Jan Amos Comenius - University of Alabama
Transcript of Jan Amos Comenius - University of Alabama
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Jan Amos Comenius
Summary
Jan Amos Comenius (1592- 1670) is widely recognized as a pivotal figure in the history
of educational thought. Living during a period of great turmoil he promoted universal schooling
as the means to engineer a perfectly harmonious world. His argument turned upon claims to
scientific knowledge and a didactic method that could instill truth in all minds. As the ever
expanding scholarship on Comenius demonstrates, many still find inspiration in this visionary
project. But Comenius’ work must be read in the context of Early Modern thought. Convinced
that life was situated in the divinely crafted cosmos pictured in the Book of Genesis, his
overarching goal was to restore “the image of God in man” and realize the Golden Age depicted
in prophecy. The school was to be a workshop for the reformation of mankind, a place to
manufacture of right thinking and right acting individuals. I explore these epistemological and
pedagogic arguments and demonstrate their role in his hugely successful Latin primer, Orbis
pictus (1658). Comenius, I conclude, was a revolutionary thinker who married subtle
observations about the process of learning with sophisticated instructional practices. However,
given current views about human nature and the social good, these principles cannot be applied
uncritically to contemporary educational problems.
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Contemporary interest in Jan Amos Comenius
Jan Amos Comenius (1592 – 1670) is widely recognized as a pivotal figure in the history
of educational thought and a tireless campaigner for peace and religious compromise. Living
through one of the most brutal periods in history, The Thirty Years’ War, he articulated ideals of
reason, freedom, and equality to explain how universal schooling could be used to engineer a
perfectly harmonious world. As such, he naturally became an iconic symbol for many Europeans
who suffered through the upheavals of the Twentieth Century. After the First and Second World
Wars and the fall of the Soviet Union, scholars and political leaders looked to his writings for
inspiration in the planning of a more democratic future. Most prominently, Comenius was
adopted as a founding father by UNESCO, the first “apostle” of its project to promote
international peace through a scientifically-based education grounded in a commitment to natural
rights and informed self-determination (Pavone, 2008).
Comenius’ vast oeuvre totaling more than two hundred works (many not published until
the Twentieth Century) has sustained a veritable industry of academic scholarship among
continental thinkers. Like Dewey, many have found his arguments visionary. Over two hundred
years before the establishment of public education in Britain he outlined a system of schooling
for boys and girls of all classes. Moreover, readers of the Great didactic (1896) found a
remarkably modern pedagogy, a sense-based curriculum that lead from the simple and concrete
to the complex and abstract using developmentally appropriate lessons keyed to children’s
interests. All learning, he promised, would be easy and pleasurable. Indeed, his hugely
successful Orbis pictus (1658) transformed vernacular and Latin instruction by employing
illustrations that captured the meaning of terms in the common experiences of life. For more
than 150 years and through nearly 250 editions it was the preeminent language text in Europe
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and North America (Čapkova, 1970). Even so, it is clear that Orbis pictus was not used in
concert with Comenius’ theoretical views on education, which remained largely unknown until
recent times. According to Keatinge (1896), “it was bought by thousands of parents who know
little of Comenius, and cared less for his didactic principles. They found that children liked the
pictures and picked up their alphabet, and a few words, easier in that way than any other” (pp.
78-79).
Indeed, Comenius’ didactic principles can only be understood in the context of early
Seventeenth Century assumptions about the world, human nature, and the purpose of life; ideas
that are different, if not incommensurable, to those held by modern readers. He did not live in
the open, evolving world described by Dewey but the divinely crafted cosmos pictured in the
Book of Genesis. Viewed from this perspective, Comenius’ educational, religious, and political
arguments start to look distinctively autocratic. Far from promoting the rights and freedoms of
the liberal state, his goal was to construct a universal theocracy in which all men and women
would understand and embrace their place in God’s natural order. Within this closed universe
schooling would become the workshop for the reformation of mankind, an instrument for the
manufacture of right thinking and right acting individuals. Guided by the light of truth, a
rational, peace-loving, and spiritually-focused population would restore “the image of God in
man” and realize the Golden Age depicted in Scriptural prophecy.
How then does Comenius inform current thinking about education? Some scholars have
looked to his instructional and curricula innovations (Habl, 2011; Jůvova & Bakker, 2015); some
to his focus on the spiritual dimension of life (Murphy, 1995; Habl, 2011); and some to the social
and political goals of education (Goris, Meyer, & Urbánek, 2015). Others have found cautionary
lessons about the dangers of utopian thinking (Holstun, 1987). Also important are studies that
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seek insight into the character of the early modern mind (Webster, 1975). While there are many
paths into the ever-growing complex of Comenian scholarship, in what follows I offer a gateway
to the epistemological assumptions that sustained Comenius’ (1896) “promise [of] a GREAT
DIDACTIC,” a method for “teaching all things to all men . . . in such a manner as to lead to true
knowledge, to gentle morals, and to the deepest piety” (p. 5).
The Instructional Turn in European Education
The term “didactic” was coined by German educators in the early 1600s—from the Greek
didaskein, meaning to demonstrate, and the Latinized version of techne, “ikk”—in order to
highlight new, efficient methods of instruction (Nordkvelle, 2004). It is curious that while
didactics (with connotation of “putting in”) is used to denote the science of education on the
continent, pedagogy (with the connotation of “drawing out”) became the approved term in the
Anglo-Saxon world. Indeed, for English speakers “didactic” currently has a negative meaning
implying dogmatic, formalized, even pedantic instruction.
As David Hamilton (1999) suggests, it is helpful to contrast didactic with another Greek
term, dialectic—a form of argument in which ideas are created and then tested for their adequacy
against experience. Broadly speaking, this is the constructivist process at the heart of
progressive pedagogy. It was also the method employed by scholars within the Medieval
University as they struggled to master canonical texts. But as Hamilton argues, Sixteenth and
Seventeenth century demands for effective and inexpensive schooling brought about
fundamental changes in education. Rather than the long, complex, and disorganized initiation of
students into the corpus of academic works, an “instructional turn” occurred that transformed
learning into the methodical dissemination of knowledge.
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The key figure in this educational revolution was Peter Ramus (1515 -1572). By
mapping knowledge into discrete categories, Ramus demonstrated how essential meanings could
be communicated to ensure the orderly comprehension of any subject. The mass publication of
his and similar textbooks unleashed a “pedagogic juggernaut” which evolved rapidly in the
political and religious environment of the reformed German states (Hamilton, 1987). Thanks to
the comprehensive and detailed research of Howard Hotson (2007) we now have a clear
understanding of this important but historically neglected movement. Driven by the need to
prepare well-schooled clergy, administrators, teachers and other state officials, politically fragile
principalities with limited recourses looked to academies and gymnasia in the hope that the long
and laborious system classical training could be replaced with more efficient modes of
instruction. Necessity was the mother of educational invention. Extending and amending
Ramus’ insights, numerous pedagogic strategies evolved to meet practical needs. Particularly
important were the works of Bartholomaus Keckermann (1572 – 1609) who sought to reconcile
Ramus with Aristotle so that select students could be prepared for higher studies offered at more
prestigious, traditional universities (Triche & McKnight, 2004).
By the turn of the Seventeenth Century the vanguard of this movement was the Reformed
Academy at Herborn. Here Johann Heinrich Alsted (1588 – 1638) extended Keckermann’s
project into an encyclopedic survey of all knowledge. Guided by a meticulously coordinated
timetable, students were led in simple ordered steps through the basic principles of numerous
disciplines. However, as Hotson (2007) explains, Alsted’s efforts to accommodate the
complexity and ever expanding growth of knowledge resulted in an eclectic amalgamation of
learning that effectively undermined his search for intellectual order. Schooled under Alsted at
Herborn, Comenius’ thought is situated within this pedagogic and epistemological problematic.
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Comenius was also profoundly influenced by the practices and ideals of the Moravian
Brethren, whose interests he served—ultimately as the Church’s final Bishop—throughout his
long and torturous life. As Daniel Murphy (1995) demonstrates, the Brethren’s core tenets of
loving guidance, social harmony, and the free and rational acceptance of God’s word permeate
all Comenius’ writings, sustaining his singular mission to promote religious and political unity
through universal education. “What I wrote on behalf of the young,” he confessed, “I wrote not
as a pedagogue but as a theologian” (Quoted in Campi, 2014, p. 260).
Following the teachings of Jan Hus (1369 – 1415), the Unitas Fratrum distanced
themselves from the worldly excesses of the Catholic Church. Rejecting the pursuit of wealth
and power, they extolled a simple life of piety styled on the example of the early apostles.
Bound together in tightly ordered rural communities, men and women were taught the ethic of
Christian brotherhood and the importance of regulating their lives by the lessons of Scripture.
Adamant that faith is a matter of personal commitment, religion was divorced from the affairs of
state—a significant principle given the confessional politics of the day. Praxis was more
important than theology. It was better to secure an individual’s free and full commitment to
God’s word than to insist on the precise understanding of the sacraments or the meaning of
predestination. The details could be left to scholars. Indeed, preferring unity over doctrinal
difference, the Brethren defended their practical faith as a middle path between Luther and
Calvin, a means to bring all Christians under a single church (Atwood, 2009).
To realize these ends, the Moravian Church actively promoted literacy and the egalitarian
values central to its communitarian ideal. Schools were opened across the region and an
embracive order of church deacons, pastors, and judges charged with guiding the population’s
adherence to God’s law. Social order was important, although reflecting the Sermon on the
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Mount, they employed a more loving discipline than that witnessed in Calvin’s Geneva. The
Church also established several gymnasia and a seminary in Přerov, although the most promising
students were sent on to Herborn and the University of Heidelberg to complete their theological
training.
So it was, having committed himself to a life within the church, Comenius left his native
Bohemia in 1611 for the religiously-sound Ramist training at Herborn (Murphy, 1995). After
two years working under Alsted and the biblical scholar Johann Piscator, he completed his
degree in theology at Heidelberg. Returning to Přerov in 1614, he taught in the city’s Latin
school for two years while preparing for ordination at age 24. He then entered the ministry,
serving congregations in Olmütz and Fulneck until the region was engulfed by war. With
thousands of Protestants fleeing the turmoil. Comenius took refuge on the estate of the church’s
most loyal benefactor, Count Zerotin. His wife and two children who stayed with family in
Přerov, died of the plague. In this time of personal despair and religious searching Comenius
composed Labyrinth of the world and paradise of the heart (1971), one of the most important
works of Czech literature. Presented though a dystopian allegory, it recounts his own spiritual
re-birth; a turning from the chaos and irrationality of life to the harmonious and blissful order of
being that comes when Jesus Christ, the “New Adam,” is accepted as the master of all thought
and action (Atwood, 2009).
When Hapsburg authorities imposed Catholicism on Bohemia, Zerotin lost favor with
Prague and Comenius was forced to escape the country; ultimately, in 1628, to join a large group
of Brethren exiled at Leszno in Poland. For the next thirteen years Comenius devoted his time to
church duties and teaching in the community’s grammar school. Driven by the conviction that
repatriation was imminent, he looked to education as the means to reconstruct his homeland.
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Could he help establish a Christian community that expunged the sins of the Old Adam and
restored the image of God within? This would require a powerful new method of instruction and
an account of the human condition all could comprehend. Drawing upon the principles of
Neoplatonic thought embraced by Alsted and so many other writers of the day, he looked to
nature for inspiration (Hotson, 2013; Goodrick-Clarke, 2008). What did God’s creation teach
about the purpose of life and the art of learning?
Combining Hermetic wisdom and Scriptural truth, Comenius (1651b) fused science and
religion to describe how God crafted the universe. Careful reading of Genesis revealed the
fundamental simples of matter, spirit, and light that constitute all bodies. Invoking the work of
alchemists, he explained that heat from the Sun and stars agitated the amorphous material of the
void permitting a spiritual force to organize the world in accord with God’s design. The first
step was manufacturing the basic building blocks of Sky, Air, Water, and Earth from which all
other things were formed. Change was explained by vapors; fine, loose particles that combined
the elements into new entities. The “living bodies of Animals and Plants,” he asserted, are
nothing but shops of vapours,” distilling stills “perpetually vapouring, as long as they have life or
heat” (p. 101). Everything had a place, every object a purpose; “the world being made up of a
thousand parts, and particles of parts . . . [was] one, and undivided in its self” (p. 239).
Placed in this wondrous theater, human beings had been gifted the rational powers (the
image of God) to understand the Almighty’s works so that they might tend to His creation and
share in His glory. Rather than searching for wisdom among the pagan writings of ancient
authors, the knowledge essential for life was to be found in the book of nature. Here the various
crafts and trades lit the way. Art, Comenius (1969) explained, was “nature’s ape,” it revealed
and copied the methods of God’s workmanship (p. 37). Accordingly, as the scientist sought to
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harness the properties of matter, he looked to examples of learning in the living world as a key to
the ultimate technology, the art of all arts, didactics. Witness the many passages in The great
didactic where he attempts to distil instructional precepts from the behavior of birds (Comenius,
1896, pp. 263-311). More helpful were his observations of young children. As demonstrated in
the School of infancy (1858) and Pampaedia (Dobbie, 1986) there was much to learn from the
spontaneous activities of youth. Early education had to be active, sense-based, and playful,
albeit under a firm but loving discipline. Most important was the recognition that all learning
was a process of imitation. The imperative was clear; to restore human nature from Adam’s sins,
every care had to be taken to fashion the right environment, instill truth, and, as Plato counselled,
preserve the mind from error, the root cause of confusion and evil in the world.
Comenius’ Quest for Universal Knowledge
The first step in Comenius’ path from chaos to order came with the remarkable success of
his Janua linguarum reserata (1638). Quickly translated into all the major European languages,
it soon became the Continent’s most popular Latin text. “Had Comenius written no other book,”
Pierre Bayle wrote, “he would have rendered himself immortal.” (Quoted in Keatinge, 1896, p.
24). Where other works focused on grammatical rules Comenius utilized parallel columns of
vernacular and Latin to teach the meaning of terms. Sentence after sentence described God’s
works. From the elements to the stars, students learned about minerals, plants, animals, human
beings, crafts, social institutions, and the history of the world’s peoples, until the “closure,”
when, in final judgment, God would welcome his saints into heaven.
Emboldened by his success, Comenius (1969) turned to an even worthier project; he
promised to open a “gate unto things themselves” (p. 47). It was much “better to be wise, than to
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be able to prattle a few Latine words” (p. 47). If the Junua taught students how to “distinguish
things from the outside,” surely they should “comprehend what each thing is in its essence”
(Quoted in Sadler, 1966, p. 121). As he started writing his Janua rerum Comenius reports
eagerly reading a “book entitled Pansophia”. Finding only an abridgment of Aristotle, with
“nothing appertaining to divine wisdom and the mysteries of salvation,” he decided to
appropriate the “sublime” title “in the hope that I might square the mater more with my own little
work” (Comenius & Young, 1932, p. 33). He would compose a Christian Pansophy to
comprehend God’s works. Pivotally, where Alsted sought to accommodate all knowledge,
Comenius (Dobbie, 1986) now looked to a knowledge of the whole. Understanding “the
harmony of things and the proportions of all the related parts,” he argued, “is the vital factor
which brings pure all-pervading light to men’s minds” (p. 85). Unlike previous encyclopedias
which presented wisdom “like a pile of wood, very neatly laid in order” he would organize
learning like a living tree “which by its inbred virtue spreads itself into boughs, and leaves, and
yieldeth fruit” (Comenius, 1969, p. 24). Importantly, as this reference to fruit suggests,
Comenius was convinced that his pansophy would be known by its practical value. It would
enable all things to be taught to all men and women with all fullness. This did not mean that
everyone would become proficient in every art and science, but rather that no one “shall be
grossly ignorant about himself, or the created things, or God himself” (Comenius, 1668, p. 128).
What could be of more value for the conduct of life? All must understand they were made in the
image of God and placed on Earth for a purpose. For those who feared a literate population,
Comenius (Dobbie, 1986) was adamant that far from breeding discount or rebellion, schooling
the masses would ensure order and conformity (Dobbie, 1986, pp. 22-31). Appreciating their
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part within the whole, individuals would learn to regulate themselves, “even in the midst of their
work and toil, by meditation on the words and works of God” (Comenius, 1896, p. 69).
But how could human beings acquire knowledge of God’s divine plan? Bacon’s
experimental method offered one way to unlock the secrets of nature, but Comenius thought this
a slow and uncertain project; moreover, it failed to explain “the universality of things.” Instead
he looked to the union of sense, reason, and Scripture. All knowledge came from experience, but
judgment—guided by the rational powers gifted by God—was necessary to correct error and
illusion. The understanding also had its limits. Led by the imagination and limited to time and
space, it was prone to confusion and fantasy. Thankfully, the revealed word provided an
additional fountain of wisdom. Scattered through the Bible were general principles that could
help resolve intellectual disputes and ensure God’s work was known with certainty. Clearly this
would not be a simple task; as Comenius never tired of explaining, it was beyond the abilities of
a single person. But if a College of Light was established, a cohort of pansophic scholars could
complete this most valuable of all practical works. There was no more urgent task. If men and
women could be taught the nature and purpose of life they would comprehend their real interests
and will what was good and worthwhile. Truth would command the assent of all; dispute and
contest would be replaced by unanimity of judgment and harmony of purpose. Everyone, the
world over could be taught to make the Almighty the ruler of their lives.
Following Alsted, Comenius interpreted astrological events as evidence of millennial
prophecy (Hotson, 2013). Since the fall, God had employed earthquakes, floods, and famine to
punish and correct human vices. He had used prophets to guide Mankind, and even sent his only
son to teach the way of salvation. But now a more powerful instrument of reformation was at
hand. In place of such external lessons Comenius revealed an internal means to improvement;
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education and the light of reason. “No matter how disorganized by the fall into sin,” mankind
can, “through the grace of God and by certain methods, be restored again to harmony”
(Comenius, 1896, p. 200). With “the skillful arrangement of time, of the subjects taught, and of
the method” he claimed, “it will be no harder to teach school-boys in any number desired, than
with the help of the printing press to cover a thousand sheets daily with the neatest writing” (p.
248). As we will see printing was more than a metaphor for Comenius; it provided the
epistemological justification for his didactic method.
Without the means to pursue this ambitious project, Comenius’ plans remained little
more than blueprints. An initial offer of patronage was lost when his “great Maecenas,” the
Count of Leszno, met an untimely death. However, by 1636 Comenius had come under the orbit
of Samul Hartlib, the politically well-placed “intelligencer” who traded in knowledge and
influence among English Puritan elites. Schooled at a reformed academy in his native Poland,
Hartlib understood and embraced Comenius’ theological, philosophical, and educational goals.
Hearing that the author of the Janua had framed a path to Christian Pansophy he wrote with
encouragement and funds eager to learn more. Comenius replied with a manuscript outlining his
plan, which Hartlib published to generate interest and stir “liberality” (Comenius & Young,
1932, p. 36). A movement to establish a College of Light was soon underway. Hartlib became
increasingly insistent; Comenius must leave his teaching duties and devote himself completely to
the pansophic project. He had even hand-picked associates to aid in the cause. All that remained
was to secure funding; support for a college and faculty would require a significant and
permanent revenue source. Here Hartlib and his friends looked to the recently reconvened Long
Parliament in the hope that a committee on educational reform might secure an endowment.
Excited by Hartlib’s optimistic reports, Comenius arrived in London in 1641 under the
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impression that he had been summoned by the Government—only to find, with the King in
Scotland, that the Commons had been adjourned. Forced to bide his time, he met with members
of Hartlib’s coterie, scouted sites for the new institution, and worked on the metaphysical
groundwork of his future task; The way of light (1668). But with the troubles in Ireland his
initial optimism soon faded. As the country inched toward Civil War interest in educational
reform dwindled. Comenius had three options; accept the presidency of Harvard College in the
American Colonies; help establish a pansophic university in Catholic Paris; or join with the
wealthy Dutch businessman Ludovic de Geer, in a scheme to reform education in Sweden.
Given the political situation in Europe, earning the favor of the continent’s most powerful
Protestant country offered the best hope for the return of the Brethren. So it was, much to
Hartlib’s dismay, that Comenius turned from pansophy to didactics and the production of
textbooks for Swedish school children (Murphy, 1995).
Nor was this a happy arrangement for Comenius. After extended discussions with the
High Lord Chancellor of Sweden, Axel Oxenstierna, he reluctantly agreed to suspend his
philosophical studies until he completed Latin texts for four grades of students (Spinka, 1943).
Given that each book was to be accompanied by a grammar and a lexicon, this was no small task.
For the best part of five years his ever active mind was shackled by the drudgery of philology.
Responsibilities to the Monrovian Church also made great demands on his time, especially after
he was appointed Senior Bishop of the Brethren in 1648. Even so, Comenius continued to
perfect his plan. Before buckling down to his labors he completed a second manuscript for
Hartlib, A patterne of univerall knowledge (1651b), detailing the method of argument to be
employed in his future book of pansophy. Divisions, definitions, and precepts had to present the
essence of things with a mathematical clarity none could doubt. Armed with such clear and
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distinct ideas any mind could be lifted, as if by an intellectual ladder, to any truth. Everyone, he
concluded, could be taught to “understand the same things, speak the same things, do the same
things, and serve the Lord as one arme” (pp. 45-46).
Since to know an object was to understand how it was made, the work would start with
the creation of the cosmos; describe how God gifted human beings with rational powers; explain
Adams’s hubris and mankind’s fall into confusion; and finally reveal the measures God instituted
for the gradual redemption of men and women. Each stage would be studied in a separate
volume. The first would attend to the basic principles by which things were formed (Ideals); the
second would trace how these properties operate in the course of events (Naturals); the third
would survey the various arts and crafts (Artificials); the fourth would reflect upon the human
condition (Spirituals); and the fifth would explore the best means to facilitate the reformation of
mankind (Eternals). Proceeded by a text preparing the mind for learning and completed by a
work demonstrating the application of wisdom, the whole project would encompass seven long
books. This prospectus was ultimately realized in his lost masterwork, the General Consultation
on the Reform of Human Affairs (commonly known to as the Consultatio), five parts of which—
Panaguia (1987), Pampaedia (Comenius and Dobbie, 1986), Panegersia (1990), and
Panorthosia (1993, 1995)—have been translated into English.
Comenius’ Didactic and the structure of Orbis pictus
Concerned that Swedish masters make proper use of his school texts, Comenius prepared
an accompanying manual, the Linguarium methodus novissima (1953), to discuss questions
related to the teaching of Latin. This also provided an opportunity to present his mature thoughts
on the science of education. Applying arguments developed in the Way of light, his “Analytic
Didactic” offered a universal method of instruction distilled into 187 axioms.
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Starting with the assertion that “there is nothing in the understanding that was not first in
the senses,” he explained learning as a process of printing (p. 128). “God the creator first
conceived images, forms, and ideas and then impressed them upon things. Things, in turn,
impressed their likeness upon the senses, the senses upon the mind” (pp. 97-98). The same
applied to human communication. Ideas from one person, transferred through writing, speech
and other media were inscribed in the minds of others. The brain was like a wax tablet;
instruction was the art of making impressions. “The teacher is he who imprints knowledge, the
student is he who receives it” (p. 102). “The highest law and guiding light, the center and
circumference, the foundation and summit of the art” is to “teach everything through examples,
precepts, and use of imitation” (p. 109). “Example, he continued, “is a sort of idea or original
image (Axiom I), imitation a sort of image-making (Axiom II), precept a sort of instrument to
guide imitation (Axiom III)” (p. 109). “The task of the teacher is to present the model . . . the
task of the student is to pay attention, comprehend, and imitate” (p. 110).
As the opening illustration of Orbis pictus demonstrates, Comenius (1658) saw education
as a journey through the world. “The student,” he explains, “should follow the teacher at every
turn, and the teacher should ever lead the way” (p. 1). One would attend diligently; the other
would ensure their example was mastered “with utmost faithfulness” (Comenius, 1953, p. 116).
This was not to be the forced march of traditional schooling. His own bitter experience under the
rod provided ample proof that learning was not easily imposed upon the child. Lessons would
start with what was known and proceed through steps—big or small, rapid or slow—that ensured
comprehension. Discipline was essential. Like tongs holding iron to the anvil while the hammer
beat its shape, so the teacher must grip the students’ attention in order to give the right stamp to
their intellect. But external force was counterproductive; it was better to employ the internal
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mechanisms of respect, emulation, even anxiety. Physical punishment might be a last resort, but
the classroom would run far more efficiently on an economy of praise and shame with constant
testing, surveillance, and rewards. Given the remarkable capacity of the brain to form and
remember impressions, Comenius was particularly concerned that the child be protected from
false ideas. Once admitted, error was near impossible to remove. This demanded the strict
censorship of any publication that did not accord with God’s teaching—a practice employed at
the Herborn press.
By the time Comenius completed his work for the Swedish government the political
landscape of Europe had been redrawn by the Peace of Westphalia. Things did not work out
well for the Brethren. Permanently exiled from Bohemia, Comenius was forced to oversee the
demise of the church and the dispersion of its members. Following in the footsteps of Alsted he
journeyed to Hungary to open a pansophic school and promote educational reform (Foldes &
Meszaros, 1973). While he had some notable successes, religious contest among the faculty and
public apathy soon soured him to the project (Spinka, 1943). By 1654 he was back in Leszno
with his family and remaining members of the church. It was here, in 1658, that his library and
vast trove of manuscripts were lost as troops raised the town in reprisal for Protestant support of
the Swedish invasion of Poland. Comenius escaped to Amsterdam, to spend his final years
under the patronage of the De Geer family, desperately re-writing his pansophic corpus as his
health failed. Mired in theological controversies, his reputation quickly faded and his major
writings, including the Consultatio, entrusted to his son-in-law, remained unpublished until their
discovery in the 1930s (Rood, 1970).
The one truly significant text of this period to have an historical impact was Orbis pictus.
Published on his return from Hungry with the aid of a German engraver, this visually striking
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primer was intended to be the child’s first book. It was designed to make initial impressions. On
one hand visually engaging illustrations would capture children’s interests and lead them
effortlessly to a comprehension of written language. Boys and girls, Comenius advised, should
be encouraged to turn the pages, explore the pictures, sketch, and even act out scenes. Not only
would this “merry pastime” train their senses for intellectual work, it would ensure they
developed the love of learning necessary for formal schooling (p. xvi).
On the other hand, because there was nothing in the mind that did not come through the
experience, he sought to lay a true and firm foundation for future instruction. The natural appeal
of the drawings facilitated this process by fixing attention as core ideas were impressed upon the
developing brain. The traditional toil of instruction resulted from the use of words without
meaning and the irrelevance of content. In contrast, Comenius taught only what was evident,
useful, and necessary. To this end, he offered a general encyclopedia of the world; the
particulars would be filled in during later studies. Following the pansophic path from Ideals to
Naturals to Artificals to Spirituals to Eternals, prime concepts were explained by annotated
pictures that demonstrated the harmonious part-whole relations of God’s creation. More than a
factual account of the Seventeenth Century world, this was a morally prescriptive representation
of a wise, good, and pious life. .
Moving from simple to complex, learning started with a symbolic alphabet that taught the
sound of letters through association with animal cries. Next came practice enunciating strings of
syllables. Children would then work through the book reading the page titles with the aid of
accompanying diagrams. After much repetition they would turn to the vernacular passages
below. At this point a grammar could be employed to teach the parts of speech. Finally, when
proficient in their first language, they would commence Latin, using the illustrations and parallel
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text to fathom the meanings of words. While the larger purpose of Orbis pictus no doubt
escaped most parents and teachers, it is uncontestable that this remarkable work—foreshadowing
contemporary children’s books—played an important part in the development of Western
literacy.
Obviously, books alone would not reform human nature and restore the “image of God in
man.” In The school of infancy (1631) he warned parents that children naturally imitate the
behaviors they observe in others. Given the potent force of example, the greatest care had to be
taken to ensure the virtuous conduct of the entire household. In his later writings Comenius
(1993, 1995) extends this mandate to the entire community. Promising a “golden age wherein
the brightness of true wisdom would influence the minds of all men” he advocated a totalizing
system of psychological controls (p. 51). In this didactic state language, the calendar, customs,
laws, religious practices, the home, and all other social institutions would be regulated to ensure
compliance with pansophic truths. At times Comenius sounds quite Orwellian. He demanded
the censorship of dissenting opinion and silence before the word of God. Indeed, if mankind was
to live under the monarchy of the Almighty children had to be taught that the human conscience
operated “like your spy, your reporter, your future accuser and judge” (p. 22). The Old Adam
had to be killed for Christ to reign within.
While this picture of reason, freedom, and equality may accord with life in the
harmonious Eden of Orbis pictus, it is hard to see how supports policies in an open society.
Comenius’ expansive vision of education, his attention to the child’s natural powers, and his
creative use of sense-based instruction were revolutionary. Indeed, there is much we can still
learn from his sensitive and subtle insights, but his goal of regulating individuals to think and act
19 | P a g e
in accordance with universal truths is clearly at odds with democratic ideals and the kind of
creative problem-solving skills needed for life in an ever-changing world.
With these strictures in mind, Comenian scholarship still has much to offer. Analysis of
his voluminous writings, together with contextual explorations of his many practical projects,
can provide an unparalleled window into the political, religious, and epistemic landscape of the
Seventeenth Century world. Researchers can also explore Comenius’ influence on other
educational and religious thinkers across the continent. For example, informed by Hotson’s
(2007) analysis of Ramist pedagogy, historians could take a closer look at Comenius’ association
with Hartlib and John Dury. This would help illuminate European influences on the educational
aspirations of English Puritans, perhaps revealing, as John White (2011) speculates, the origins
of the modern secondary school curriculum and its accompanying instructional methods. No
doubt, Comenius’ writings will continue to be mined for pedagogic and political insights. At a
time when attention is focused on narrow utilitarian goals, his concern with the whole child—
their affective, intellectual, moral, and spiritual development—demonstrates a vital standard any
philosophy of education must meet. The promise of peace through universal education also
remains a potent message. The challenge will be to make sense of these ideals while recognizing
the religious origins of Comenius’ pansophic vision and epistemological justification of his
didactic method.
20 | P a g e
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