intense joy in life, simply as life, and in nature, books, and
people than less gifted mortals. Her mind is so filled with the beautiful
thoughts and ideals of the great poets that nothing seems commonplace to
her; for her imagination colours all life with its own rich hues.
There
has been much discussion of such of Miss Sullivan's statements and
explanations as have been published before. Too much has been written by
people who do not know the problems of the deaf at first hand, and I do not
care to add much to it. Miss Keller's education, however, is so
fundamentally a question of language teaching that it rather includes the
problems of the deaf than limits itself to the deaf alone. Teachers can draw
their own conclusions. For the majority of readers, who will not approach
Miss Keller's life from the educator's point of view, I will summarize a few
principal things in Miss Sullivan's methods.
Miss
Sullivan has begun where Dr. Howe left off. He invented the instrument, the
physical means of working, but the teaching of language is quite another
thing from the mechanical means by which language may be taught. By
experiment, by studying other children, Miss Sullivan came upon the
practical way of teaching language by the natural method. It was for this
"natural method" that Dr. Howe was groping, but he never got to
this idea, that a deaf child should not be taught each word separately by
definition, but should be given language by endless repetition of language
which it does not understand. And this is Miss Sullivan's great discovery.
All day long in their play-time and work-time Miss Sullivan kept spelling
into her pupil's hand, and by that Helen Keller absorbed words, just as the
child in the cradle absorbs words by hearing thousands of them before he
uses one and by associating the words with the occasion of their utterance.
Thus he learns that words name things and actions and feelings. Now, that is
the first principle in Miss Sullivan's method, one that had practical
results, and one which, so far as I can discover, had never been put in
practice in the education of a deaf child, not to say a deaf-blind child,
until Miss Sullivan tried it with Helen Keller. And the principle had never
been formulated clearly until Miss Sullivan wrote her letters.
The
second principle in her method (the numerical order is, of course,
arbitrary) is never to talk to the child about things distasteful or
wearisome to him. In the first deaf school Miss Sullivan ever visited, the
teacher was busy at the blackboard telling the children by written words
something they did not want to know, while they were crowding round their
visitor with wide-awake curiosity, showing there were a thousand things they
did want to know. Why not, says Miss Sullivan, make a language lesson out of
what they were interested in?
Akin
to this idea of talking to the child about what interests him, is the
principle never to silence a child who asks questions, but to answer the
questions as truly as possible; for, says Miss Sullivan, the question is the
door to the child's mind. Miss Sullivan never needlessly belittled her ideas
or expressions to suit the supposed state of the child's intelligence. She
urged every one to speak to Helen naturally, to give her full sentences and
intelligent ideas, never minding whether Helen understood or not. Thus Miss
Sullivan knew what so many people do not understand, that after the first
rudimentary definitions of HAT, CUP, GO, SIT, the unit of language, as the
child learns it, is the sentence, which is also the unit of language in our
adult experience. We do not take in a sentence word by word, but as a whole.
It is the proposition, something predicated about something, that conveys an
idea. True, single words do suggest and express ideas; the child may say
simply "mamma" when he means "Where is mamma?" but he
learns the expression of the ideas that relate to mamma--he learns
language--by hearing complete sentences. And though Miss Sullivan did not
force grammatical completeness upon the first finger-lispings of her pupil,
yet when she herself repeated Helen's sentence, "mamma milk," she
filled out the construction, completed the child's ellipsis and said,
"Mamma will bring Helen some milk."
Thus
Miss Sullivan was working out a natural method, which is so simple, so
lacking in artificial system, that her method seems rather to be a
destruction of method. It is doubtful if we should have heard of Helen
Keller if Miss Sullivan had not been where there were other children. By
watching them, she learned to treat her pupil as nearly as possible like an
ordinary child.
The
manual alphabet was not the only means of presenting words to Helen Keller's
fingers. Books supplemented, perhaps equaled in importance the manual
alphabet, as a means of teaching language. Helen sat poring over them before
she could read, not at first for the story, but to find words she knew; and
the definition of new words which is implied in their context, in their
position with reference to words known, added to Helen's vocabulary. Books
are the storehouse of language, and any child, whether deaf or not, if he
has his attention attracted in any way to printed pages, must learn. He
learns not by reading what he understands, but by reading and remembering
words he does not understand. And though perhaps few children will have as
much precocious interest in books as did Helen Keller, yet the natural
curiosity of every healthy child may be turned to printed pages, especially
if the teacher is clever and plays a word game as Miss Sullivan did. Helen
Keller is supposed to have a special aptitude for languages. It is true
rather that she has a special aptitude for thinking, and her leaning toward
language is due to the fact that language to her meant life. It was not a
special subject, like geography or arithmetic, but her way to outward
things.
When
at the age of fourteen she had had but a few lessons in German, she read
over the words of "Wilhelm Tell" and managed to get the story. Of
grammar she knew nothing and she cared nothing for it. She got the language
from the language itself, and this is, next to hearing the language spoken,
the way for any one to get a foreign tongue, more vital and, in the end,
easier than our schoolroom method of beginning with the grammar. In the same
way she played with Latin, learning not only from the lessons her first
Latin teacher gave her, but from going over and over the words of a text, a
game she played by herself.
Mr.
John D. Wright, one of her teachers at the Wright-Humason School, says in a
letter to me:
"Often
I found her, when she had a little leisure, sitting in her favourite corner,
in a chair whose arms supported the big volume prepared for the blind, and
passing her finger slowly over the lines of Moliere's 'Le Medecin Malgre Lui,'
chuckling to herself at the comical situations and humorous lines. At that
time her actual working vocabulary in French was very small, but by using
her judgment, as we laughingly called the mental process, she could guess at
the meanings of the words and put the sense together much as a child puzzles
out a sliced object. The result was that in a few weeks she and I spent a
most hilarious hour one evening while she poured out to me the whole story,
dwelling with great gusto on its humour and sparkling wit. It was not a
lesson, but only one of her recreations."
So
Helen Keller's aptitude for language is her whole mental aptitude, turned to
language because of its extraordinary value to her.
There
have been many discussions of the question whether Helen Keller's
achievements are due to her natural ability or to the method by which she
was taught.
It
is true that a teacher with ten times Miss Sullivan's genius could not have
made a pupil so remarkable as Helen Keller out of a child born dull and
mentally deficient. But it is also true that, with ten times her native
genius, Helen Keller could not have grown to what she is, if she had not
been excellently taught from the very start, and especially at the start.
And the fact remains that she was taught by a method of teaching language to
the deaf the essential principles of which are clearly expressed in Miss
Sullivan's letters, written while she was discovering the method and putting
it successfully into practice. And it can be applied by any teacher to any
healthy deaf child, and in the broadest interpretation of the principles,
can be applied to the teaching of language of all kinds to all children.
In
the many discussions of this question writers seem to throw us from one horn
to another of a dilemma--either a born genius in Helen Keller, or a perfect
method in the teacher. Both things may be true at once, and there is another
truth which makes the dilemma imperfect. Miss Sullivan is a person of
extraordinary power. Her method might not succeed so completely in the hands
of any one else. Miss Sullivan's vigorous, original mind has lent much of
its vitality to her pupil. If Miss Keller is fond of language and not
interested especially in mathematics, it is not surprising to find Miss
Sullivan's interests very similar. And this does not mean that Miss Keller
is unduly dependent on her teacher. It is told of her that, as a child of
eight, when some one tried to interfere with her, she sat sober a few
moments, and, when asked what was the trouble, answered, "I am
preparing to assert my independence." Such an aggressive personality
cannot grow up in mere dependence even under the guidance of a will like
Miss Sullivan's. But Miss Sullivan by her "natural aptitude" has
done for her pupil much that is not capable of analysis and reduction to
principle; she has given the inspiration which is in all close friendship,
and which rather develops than limits the powers of either person. Moreover,
if Miss Keller is a "marvel of sweetness and goodness," if she has
a love "of all things good and beautiful," this implies something
about the teacher who has lived with her for sixteen years.
There
is, then, a good deal that Miss Sullivan has done for Miss Keller which no
other teacher can do in just the same way for any one else. To have another
Helen Keller there must be another Miss Sullivan. To have another,
well-educated deaf and blind child, there need only be another teacher,
living under favourable conditions, among plenty of external interests,
unseparated from her pupil allowed to have a free hand, and using as many as
she needs of the principles which Miss Sullivan has saved her the trouble of
finding out for herself, modifying and adding as she finds it necessary; and
there must be a pupil in good health, of good native powers, young enough
not to have grown beyond recovery in ignorance. Any deaf child or deaf and
blind child in good health can be taught. And the one to do it is the parent
or the special teacher, not the school. I know that this idea will be
vigorously combated by those who conduct schools for the deaf. To be sure,
the deaf school is the only thing possible for children educated by the
State. But it is evident that precisely what the deaf child needs to be
taught is what other children learn before they go to school at all. When
Miss Sullivan went out in the barnyard and picked up a little chicken and
talked to Helen about it, she was giving a kind of instruction impossible
inside four walls, and impossible with more than one pupil at a time.
Surely
Dr. Howe is wrong when he says, "A teacher cannot be a child."
That is just what the teacher of the deaf child must be, a child ready to
play and romp, and interested in all childish things.
The
temptation to discuss, solely in the light of Helen Keller, the whole matter
of educating the deaf is a dangerous one, and one which I have not taken
particular care to avoid, because my opinions are of no authority and I have
merely tried to suggest problems and reinforce some of the main ideas
expressed by Miss Sullivan, who is an authority. It is a question whether
Helen Keller's success has not led teachers to expect too much of other
children, and I know of deaf-blind children who are dragged along by their
teachers and friends, and become the subjects of glowing reports, which are
pathetically untrue, because one sees behind the reports how the children
are tugged at to bring them somewhere near the exaggerated things that are
said about them.
Let
me sum up a few of the elements that made Helen Keller what she is. In the
first place she had nineteen months' experience of sight and sound. This
meant some mental development. She had inherited vigour of body and mind.
She expressed ideas in signs before she learned language. Mrs. Keller writes
me that before her illness Helen made signs for everything, and her mother
thought this habit the cause of her slowness in learning to speak. After the
illness, when they were dependent on signs, Helen's tendency to gesture
developed. How far she could receive communications is hard to determine,
but she knew much that was going on around her. She recognized that others
used their lips; she "saw" her father reading a paper and when he
laid it down she sat in his chair and held the paper before her face. Her
early rages were an unhappy expression of the natural force of character
which instruction was to turn into trained and organized power.
It
was, then, to a good subject that Miss Sullivan brought her devotion and
intelligence, and fearless willingness to experiment. Miss Sullivan's
methods were so good that even without the practical result, any one would
recognize the truth of the teacher's ideas. Miss Sullivan has in addition a
vigorous personality. And finally all the conditions were good for that
first nature school, in which the teacher and pupil played together,
exploring together and educating themselves, pupil and teacher inseparable.
Miss
Keller's later education is easy to understand and needs no further
explanation than she has given. Those interested may get on application to
the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C., the reports of the teachers who
prepared her for college, Mr. Arthur Gilman of the Cambridge School for
Young Ladies, and Mr. Merton S. Keith.
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