Book V, Chapter I, 14

The education of ordinary people perhaps requires more public attention in a civilized commercial society than the education of people of some standing and wealth. People of standing and wealth are generally eighteen or nineteen years old before they enter the particular business, profession, or trade through which they hope to distinguish themselves. Before then, they have ample time to acquire—or at least prepare themselves to acquire later—every accomplishment that might win public esteem or make them worthy of it. Their parents or guardians are generally anxious for them to gain these accomplishments, and in most cases willing to pay what is needed. When such people are not properly educated, the cause is seldom a lack of spending on their education, but a poor use of the money spent. It is seldom a lack of teachers, but the negligence and incapacity of the teachers available, and the difficulty—or rather, in present circumstances, the impossibility—of finding better ones. Moreover, the occupations in which people of standing or wealth spend most of their lives are not simple and uniform like those of ordinary people. Nearly all are extremely complex, exercising the mind more than the hands. Those engaged in them can seldom grow mentally sluggish for want of exercise. Nor do the occupations of people of standing and wealth usually exhaust them from morning to night. They generally have considerable leisure in which to perfect themselves in any branch of useful or ornamental knowledge whose foundations they laid, or for which they acquired a taste, earlier in life.

Things are different for ordinary people. They have little time to spare for education. Their parents can scarcely afford to support them even in infancy. As soon as they can work, they must take up a trade that will provide their subsistence. That trade is generally so simple and uniform that it gives the mind little exercise; meanwhile, their labor is so constant and severe that it leaves them little leisure, and less inclination, to pursue or even think about anything else.

Yet although ordinary people cannot, in any civilized society, be as well educated as people of standing and wealth, the most essential skills—reading, writing, and arithmetic—can be acquired so early in life that most people, even those destined for the humblest occupations, have time to acquire them before entering those occupations. At very small expense, the public can make it easier for almost everyone to acquire these essential skills, encourage them to do so, and even require it of them.

The public can make this learning easier by establishing a small school in every parish or district, where children can be taught for a fee so modest that even an ordinary laborer can afford it. The teacher should be paid partly, but not entirely, by the public: if paid entirely, or even chiefly, from public funds, he would soon learn to neglect his work. In Scotland, the establishment of such parish schools has taught almost all ordinary people to read, and a very large proportion to write and do arithmetic. In England, charity schools have had a similar effect, though less widely, because the schools themselves are less widespread. If the books from which children learn to read in these little schools were somewhat more instructive than they usually are; and if, instead of a smattering of Latin that ordinary people's children are sometimes taught there, and that can scarcely be of any use to them, they were taught the elementary principles of geometry and mechanics, the literary education of this class of people might be as complete as it can be. There is scarcely a common trade that offers no opportunity to apply the principles of geometry and mechanics, and that would not therefore gradually exercise and improve ordinary people's grasp of those principles—the necessary introduction to the most sublime as well as the most useful sciences.

The public can encourage the acquisition of those essential skills by awarding small prizes and modest marks of distinction to the children of ordinary people who excel in them.

The public can require almost everyone to acquire the essential skills by making every man pass an examination or test in them before he can obtain the freedom of any corporation or be permitted to establish any trade, whether in a village or a chartered town.

It was in this way—by making military and gymnastic exercises easier to learn, encouraging their acquisition, and even requiring the whole population to learn them—that the Greek and Roman republics maintained the martial spirit of their citizens. They made the exercises easier to learn by designating a place for instruction and practice and granting certain teachers the privilege of teaching there. These teachers do not appear to have received salaries or any exclusive privileges. Their reward consisted entirely of what their pupils paid them; and a citizen who had learned the exercises in the public gymnasiums had no legal advantage over one who had learned them privately, provided the latter had learned them equally well. Those republics encouraged the exercises by giving small prizes and marks of distinction to those who excelled. Winning a prize in the Olympic, Isthmian, or Nemaean games brought honor not only to the winner but to his entire family and kindred. Every citizen's obligation to serve a certain number of years in the republic's armies if called upon sufficiently compelled him to learn exercises without which he would not be fit for that service.

The example of modern Europe shows clearly that, as a society advances, military exercise gradually falls into neglect unless the government takes care to sustain it, and that the martial spirit of the people declines with it. Yet the security of every society must always depend, to some degree, on the martial spirit of its people. At present, indeed, that spirit alone, without the support of a well-disciplined standing army, might not suffice to defend and secure any society. But where every citizen had the spirit of a soldier, a smaller standing army would surely be needed. That spirit would also greatly reduce the dangers to liberty, real or imagined, commonly feared from a standing army. Just as it would greatly aid the army's operations against a foreign invader, so it would obstruct its operations if, unhappily, they were ever directed against the constitution of the state.

The ancient institutions of Greece and Rome seem to have been far more effective in maintaining the martial spirit of the people than the modern institutions called militias. They were much simpler. Once established, they operated of themselves and required little or no government attention to keep them fully vigorous. Maintaining even a tolerable execution of the complex regulations of any modern militia, by contrast, demands the government's constant and laborious attention; without it, the regulations continually fall into complete neglect and disuse. The ancient institutions also had a much wider influence. Through them, the whole population was thoroughly trained in the use of arms, whereas only a very small portion can ever receive such training under the regulations of a modern militia, with the possible exception of Switzerland's. Yet a coward, someone incapable of defending or avenging himself, plainly lacks one of the most essential elements of a man's character. He is as mutilated and deformed in mind as a person is in body who has lost essential limbs or the use of them. Of the two, he is plainly the more wretched: happiness and misery reside wholly in the mind, and must therefore depend more on the mind's health or ill health, its wholeness or mutilation, than on the condition of the body. Even if the people's martial spirit were of no use in defending society, preventing the mental mutilation, deformity, and misery inherent in cowardice from spreading throughout the population would still deserve the government's most serious attention. It would deserve that attention just as preventing leprosy, or some other loathsome and offensive disease, from spreading among the people would deserve it, even if the disease were neither fatal nor dangerous, and even if preventing this great public evil produced no other public good.

The same may be said of the profound ignorance and dullness that so often seem to benumb the minds of the lower ranks in a civilized society. A man who cannot properly use his human intellectual faculties is, if possible, more contemptible even than a coward, and seems mutilated and deformed in an even more essential part of human character. Even if the state gained nothing from educating the lower ranks, it would still be worth its attention to ensure that they were not left wholly uneducated. The state, however, gains a considerable advantage from their education. The better educated they are, the less susceptible they become to the delusions of fanaticism and superstition, which among ignorant peoples often produce the most dreadful disorders. An educated and intelligent people are also more decent and orderly than an ignorant and dull one. Each person feels more worthy of respect and more likely to gain the respect of lawful superiors, and is consequently more inclined to respect them. They are more disposed, and better able, to examine and see through the self-interested grievances of factions and agitators, and are therefore less likely to be drawn into reckless or unnecessary opposition to government measures. In free countries, where the government's security depends greatly on the favorable judgment people form of its conduct, it must surely be of the highest importance that they not be inclined to judge it rashly or capriciously.

Article III—On the Expense of Institutions for the Instruction of People of All Ages.

Institutions for the instruction of people of all ages are chiefly those devoted to religious instruction. The purpose of this kind of teaching is less to make people good citizens in this world than to prepare them for another, better world in the life to come. Like other teachers, those who teach this doctrine may depend entirely for their livelihood on the voluntary contributions of their hearers, or they may receive it from some other source to which their country's law entitles them, such as a landed estate, a tithe or land tax, or an established salary or stipend. Their exertion, zeal, and industry are likely to be much greater in the first situation than in the second. In this respect the teachers of a new religion have always enjoyed a considerable advantage in attacking old, established systems. The clergy of those systems, relying on their benefices, have neglected to sustain the fervor of faith and devotion among the people; sunk in indolence, they have become incapable of any vigorous effort even to defend their own establishment. The clergy of an established, well-endowed religion often become cultivated and learned men, possessing all the virtues of gentlemen, or at least those virtues that win gentlemen's esteem. But they tend gradually to lose the qualities, both good and bad, that gave them authority and influence among the lower ranks and may originally have secured the success and establishment of their religion. When such clergy are attacked by popular and daring enthusiasts, however ignorant or foolish, they find themselves as defenseless as the indolent, soft, well-fed nations of southern Asia were when invaded by the active, hardy, hungry Tartars of the north. In such an emergency, these clergy commonly have no recourse but to call on the civil magistrate to persecute, destroy, or expel their adversaries as disturbers of public peace. Thus the Roman Catholic clergy called upon the civil magistrate to persecute Protestants, and the Church of England called on him to persecute dissenters. In general, once a religious sect has enjoyed the security of legal establishment for a century or two, it has found itself unable to defend its doctrine or discipline vigorously against any new sect that chooses to attack it. On such occasions, the established church may sometimes have the advantage in learning and fine writing. But the arts of winning popularity and converts invariably belong to its adversaries. In England these arts have long been neglected by the well-endowed clergy of the established church and are now chiefly practiced by dissenters and Methodists. Yet the independent support provided in many places for dissenting teachers by voluntary subscriptions, trust rights, and other evasions of the law seems greatly to have reduced their zeal and activity. Many have become learned, ingenious, respectable men, but they have generally ceased to be highly popular preachers. The Methodists, with not half the dissenters' learning, are far more in favor.

In the Church of Rome, self-interest keeps the industry and zeal of the lower clergy more alive, perhaps, than in any established Protestant church. Many parish clergy draw a very substantial part of their livelihood from the people's voluntary offerings, a source of revenue that confession gives them many opportunities to enlarge. The mendicant orders draw their entire livelihood from such offerings. They resemble the hussars and light infantry in some armies: no plunder, no pay. Parish clergy resemble teachers whose compensation depends partly on salary and partly on fees or honoraria from their pupils; these fees must always depend to some extent on their industry and reputation. The mendicant orders resemble teachers whose livelihood depends wholly on their industry. They must therefore employ every art that can stir the devotion of ordinary people. Machiavel observes that the founding of the two great mendicant orders of St Dominic and St. Francis revived the waning faith and devotion of the Catholic Church in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In Roman Catholic countries, devotion is sustained entirely by the monks and the poorer parish clergy. The high dignitaries of the church, with all the accomplishments of gentlemen and men of the world, and sometimes of scholars, carefully maintain the necessary discipline among their subordinates, but seldom take any trouble to instruct the people.

In a civilized society based on commerce, public attention may be more necessary for educating ordinary people than for educating people with some social standing and wealth. People with standing and wealth are usually eighteen or nineteen before they begin the business, profession, or trade through which they hope to make their name. Before then, they have plenty of time to gain the skills and knowledge that earn public respect, or at least prepare to gain them later. Their parents or guardians usually care enough about this to pay the necessary costs. When these young people do not get a proper education, it is rarely because too little was spent. More often the money was spent badly. The problem is rarely a lack of teachers. It is the carelessness and incompetence of the available teachers, and the difficulty—or rather the impossibility, under present conditions—of finding better ones. The work that people with standing or wealth do for most of their lives is also unlike the work of ordinary people: it is rarely simple and repetitive. Nearly all of it is very complex and exercises the mind more than the hands. Their minds are unlikely to become sluggish from lack of use. Their work also rarely wears them out from morning to night. They generally have plenty of free time to build on what they learned, or developed an interest in, when young, whether the knowledge is useful or simply enriching.

Things are different for ordinary people. They have little time for education. Their parents can barely afford to support them even as infants. As soon as they can work, they must take up a trade to support themselves. That trade is usually so simple and repetitive that it gives the mind little exercise. Their work is also so steady and hard that they have little free time, and even less desire to study or think about anything else.

Ordinary people in a civilized society cannot be as well educated as people with some standing and wealth. Still, the most essential skills—reading, writing, and arithmetic—can be learned so young that most people, even those headed for the lowest kinds of work, have time to learn them before starting that work. At very small cost, the public can make it easier for almost everyone to learn these essentials, encourage them to do so, and even require it.

The public can make learning easier by setting up a small school in every parish or district. Children could be taught for a fee low enough for even an ordinary laborer to afford. The public should pay part of the teacher's wages, but not all or even most of them. Otherwise the teacher would soon learn to neglect the job. In Scotland, parish schools of this kind have taught nearly all ordinary people to read, and a very large share to write and do arithmetic. Charity schools in England have had a similar effect, but less widely, because they are less widespread. The reading books in these small schools could teach children more than they usually do. And instead of giving ordinary people's children the little bit of Latin sometimes taught there, which can hardly ever help them, the schools could teach the basics of geometry and mechanics. Their formal education might then be as complete as possible. Almost every ordinary trade offers chances to apply geometry and mechanics. Using these principles in their trades would gradually exercise and improve people's grasp of them. These principles also provide an essential foundation for the most advanced sciences as well as the most useful ones.

The public can encourage people to learn these essentials by giving small prizes and modest marks of distinction to children of ordinary families who do especially well.

The public can require almost everyone to learn these essentials by making each man pass a test or examination before he can gain membership rights in any corporation or be allowed to set up a trade, whether in a village or an incorporated town.

The Greek and Roman republics kept up their citizens' military spirit in this way. They made it easier to learn military and athletic exercises, encouraged people to learn them, and required all citizens to do so. They provided a place to learn and practice the exercises and gave particular teachers the right to teach there. The teachers do not seem to have received salaries or any exclusive privileges. Their entire pay came from their students. A citizen trained in the public gymnasiums had no legal advantage over one trained privately, provided the latter had learned the exercises just as well. The republics encouraged training with small prizes and marks of distinction for those who excelled. Winning a prize at the Olympic, Isthmian, or Nemaean games brought honor not only to the winner but to his whole family and kin. Every citizen had to serve a certain number of years in the republic's armies if called upon. That obligation made it necessary to learn the exercises needed for service.

Modern Europe shows clearly that, as a society develops, military exercises and the military spirit of most people gradually fade unless the government works to preserve them. Yet the security of any society must always depend to some degree on the military spirit of most of its people. Today that spirit by itself, without a well-disciplined standing army, might not be enough to defend and secure a society. But if every citizen had the spirit of a soldier, a smaller standing army would certainly be needed. Such a spirit would also greatly reduce the dangers to liberty, real or imagined, that people commonly fear from a standing army. It would greatly help that army fight a foreign invader, but would also greatly hinder it if, unfortunately, it were ever turned against the state's constitution.

The institutions of ancient Greece and Rome seem to have maintained the military spirit of the public far better than today's so-called militias. They were much simpler. Once established, they worked on their own, with little or no government attention needed to keep them fully effective. By contrast, the complicated rules of a modern militia require constant, painstaking government attention even to work reasonably well. Without it, they continually fall into complete neglect and disuse. Ancient institutions also reached far more people. They trained the whole population in the use of weapons. A modern militia can train only a very small part of it, with the possible exception of Switzerland's. But a coward, someone unable either to defend himself or to avenge an injury, clearly lacks an essential part of a man's character. His mind is as damaged and impaired as the body of someone who has lost essential limbs or the use of them. Of the two he is clearly worse off, because happiness and misery exist entirely in the mind. They depend more on whether the mind is healthy or unhealthy, whole or damaged, than on the condition of the body. Even if the people's military spirit did nothing to defend society, government would still have strong reason to prevent the mental damage and misery involved in cowardice from spreading through the population. It would likewise have strong reason to prevent leprosy, or another repellent disease, from spreading even if the disease were not deadly or dangerous. Preventing this great public harm would justify the attention even if it brought no other public benefit.

The same applies to the deep ignorance and dullness that so often seem to numb the minds of the lower ranks in a civilized society. A man who cannot properly use his human powers of thought is, if anything, more pitiable than a coward. An even more essential part of his human character seems damaged. Even if educating the lower ranks brought the state no benefit, the state should still care that they not be left wholly uneducated. In fact, it gains a considerable benefit. The better educated they are, the less easily they fall for religious fervor and superstition, which often cause terrible unrest among ignorant nations. Educated, intelligent people are also more decent and orderly than ignorant, thoughtless people. Each feels more worthy of respect and more likely to earn the respect of lawful superiors, and so is more willing to respect them. They are more willing and able to see the self-interest behind complaints from factions and agitators. They are therefore less likely to be led into reckless or needless opposition to government measures. In free countries, government safety depends greatly on how favorably people judge its conduct. It is therefore especially important that they not judge it rashly or on a whim.

Article III—The Cost of Institutions for Educating People of All Ages.

Institutions that teach people of all ages are mainly those that provide religious instruction. Its purpose is less to make people good citizens in this world than to prepare them for another, better world in the life to come. Like other teachers, those who teach religious doctrine can live entirely on voluntary contributions from their listeners. Or they can be supported by a different source of income granted by law, such as an estate in land, a tithe or land tax, or an established salary or stipend. They are likely to work much harder and more eagerly in the first case than in the second. For this reason, teachers of a new religion have always had a considerable advantage when challenging old, established religions. The clergy of those religions, secure in their paid positions, have neglected to keep faith and devotion alive among the public. They have grown so idle that they can no longer vigorously defend even their own church. The clergy of a wealthy established religion often become learned, polished men with all the virtues that earn gentlemen's respect. But they tend gradually to lose the good and bad traits that gave them authority among the lower ranks, and may originally have helped their religion succeed and become established. When bold, popular enthusiasts attack them—even enthusiasts who may be foolish and ignorant—these clergy are as defenseless as the idle, soft, well-fed nations of southern Asia were against the active, hardy, hungry Tartars from the north. In such a crisis they usually have only one option: ask the civil authorities to persecute, destroy, or drive out their opponents as threats to public peace. Thus the Roman catholic clergy called on civil authorities to persecute protestants, and the church of England called on them to persecute dissenters. More generally, after a religious sect has enjoyed legal establishment for a century or two, it finds itself unable to defend its teachings or practices vigorously against a new sect. The established church may sometimes have the advantage in learning and writing. But its opponents consistently know better how to appeal to people and win converts. In England, the well-paid clergy of the established church have long neglected those skills. They are now practiced mainly by dissenters and methodists. Still, independent incomes provided in many places for dissenting teachers through voluntary subscriptions, trust rights, and other ways around the law seem to have greatly reduced their energy and zeal. Many have become very learned, clever, and respectable men, but they are generally no longer very popular preachers. The methodists, though not half as learned as the dissenters, are much more popular.

In the church of Rome, the lower clergy's work and enthusiasm are kept alive by self-interest more than perhaps in any established protestant church. Many parish clergy get a very substantial part of their living from people's voluntary offerings, which confession gives them many chances to increase. The mendicant orders live entirely on these offerings. Like the hussars and light infantry in some armies, they get no plunder, no pay. Parish clergy are like teachers paid partly by salary and partly by fees or payments from their pupils; these extra payments depend at least partly on their work and reputation. The mendicant orders are like teachers whose livelihood depends entirely on their efforts. They must therefore use every method to stir ordinary people's devotion. Machiavel observes that founding the two great mendicant orders of St Dominic and St. Francis revived the catholic church's fading faith and devotion in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In Roman catholic countries, monks and poorer parish clergy do all the work of sustaining religious devotion. Senior church officials, with the polish of gentlemen and worldly men, and sometimes the learning of scholars, take care to maintain necessary discipline among their subordinates. But they seldom bother to teach the people.