Book V, Chapter I, 11

In some universities, the salary forms only part, and often a small part, of a teacher's earnings; most come from the honoraria or fees paid by his pupils. The need to apply himself, though reduced to some degree, is not entirely removed. His professional reputation still matters to him, and he remains partly dependent on the affection, gratitude, and favorable reports of those he has taught. He is most likely to earn these favorable feelings by deserving them: through the ability and diligence with which he performs every part of his duty.

In other universities, teachers are forbidden to receive any honorarium or fee from their pupils, and their salary constitutes all the revenue they derive from their office. Their interest is then set as directly against their duty as it could possibly be. Everyone has an interest in living as comfortably as possible; and if his earnings remain exactly the same whether or not he performs some very laborious duty, it is certainly in his interest, at least as interest is commonly understood, either to neglect it altogether or, if some authority prevents him from doing that, to perform it as carelessly and sloppily as that authority allows. If he is naturally energetic and loves work, it is in his interest to employ his energy in some way that benefits him rather than in performing a duty that brings him no benefit.

If the authority over him belongs to the corporation—the college or university—of which he is himself a member, and most of whose other members, like him, either are or ought to be teachers, they are likely to make common cause. They will be very indulgent to one another, each consenting to let his neighbor neglect his duty on condition that he may neglect his own. At the university of Oxford, most public professors have for many years abandoned even the pretense of teaching.

If the authority over him belongs less to his own corporation than to outsiders—to the bishop of the diocese, for example, the governor of the province, or perhaps a minister of state—he is unlikely to be allowed to neglect his duty altogether. All such superiors can force him to do, however, is to attend to his pupils for a certain number of hours, or give a certain number of lectures a week or a year. The content of those lectures must still depend on the teacher's diligence, and his diligence will probably correspond to the incentives he has to exercise it. Such outside supervision, moreover, can be exercised ignorantly and capriciously. It is arbitrary and discretionary by nature; those who wield it neither attend the teacher's lectures themselves nor perhaps understand the sciences he is supposed to teach, and so are seldom capable of exercising sound judgment. In the arrogance of office, they are often indifferent to how they use their power, and quite ready to censure him or deprive him of his position on a whim, without just cause. Such supervision necessarily degrades the person subject to it: instead of becoming one of society's most respected members, he becomes one of its most lowly and despised. Only powerful protection can effectively shield him from the mistreatment to which he is constantly exposed; and he is most likely to obtain that protection not through professional ability or diligence, but through obedience to his superiors' wishes and readiness at all times to sacrifice to those wishes the rights, interests, and honor of the corporation to which he belongs. Anyone who has observed the administration of a French university for any length of time must have had occasion to notice the natural effects of this arbitrary outside jurisdiction.

Anything that compels a certain number of students to attend a college or university regardless of its teachers' merit or reputation tends, to some extent, to lessen the need for that merit or reputation.

When the privileges of graduates in arts, law, medicine, and divinity can be obtained only by residing for a certain number of years at particular universities, a certain number of students are necessarily driven to those universities regardless of the teachers' merit or reputation. The privileges of graduates amount to apprenticeship laws, which have contributed to the improvement of education just as much as other apprenticeship laws have contributed to the improvement of arts and manufactures.

Charitable foundations providing scholarships, exhibitions, bursaries, etc. necessarily bind a certain number of students to certain colleges, quite regardless of those colleges' merit. If students supported by such foundations were free to choose the college they liked best, that freedom might stir some competition among colleges. A rule forbidding even the independent members of a particular college to leave it for another without first requesting and receiving its permission would, on the contrary, do much to extinguish that competition.

Suppose that in each college the tutor who was to teach a student all the arts and sciences was appointed by the head of the college rather than freely chosen by the student; and suppose that, if the tutor proved negligent, incompetent, or abusive, the student could not replace him without first seeking and obtaining permission. Such a rule would do much not only to extinguish competition among the tutors of the same college but also to reduce the need for any of them to be diligent or attentive to their pupils. Though well paid by their students, these teachers might be just as willing to neglect them as teachers paid nothing by their students, whose only compensation is their salary.

If a teacher has any sense, he must find it unpleasant to realize, while lecturing to his students, that he is speaking or reading nonsense, or something little better. He must also find it unpleasant to see most of his students desert his lectures, or perhaps attend them with unmistakable signs of inattention, contempt, and ridicule. If required to give a certain number of lectures, these motives alone, without any financial incentive, might lead him to take some care to make them reasonably good. Yet several expedients can effectively blunt all these incentives to diligence. Instead of explaining the subject himself, the teacher can read a book about it. If the book is written in a foreign, dead language, he may flatter himself that he is lecturing by translating it for his pupils—or, with even less trouble, making them translate it for him—and occasionally commenting on it. The slightest knowledge and effort will let him do this without exposing himself to contempt or ridicule by saying anything truly foolish, absurd, or ridiculous. Meanwhile, college discipline can enable him to compel every pupil to attend his sham lecture regularly and to behave with perfect decorum and respect throughout the performance.

The discipline of colleges and universities is generally designed not for the students' benefit but for the masters' interest—or, more accurately, their convenience. In every case its purpose is to uphold the master's authority and compel the students to treat him as if he performed his duty with the greatest diligence and ability, whether or not he actually performs it. It seems to assume perfect wisdom and virtue in one group and utter weakness and folly in the other. Yet where masters truly do their duty, I believe there is no example of most students neglecting theirs. No discipline is ever needed to compel attendance at lectures genuinely worth attending, as everyone knows wherever such lectures are given. Some force and restraint may certainly be needed to make children or very young boys attend to the subjects considered necessary for them at that early age. But after twelve or thirteen years of age, provided the master does his duty, force or restraint can scarcely ever be needed to continue any part of their education. Most young men are generous enough that, far from being disposed to neglect or despise their master's instruction if he shows a serious wish to help them, they are generally willing to forgive considerable imperfections in his performance and sometimes even to conceal substantial negligence from the public.

It should be observed that the parts of education for which there are no public institutions are generally taught best. When a young man attends a fencing or dancing school, he does not always learn to fence or dance especially well, but he seldom fails to learn to fence or dance. The benefits of a riding school are usually less apparent. Riding schools cost so much that in most places they are public institutions. The three essential parts of basic education—reading, writing, and arithmetic—are still more commonly learned in private than in public schools, and hardly anyone fails to learn them as well as is necessary.

In England, public schools are much less corrupt than universities. At school, the young are taught, or at least can be taught, Greek and Latin: everything their masters claim, or are expected, to teach. At university, the young are neither taught, nor always able to find suitable means of learning, the sciences that these corporations are supposed to teach. The schoolmaster's reward usually depends chiefly, and sometimes almost entirely, on his pupils' fees or honoraria. Schools have no exclusive privileges. To obtain the honors of graduation, a person need not present a certificate showing that he studied for a certain number of years at a public school. If an examination shows that he understands what is taught there, nobody asks where he learned it.

It might be said that the subjects commonly taught at universities are not taught particularly well. But without these institutions they would not commonly have been taught at all; both individuals and the public would have suffered considerably from the absence of these important parts of education.

Most of Europe's present universities began as ecclesiastical corporations founded to educate clergymen. Established by papal authority, they were so fully under the pope's immediate protection that all their members, masters and students alike, enjoyed what was then called the benefit of clergy: they were exempt from the civil jurisdiction of the countries in which their universities stood and answerable only to ecclesiastical courts. The teaching at most such universities suited their founding purpose: theology, or subjects intended solely as preparation for theology.

When Christianity was first established by law, a corrupted form of Latin had become the common language throughout western Europe. Both the church service and the translation of the Bible read in churches were consequently in that corrupted Latin—the ordinary language of the country. After the invasion by the barbarian peoples who overthrew the Roman empire, Latin gradually ceased to be the language of any part of Europe. But the people's reverence naturally preserves established religious forms and ceremonies long after the circumstances that first introduced and justified them have disappeared. Thus, though the great body of the people no longer understood Latin anywhere, the entire church service continued to be conducted in it. Europe therefore acquired two distinct languages, as ancient Egypt had: one for priests and one for the people, a sacred and a secular language, a learned and a common language. Priests, however, had to know something of the sacred and learned language in which they officiated; from the beginning, therefore, the study of Latin was an essential part of university education.

The same was not true of Greek or Hebrew. The infallible decrees of the church had pronounced the Latin translation of the Bible, commonly called the Latin Vulgate, to be equally divinely inspired and therefore equally authoritative as the Greek and Hebrew originals. Since knowledge of those two languages was not indispensable to a clergyman, their study was for a long time not a required part of the ordinary university course. I am told that at some Spanish universities Greek has never yet been part of that course. The first reformers found the Greek text of the New Testament, and even the Hebrew text of the Old, more favorable to their views than the Vulgate, which, as might be expected, had gradually been adapted to support the doctrines of the Catholic Church. They therefore set out to expose the many errors in that translation, forcing the Roman Catholic clergy to defend or explain them. This was difficult without some knowledge of the original languages; their study was therefore gradually introduced at most universities, whether they embraced or rejected the doctrines of the reformation. Greek was connected with every part of classical learning, which, though first cultivated chiefly by Catholics and Italians, became fashionable at about the same time as the doctrines of the reformation appeared. At most universities Greek was accordingly taught before philosophy, once the student had made some progress in Latin. Hebrew had no connection with classical learning and, apart from the Holy Scriptures, was the language of no book held in any esteem. Its study therefore usually began only after philosophy, when the student had embarked on theology.

At some universities, a teacher's salary is only part of their income, often a small part. Most comes from fees paid by students. In this case, the need to work hard is reduced, but it does not disappear. A teacher still cares about their professional reputation and still depends partly on the goodwill, gratitude, and good reports of former students. The best way to earn those feelings is to deserve them: to do every part of the job with skill and care.

At other universities, teachers cannot accept any fee from students. Their salary is all the revenue they get from the job. Their financial interest then conflicts with their duty as directly as possible. Everyone has an interest in living as comfortably as they can. If a teacher receives exactly the same pay whether or not they do some demanding work, then, as people usually understand self-interest, they have reason to skip it altogether. If an authority will not allow that, they have reason to do it as carelessly as the authority permits. Even a naturally energetic teacher who likes work has reason to put that energy into something that brings a benefit, rather than into duties that bring none.

Suppose the authority over a teacher belongs to the college or university corporation of which the teacher is a member. Most of its other members are, or should be, teachers too. They are likely to join forces and go easy on one another. Each will allow a colleague to neglect their duties if allowed to neglect their own. At the university of Oxford, most public professors have for many years stopped even pretending to teach.

Suppose instead that authority belongs mainly to outsiders, such as the bishop of the diocese, the provincial governor, or a minister of state. They probably will not allow a teacher to stop working altogether. But all they can require is attendance on students for a set number of hours, or a set number of lectures each week or year. The quality of those lectures still depends on the teacher's diligence, which in turn depends on the reasons the teacher has for making an effort. Oversight by outsiders can also be ignorant and erratic. It is arbitrary and leaves decisions to their discretion. These officials do not attend the lectures and may not understand the subjects being taught, so they can rarely judge them well. Their official arrogance often makes them careless about how they exercise this power. They may criticize a teacher or remove them from office on a whim and without good cause. This kind of authority lowers a teacher's standing, turning someone who should be among society's most respected members into one of its most despised. Only powerful protectors can shield the teacher from the mistreatment that is always possible. A teacher is more likely to gain their protection by obeying superiors and being ready to sacrifice the corporation's rights, interests, and honor to their wishes than by professional skill or diligence. Anyone who has spent much time watching a French university being run will have seen the natural effects of this arbitrary outside authority.

Anything that sends a fixed number of students to a college or university regardless of its teachers' merit or reputation reduces, to some degree, the need for those teachers to earn merit or a reputation.

Degrees in arts, law, medicine, and theology carry privileges that may require students to spend a fixed number of years at particular universities. That rule sends students there regardless of the teachers' merit or reputation. These degree privileges work like apprenticeship laws. They have improved education about as much as the other apprenticeship laws have improved trades and manufacturing.

Charitable scholarships, grants, bursaries, and similar funds tie a certain number of students to certain colleges, regardless of those colleges' merit. If the students supported by these funds could choose whichever college they preferred, that freedom might encourage some competition among colleges. But a rule forbidding even self-supporting members of a college from leaving for another without first getting permission from the college they wished to leave would do much to eliminate that competition.

Suppose each college assigns a tutor to teach each student every art and science, rather than letting the student choose a tutor. Suppose a student cannot switch tutors without permission even if the assigned tutor is negligent, incapable, or abusive. Such rules would greatly reduce competition among tutors at the same college. They would also reduce every tutor's need to work hard and pay attention to students. Even though students pay these teachers well, the teachers might be just as ready to neglect them as teachers who receive no student fees and rely solely on their salaries.

If a teacher has any sense, it must be unpleasant to know while lecturing that they are speaking or reading nonsense, or something nearly as bad. It must also be unpleasant to see most students leave the lectures, or attend while openly showing inattention, contempt, and ridicule. If required to give a certain number of lectures, a teacher might work to make them reasonably good just to avoid these experiences, even without any other incentive. But there are ways to blunt all these reasons to work hard. Instead of explaining a subject to students, a teacher can read a book about it. If the book is in an old foreign language, the teacher can translate it for them. Easier still, the teacher can make the students translate it and add an occasional comment, while flattering themselves that they are giving a lecture. Very little knowledge or effort is needed to do this without inviting ridicule by saying anything plainly foolish or absurd. At the same time, college discipline can force all students to attend these fake lectures regularly and behave with proper outward respect throughout.

College and university rules are generally designed for the convenience of the teachers, not the benefit of students. They are meant to maintain a teacher's authority and make students behave as though the teacher were diligent and capable, whether or not that teacher does the job. The rules seem to assume perfect wisdom and virtue in teachers and extreme weakness and foolishness in students. Yet I know of no case where most students neglect their work when the teachers really do theirs. Lectures worth attending need no rules to force attendance, as everyone knows wherever such lectures are given. Some force or restraint may be needed to make children and very young boys pay attention to lessons considered necessary at their age. But after twelve or thirteen years of age, force is hardly ever needed for education if the teacher does the job. Most young people are generous. When they see a teacher seriously trying to help them, they tend not to disregard or scorn the teaching. They usually forgive many mistakes in the teacher's work and sometimes even hide serious neglect from the public.

The parts of education that have no public institutions to teach them are generally taught best. A young man who goes to fencing or dancing school does not always learn to fence or dance very well, but he seldom fails to learn how. The benefits of riding school are less obvious. Riding schools cost so much that in most places they are public institutions. The three most important parts of basic literary education—reading, writing, and arithmetic—are still more often learned in private than in public schools. Very few people fail to learn them well enough for their needs.

In England, public schools are much less corrupt than universities. In school, young people learn, or at least can learn, Greek and Latin. That is everything the schoolteachers claim or are expected to teach. At universities, young people neither learn the sciences that those institutions are supposed to teach nor can they always find a suitable way to learn them. A schoolteacher's pay generally depends mainly, and sometimes almost entirely, on student fees. Schools have no exclusive privileges. A person need not produce a certificate of years spent at a public school to receive a degree. If an examination shows that the person knows what is taught there, nobody asks where they learned it.

It might be said that universities do not teach their subjects very well. But without universities, those subjects might not be widely taught at all. Individuals and the public would have suffered considerably from losing these important kinds of education.

Most of today's European universities began as church corporations set up to educate clergy. The pope founded them, and they were so directly under his protection that every teacher and student had what was called the benefit of clergy. They were exempt from the civil courts of the countries where their universities stood and answered only to church courts. Most subjects taught there suited their founding purpose: theology, or subjects that merely prepared students for theology.

When Christianity first became established by law, a changed form of Latin was the common language throughout western Europe. Church services and the Bible translation read in church were therefore in that form of Latin, the language then spoken locally. After foreign peoples invaded and overthrew the Roman empire, Latin gradually ceased to be spoken in any part of Europe. Yet respect for religion naturally preserves its established ceremonies and forms long after the circumstances that first made them sensible have gone. Church services therefore continued entirely in Latin, although most people anywhere could no longer understand it. Europe came to have two languages, much as ancient Egypt had: one for priests and one for everyone else; a sacred language and an everyday one; a learned language and an unlearned one. Priests needed some understanding of the sacred, learned language used in their services. Studying Latin therefore became an essential part of university education from the start.

Greek and Hebrew were different. The church's supposedly infallible decrees declared that the Latin Bible translation, commonly called the Latin Vulgate, was divinely inspired and as authoritative as the Greek and Hebrew originals. Knowledge of Greek and Hebrew was thus not indispensable for clergy, and for a long time these languages were not required in the ordinary university course. I have been told that some Spanish universities have never included Greek in that course. The first reformers found the Greek New Testament and even the Hebrew Old Testament more favorable to their views than the Vulgate. As one might expect, that translation had gradually been adjusted to support Catholic Church doctrines. The reformers therefore began pointing out its many errors. The Roman Catholic clergy then had to defend or explain the translation. They could hardly do so without knowing the original languages. Greek and Hebrew were consequently introduced gradually in most universities, both those that accepted and those that rejected the doctrines of the Reformation. Greek was linked to every part of classical learning. This learning, first cultivated mainly by Catholics and Italians, became fashionable at about the same time as Reformation doctrines emerged. Most universities therefore taught Greek before philosophy, once a student had made some progress in Latin. Hebrew had no link with classical learning, and apart from the Holy Scriptures there was no well-regarded book in it. Its study therefore usually began only after philosophy, when a student started theology.