1890: An Introduction to Elementary and Moral Philosophy
Delivered by Mr Bartleby Tremaine (House Lecturer and perpetual interruption to complacency) to the First‑Year Students, Brithius’ College
Gentlemen—if indeed you are yet sufficiently civilised to answer to that term—welcome to Brithius’ and, more narrowly, to the discipline of Elementary and Moral Philosophy. “Elementary,” because I have no illusions about your intellectual infancy; “Moral,” because your parents have paid in advance for the conviction that it can be taught.
Let me begin by warning you that philosophy, like the school pudding, is seldom improved by enquiry into its origins. The Greeks, whose chief occupation was naming things they did not understand, defined philosophy as the love of wisdom. That, of course, was their first error. No Englishman ever loved wisdom; he merely tolerated it as evidence of good breeding. We prefer to be thought right rather than profound—a social necessity with which I sympathise, having found both conditions difficult to maintain simultaneously.
Still, we must have definitions. Elementary philosophy concerns itself with the nature of thought, truth, and conduct; moral philosophy concerns itself with the propriety of your excuses. The distinction, though subtle, is essential. You may, for instance, think profoundly that stealing jam is wrong (elementary), and yet, under moral pressure, proceed to steal it delicately (moral). The object of my course is to teach you how to remain philosophical during the punishment.
Now, it is fashionable for modern pedagogy to insist that thought arises naturally in the young. This is pure calumny. Thought, much like cricket, must be drilled and supervised lest it become irregular. Free-thinking boys grow into unconventional men, and unconventional men disturb dinner tables. We cultivate here the higher sanity of agreement: the intellectual equivalent of empire, in which all territories eventually adopt our manners.
You will see that philosophy operates, therefore, not to uncover truth—that vulgar enterprise of journalists—but to establish the conditions of comfortable opinion. Truth, like Stilton, improves only when confined; set it abroad and the result is generally a revolution.
Let us proceed to morality. The moral man, properly speaking, is one who observes the rules while composing better ones. There are three principal schools of moral thought, of which only two are tolerable and none are conclusive. The Stoics taught submission to fate—a charming creed if one also possesses slaves. The Epicureans taught moderation in pleasure, which is like preaching discretion to a cat. Our own Anglican philosophers, not to be outdone, combined both errors, advising us to endure the world while pretending to enjoy it. The result, gentlemen, is the English character.
A boy at Benedict’s is expected to practise morality chiefly through omission. You will be judged not by what you achieve but by what you refrain from doing with excessive enthusiasm. The disorderly display of virtue is nearly as offensive as that of emotion. An action ceases to be moral the instant it becomes interesting. If you can remember that principle, you may hope to reach adulthood without prosecution or poetry.
Let us turn briefly to manners, which are morality’s visible skeleton. A gentleman’s conduct must resemble a compass: fixed externally, spinning internally. One greets one’s inferior as though one had no idea he existed, which preserves both parties from embarrassment. You will find that the etiquette of indifference is universally admired.
Regarding punishment: philosophy recognises two kinds—retributive and instructive. The former ensures justice; the latter, comprehension. At Brithius’ we wisely employ both, customarily in reverse order. You will first comprehend why your conduct displeases, and then justice will be applied to confirm the insight. Pain, gentlemen, is the educational equivalent of punctuation—without it, meaning wanders hopelessly.
Now, none of this lofty system would function were it not for the faculty of conscience, that interior whisper which tells us the Headmaster is approaching. Conscience, you will discover, is chiefly precautionary—useful in corridors and occasionally in Parliament. Some of the French Schools maintain that conscience originates in reason; the Germans, in metaphysics; the English, in fees. The last, I find, most credible.
I must also forewarn you against that philosophical pest, self‑expression. It has lately plagued the more artistic houses, where boys afflicted with originality have taken to writing verses about sunsets that never existed. Expression, left ungoverned, leads directly to journalism, and from there to exile. You may think what you please, gentlemen, but never at length and never in public.
Finally, you must realise that philosophy, for an Englishman, is not a journey but a posture: the calm acceptance that one’s ignorance has at least been expensively acquired. You will leave this school instructed to conceal your uncertainty with conviction, and your curiosity with good form. Future generations will call this hypocrisy; we prefer to call it reserve.
I shall require from each of you a brief weekly essay—preferably legible—on such topics as “The Duty of Gratitude among the Educated” or “The Impertinence of Happiness.” I will mark not for substance, which is hereditary, but for style, which is redeemable.
We shall meet twice weekly, unless diverted by empire, and on Sundays you will report to chapel for practical demonstrations in moral philosophy. There, gentlemen, you will observe the complete contraction of thought: belief rehearsed through repetition, discipline masquerading as devotion. It is, I assure you, the most perfect symbiosis of intellect and indolence known to the civilised world.
I trust this has explained the nature of your instruction. The rest you will discover painfully and forget dutifully. Remember—philosophy, like soap, is valued only when applied discreetly. You are, after all, being educated for society, not improved for heaven.
Now collect your timetables, gentlemen, and reflect upon the moral triumph of punctuality; it is often the only one to survive adolescence.
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