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The Rudolf Steiner Archive

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Human Values in Education
GA 310

VII. Diet for Children, Four Temperaments

23 July 1924, Arnheim

From the lectures which have been given here, dealing with an art of education built upon the foundation of a knowledge of man, you formed a clear idea of what should be the relation between teacher and taught. What lives in the soul, in the whole personality of the teacher, works in hundreds of unseen ways from the educator over to the children his pupils. But it only works if the educator bears within his soul a true and penetrating knowledge of man, a knowledge which is approaching the transition leading over into spiritual experience. And today I must precede my lecture with a few remarks which may serve to clarify what is to be understood in the anthroposophical sense by spiritual experience, for just in regard to this the most erroneous ideas abound.

It is so easy to think that in the first place spiritual perception must rise above everything of a material nature. Certainly one can attain to a deeply satisfying soul experience, even though this may be coloured by egotistical feeling, when, rising above the material, one ascends into the spiritual world. We must do this also. For we can only learn to know the spiritual when we acquire this knowledge in the realm of the spirit; and anthroposophy must deal in many ways with spiritual realms and spiritual beings which have nothing to do with the physical world of the senses. And when it is a question of learning to know what is so necessary for modern man, to know about the life between death and a new birth, the actual super-sensible life of man before birth or conception and the life after death, then we must certainly rise up to body-free, super-sensible, super-physical perception. But we must of course act and work within the physical world; we must stand firmly in this world. If we are teachers, for instance, we are not called upon to teach disembodied souls. We cannot ask ourselves, if we wish to be teachers; What is our relationship to souls who have passed through death and are living in the spiritual world?—But if we wish to work as teachers between birth and death, we must ask ourselves: In what way does a soul dwell within the physical body? And indeed we must consider this, at any rate for the years after birth. It is actually a question of being able to gaze with the spirit into the material. And Anthroposophy, Spiritual Science, is in this respect largely a matter of looking into the material with the spirit.

But the opposite procedure is also right: one must penetrate with spiritual vision into the spiritual world, penetrate so far that the spiritual seems to be every bit as full of “living sap” as anything in the sense world; one must be able to speak about the spiritual as if it radiated colours, as if its tones were audible, as if it were standing before one as much “embodied” as the beings of the sense world. In anthroposophy it is first this which causes abstract philosophers such intense annoyance. They find it exceedingly annoying that the spiritual investigator describes the spiritual world and spiritual beings in such a way that it seems as if he might meet these beings at any moment, just as he might meet human beings; that he might hold out his hand to them and speak with them. He describes these spiritual beings just as though they were earthly beings; indeed his description makes them appear almost as if they were earthly beings. In other words, he portrays the spiritual in pictures comprehensible to the senses. He does this in full consciousness, because for him the spiritual is an absolute reality. There is some truth in it, too, because a real knowledge of the whole world leads to the point at which one can “give one's hand” to spiritual beings, one can meet them and converse with them. That strikes the philosopher, who is only willing to conceive the spiritual world by means of abstract concepts, as being paradoxical, to say the least of it; nevertheless such a description is necessary. On the other hand it is also necessary to look right through a human being, so that the material part of him vanishes completely, and he stands there purely as a spirit. When however a non-anthroposophist wishes to look upon a man as spirit, then this man is not only a ghost, but something much less than a ghost. He is a sort of coat-hanger on which are hung all kinds of concepts which serve to activate mental pictures and so on. In comparison a ghost is quite respectably solid, but a human being as described by such a philosopher is really indecently naked in regard to the spirit. In anthroposophy physical man is contemplated by means of purely spiritual perception, but nevertheless he still has brains, liver, lungs and so on; he is a concrete human being; he has everything that is found in him when the corpse is dissected. Everything that is spiritual in its nature works right down into the physical. The physical is observed spiritually, but nevertheless man possesses a physical body. He can even “blow his nose” in a spiritual sense; spiritual reality goes as far as this. Only by becoming aware that in contemplating the physical it can become completely spiritual, and in contemplating the spiritual it can be brought down again so that it becomes almost physical, only by this awareness can the two be brought together. The physical human being can be contemplated in a condition of health and illness; but the ponderable material vanishes, it becomes spiritual. And the spiritual can be contemplated as it is between death and a new birth and, pictorially speaking, it becomes physical. Thus the two are brought together.

Man learns to penetrate into the real human being through the fact that there are these two possibilities, the possibility of beholding the spiritual by means of sense-perceptible pictures and the possibility of beholding spiritual entities in the world of the senses. If therefore the question arises: How may spiritual vision be understood in its real and true sense?—the answer must be: One must learn to see all that appertains to the senses in a spiritual way, and one must look at the spiritual in a way that is akin to the senses. This seems paradoxical, but it is so. And only after entering into what I have just said and realising its truth, can one reach the point of looking at the child in the right way.

I will give you an example. A child in my class becomes paler and paler. I see this increasing pallor. It shows itself in the physical life of the child, but we gain nothing by going to the doctor and getting him to prescribe something that will bring back the child's colour; for, should we do so, the following may well be the result: The child grows pale and this is observed, so the school doctor comes and prescribes something which is intended to restore the lost colour. Now even if the doctor has acted perfectly correctly and has prescribed a quite good remedy, which he must do in such cases, nevertheless something rather strange will be observed in the child who is now “cured.” Indeed in a sense he is cured, and anyone in a position of seniority to the doctor, who might be called upon to write a testimonial for the authorities, could well say that the doctor had cured the child—later, however, it is noticeable at school that the child who has been cured in this way is no longer able to take things in properly; he has become fidgety and restless and has lost all power of attention. Whereas previously he used to sit in his place, pale and somewhat indolent, he now begins to pommel his neighbour; and whereas previously he had clipped his pen gently into the inkwell, he now sticks it in with so much force that the ink spurts up and bespatters his exercise book. The doctor did his duty but the result was the reverse of beneficial, for it sometimes happens that people who have been “cured” suffer later on from extraordinary after-effects.

Again, in such a case it is important to recognise what actually lies at the root of the trouble. If the teacher is able to penetrate into the soul-spiritual cause of what finds its outer physical expression in a growing pallor, he will become aware of the following. The power of memory which works in the soul-spiritual is nothing else than the transformed, metamorphosed force of growth; and to develop the forces of growth and nourishment is just the same, albeit on a different level, as it is, on a higher level, to cultivate the memory, the power of recollection. It is the same force, but in a different stage of metamorphosis. Pictured systematically we can say: During the first years of a child's life both these forces are merged into one another, they have not yet separated; later on memory separates from this state of fusion and becomes a power in itself, and the same holds good for the power of growth and nourishment. The small child still needs the forces which later develop memory in order that he may digest milk and the stomach be able to carry out its functions; this is why he cannot remember anything. Later, when the power of memory is no longer the servant of the stomach, when the stomach makes fewer demands on it and only retains a minimum of these forces, then part of the forces of growth are transformed into a quality of soul, into memory, the power of recollection. Possibly the other children in the class are more robust, the division between the power of memory and of growth may be better balanced, and so, perhaps, the teacher pays less heed to a child who in this respect has little to fall back on. If this is the case it may easily happen that his power of memory is overburdened, too much being demanded of this emancipated faculty. The child grows pale and the teacher must needs say to himself: “I have put too much strain on your memory; that is why you have grown so pale.” It is very noticeable that when such a child is relieved of this burden he gets his colour back again. But the teacher must understand that the growing pale is connected with what he has done himself in the first place, by overburdening the child with what has to be remembered. It is very important to be able to look right into physical symptoms and to realise that if a child grows too pale it is because his memory has been overburdened.

But I may have another child in the class who from time to time becomes strikingly red in the face and this also may be a cause for concern. If this occurs, if a hectic red flush makes its appearance, it is very easy to recognise certain accompanying conditions in the child's soul-life; for in the strangest way, at times when one would least expect it, such children fall into a passion of anger, they become over-emotional. Naturally there can be the same procedure as before: A rush of blood to the head—something must be prescribed for it. Of course, in such cases too, the doctor does his duty. But it is important to know something else, namely, that this child, in contrast to the other, has been neglected in respect of his faculty of memory. Too many of these forces have gone down into the forces of his growth and nourishment. In this case one must try to make greater demands on the child's power of memory. If this is done such symptoms will disappear.

Only when we take into our ken the physical and the spiritual as united do we learn to recognise many things in the school which are in need of readjustment. We train ourselves to recognise this interconnection of physical and spiritual when we look at what lies between them as part of the whole human organisation, namely, the temperaments. The children come to school and they have the four temperaments, varied of course with all kinds of transitions and mixtures: the melancholic, the phlegmatic, the sanguine and the choleric. In our Waldorf education great value is laid on being able to enter into and understand the child according to his temperament. The actual seating of the children in the classroom is arranged on this basis. We try for instance to discover which are the choleric children; these we place together, so that it is possible for the teacher to know: There in that corner I have the children who tend to be choleric. In another, the phlegmatic children are seated, somewhere in the middle are the sanguines and again somewhere else, grouped together are the melancholies. This method of grouping has great advantages. Experience shows that after a while the phlegmatics become so bored with sitting together that, as a means of getting rid of this boredom, they begin to rub it off on one another. On the other hand the cholerics pommel one another so much that quite soon this too becomes very much better. It is the same with the fidgety ways of the sanguines, and the melancholies also see what it is like when others are absorbed in melancholy. Thus to handle the children in such a way that one sees how “like reacts favourably on like” is very good even from an external point of view, quite apart from the fact that by doing so the teacher has the possibility of surveying the whole class, for this is much easier when children of similar temperament are seated together.

Now however we come to the essential point. The teacher must enter so deeply into the nature of the human being that he is able to deal in a truly practical way with the choleric, the sanguine, the melancholic temperament. There will naturally be cases where it is necessary to build the bridge of which I have already spoken, the bridge between school and home, and this must be done in a friendly and tactful way. Let us suppose that I have a melancholic child in the class, with whom I can do scarcely anything. I am unable to enter into his difficulties in the right way. He broods and is withdrawn, is occupied with himself and pays no heed to what is going on in the class. If one applies an education that is not founded on a knowledge of man one may think that everything possible should be done to attract his attention and draw him out of himself. As a rule however such a procedure will make things still worse; the child broods more than ever. All these means of effecting a cure, thought out in such an amateurish way, help but little. What helps most in such a case is the spontaneous love which the teacher feels for the child, for then he is aware of sympathy, and this stirs and moves what is more subconscious in him. We may be sure that anything in the way of exhortation is not only wasted effort, but is actually harmful, for the child becomes more melancholic than before. But in class it helps greatly if one tries to enter into the melancholy, tries to discover the direction to which it tends, and then shows interest in the child's attitude of mind, becoming in a certain way, by what one does oneself, melancholic with the melancholic child. As a teacher one must bear within oneself all four temperaments in harmonious, balanced activity. And this balance, which is in direct contradiction to the child's melancholy, if it is continued and is always present in one's relationship to the child, is perceived by him. He sees what kind of man his teacher is by what underlies his words. And in this way, creeping in behind the mask of melancholy, which the teacher accepts, there is implanted in the child his teacher's loving sympathy. This can be of great help in the class.

But now we will go further, for we must know that every manifestation of melancholy in a human being is connected with some irregularity in the function of the liver. This may seem unlikely to the physicist, but it is nevertheless a fact that every kind of melancholy, especially if it goes so far in a child as to become pathological, is due to some irregularity of this kind. In such a case I shall turn to the parents of the child and say: “It would be good to put more sugar in his food than you usually do.” He needs sweet things, for sugar helps to normalise the function of the liver. And by giving the mother this advice: “Give the child more sugar”—I shall get school and home working together, in order to lift this melancholy out of the pathological condition into which it has sunk and so create the possibility of finding the right constitutional treatment.

Or I may have a sanguine child, a child who goes from one impression to another; who always wants what comes next, almost before he has got hold of what precedes it; who makes a strong start, showing great interest in everything, but whose interest soon fades out. He is not dark as a rule, but fair. I am now faced with the problem of how to deal with him at school. In everything I do I shall try to be more sanguine than the child. I shall change the impressions I make on him extremely quickly, so that he is not left hurrying from one impression to another at his own sweet will, but must come with me at my pace. This is quite another story. He soon has enough of it and finally gives up. But between what I myself do in bringing impressions to the child in this very sanguine way, and what he does himself in hurrying from one thing to another in accordance with his temperament, there is gradually established in him, as a kind of natural reaction, a more harmonious condition. So I can treat the child in this way. I can present him with rapidly changing impressions, always thinking out something new, so that he sees, as it were, first black, then white, and must continually hurry from one thing to another. I now get in touch with the mother and I will certainly hear from her that the child has an inordinate love of sugar. Perhaps he is given a great many sweets or somehow manages to get hold of them, or maybe the family as such is very fond of sweet dishes.

If this is not so, then his mother's milk was too sweet, it contained too much sugar. So I explain this to the mother and advise her to put the child on a diet for a time and reduce the amount of sugar she gives him. In this way, by arranging with the parents for a diet with little sugar, co-operation is brought about between home and school. The reduction of sugar will gradually help to overcome the abnormality which, in the case of this child also, is caused by irregularity in the activity of the liver in respect of the secretion of gall. There is a very slight, barely noticeable irregularity in the secretion of gall. Here too I shall recognise the help given me by the parents.

So we must know as a matter of actual fact where, so to speak, the physical stands within the spiritual, where it is one with the Spiritual.

It is possible to go into more detail and say: A child shows a rapid power of comprehension, he understands everything very easily; but when after a few days I come back to what he grasped so quickly and about which I was so pleased, it has vanished; it is no longer there. Here again I can do a good deal at school to improve matters. I shall try to put forward and explain something which demands a more concentrated attention than the child is accustomed to give. He understands things too quickly, it is not necessary for him to make enough inner effort, so that what he learns may really impress itself on him. I shall therefore give him hard nuts to crack, I shall give him something which is more difficult to grasp and demands more attention. This I can do at school. But now once more I get in touch with the child's parents and from them I may hear various things. What I am now saying will not hold good in every case, but I want to give some indication of the path to be pursued. I shall have a tactful discussion with the mother, avoiding any suspicion of riding the high horse by talking down to her and giving her instructions. From our conversation I shall find out how she caters for the family and I shall most likely discover that this particular child eats too many potatoes. The situation is a little difficult because now the mother may say, “Well, you tell me that my child eats too many potatoes; but my neighbour's little daughter eats more still and she has not the same failing, so the trouble cannot be caused by potato-eating.” Something of this kind is what the mother may say. And nevertheless it does come from eating potatoes, because the organisation of children differs, one child being able to assimilate more potato and another less. And the curious thing is this. The condition of a particular child shows that he has been getting too many potatoes; it is shown by the fact that his memory does not function as it should. Now in this case the remedy is not to be found by giving him fewer potatoes. It may even happen that this is done and there is some improvement; but after a time things are no better than before. Here the immediate reduction of the amount of potato does not bring about the required effect, but it is a question of gradually breaking a habit, of exercising the activity needed in order to break a habit. So one must say to the mother, “For the first week give the child a tiny bit less potato; for the second week a very little less still; and continue in this way, so that the child is actively engaged in accustoming himself to eating only a small amount of potato.” In this case it is a question of breaking a habit, and here one will see what a healing effect can be induced just by this means.

Now idealists, so-called, very likely reproach anthroposophy and maintain that it is materialistic. They actually do so. When for example an anthroposophist says that a child who comprehends easily but does not retain what he has learnt, should have his potato ration gradually decreased, then people say: You are an absolute materialist. Nevertheless there exists such an intimate interplay between matter and spirit that one can only work effectively when one can penetrate matter with spiritual perception and master it through spiritual knowledge. It is hardly necessary to say how greatly these things are sinned against in our present-day social life. But if a teacher is open to a world conception which reveals wide vistas he will arrive at an understanding of these things. He must only extend his outlook. For instance it will impress a teacher favourably and help him to gain an understanding of children if he learns how little sugar is consumed in Russia and how much in England. And if he proceeds to compare the Russian with the English temperament he will readily understand what an effect sugar has on temperament. It is advantageous to learn to know the world, so that this knowledge can come to our assistance in the tasks of every day. But now I will add something else. In Baden, in Germany, there is a remarkable monument erected as a memorial to Drake. I once wanted to know what was specially significant about this Drake, so I looked it up in an encyclopaedia and read: In Offenburg a monument was erected in memory of Drake because he was thought, albeit erroneously, to be the man who introduced the potato into Europe. There it stands in black and white. So a memorial was erected in honour of this man because he was considered to be the one who introduced the potato into Europe. He didn't do so, but nevertheless he has got a memorial in Offenburg.

The potato was, however, introduced into Europe in comparatively recent times. And now I am going to tell you something about which you can laugh as much as you like. Nevertheless it is the truth. It is possible to study how the faculties of intelligence in human beings are related in their development from the time when there were no potatoes to the time when they were introduced. And, as you know, the potato is made use of in alcohol-distilleries. So potatoes suddenly began to play an important part in the development of European humanity. If you compare the increasing use of the potato with the curve of the development of intelligence, you will find that in comparison with the present day people living in the pre-potato age grasped things with less detail, but what they grasped they held fast. Their nature tended to be conservative, it was deeply inward. After the introduction of the potato people became quicker in regard to intelligent mobility of comprehension, but what they took in was not retained, it did not sink in deeply. The history of the development of the intelligence runs parallel with that of potato-eating. So here again we have an example of how anthroposophy explains this materialistically. But so it is. And much might be learned about cultural history if people everywhere could only know how in man's subconsciousness the external physical seizes hold of the spiritual. This becomes apparent in the nature of his desires.

Let us now choose as an example someone who has to write a great deal. Every day he has to write articles for the newspapers, so that he is obliged “to chew his pen” in order to produce what is necessary. If one has been through this oneself one can talk about it, but one has no right just to criticise others unless one speaks out of personal experience. While cogitating and biting one's pen one feels the need of coffee, for drinking coffee helps cohesion of thought. Thoughts become more logical when one drinks coffee than if one refrains from doing so. A journalist must needs enjoy coffee, for if he does not drink it his work takes more out of him. Now, as a contrast, let us take a diplomat. Call to mind what a diplomat had to acquire before the world war. He had to learn to use his legs in a special, approved manner; in the social circles in which he moved he had to learn to glide rather than set his foot down firmly as plainer folk do. He had also to be able to have thoughts which are somewhat fleeting and fluid. If a diplomat has a logical mind he will quite certainly fail in his profession and be unsuccessful in his efforts to help the nations solve their dilemmas. When diplomats are together—well, then one does not say they are having their coffee but they are having tea—for at such times there is the need to drink one cup of tea after another, so that the interchange of thought does not proceed in logical sequence, but springs as far as possible from one idea to the next. This is why diplomats love to drink tea; tea releases one thought from the next, it makes thinking fluid and fleeting, it destroys logic. So we may say: Writers are lovers of coffee, diplomats lovers of tea, in both cases out of a perfectly right instinct.

If we know this, we shall not look upon it as an infringement of human freedom. For obviously logic is not a product of coffee, it is only an unconscious, subconscious help towards it. The soul therefore remains free.

It is just when we are bearing the child especially in mind that it is necessary to look into relationships such as these, about which we get some idea when we can say: Tea is the drink for diplomats, coffee the drink for writers, and so on. Then we are also able gradually to gain an insight into the effects produced by the potato. The potato makes great demands on the digestion; moreover very small, almost homeopathic doses come from the digestive organs and rise up into the brain. This homeopathic dose is nevertheless very potent, it stimulates the forces of abstract intelligence. At this point I may perhaps be allowed to divulge something further. If we examine the substance of the potato through the microscope we obtain the well-known form of carbohydrates, and if we observe the astral body of someone who has eaten a large portion of potatoes we notice that in the region of the brain, about 3 centimetres behind the forehead, the potato substance begins to be active here also and to form the same eccentric circles. The movements of the astral body take on a similarity with the substance of the potato and the potato-eater becomes exceptionally intelligent. He bubbles over with intelligence, but this does not last, it is quite transient. Must one then not admit, provided one concedes that man possesses spirit and soul, that it is not altogether foolish and fantastic to speak of the spirit and to speak of it in images taken from the world of sense? Those who want always to speak of the spirit in abstract terms present us with nothing of a truly spiritual nature. It is otherwise with those who are able to bring the spirit down to earth in sense-perceptible pictures. Such a man can say that in the case of someone bubbling over with intelligence potato-substance takes on form in the brain, but does so in the spiritual sense. In this way we learn to recognise subtle and delicate differentiations and transitions. We discover that tea as regards its effects on logic makes a cleavage between thoughts, but it does not stimulate thinking. In saying that diplomats have a predilection for tea one does not imply that they can produce thoughts. On the other hand potatoes do stimulate thoughts. Swift as lightning they shoot thoughts upwards, only to let them vanish away again. But, accompanying this swift up-surging of thoughts, which can also take place in children, there goes a parallel process, an undermining of the digestive system. We shall be able to see in children whose digestive system is upset in this way, so that they complain of constipation, that all kinds of useless yet clever thoughts shoot up into their heads, thoughts which they certainly lose again but which nevertheless have been there.

I mention these things in detail so that you may see how the soul-spiritual and the physical must be looked upon as a whole, as a unity, and how in the course of human development a state of things must again be brought about which is able to hold together the most varied streams of culture. At the present time we are living in an epoch in which they are completely sundered from one another. This becomes clear to us however when we are able to look somewhat more deeply into the history of the evolution of mankind.

Today we separate religion, art and science from one another. And the guardians of religion, do all in their power to preserve religion from being encroached upon in any way by science. They maintain that religion is a matter of faith, and science belongs elsewhere. Science has its base where nothing is based on faith, where everything is founded on knowledge. But if one is to succeed in separating them in this way, the spiritual is cut off from science and the world is cut off from religion, with the result that religion becomes abstract and science devoid of spirit. Art is completely emancipated. In our time there are people, who, when one would like to tell them something about the super-sensible, assume an air of clever superiority and regard one as superstitious: “Poor fellow! We know all that is sheer nonsense!”—But then a Björnson or someone else writes something or other in which such things play a part; something of the kind is introduced into art and thereupon everybody runs after it and enjoys in art what was rejected in the form of knowledge. Superstition sometimes appears in strange guise. I once had an acquaintance—such actual examples should most certainly be brought into the art of education, an art which can only be learned from life—I once had an acquaintance who was a dramatist. On one occasion I met him in the street; he was running extraordinarily quickly, perspiring as he went. It was 3 minutes to 8 o'clock in the evening. I asked him where he was going at such a pace. He was, however, in a great hurry and only said that he must rush to catch the post, for the post office closed at 8 o'clock. I did not detain him, but psychologically I was interested to know the reason for his haste so I waited until he returned. He came back after a while in a great heat, and then he was more communicative. I wanted to know why he was in such a hurry to catch the post, and he said, “Oh, I have just sent off my play.” Previously he had always said that this play was not yet finished, and he said the same again now; “It is true that it is still unfinished, but I wanted particularly to get it off today, so that the director may receive it tomorrow. I have just written him a letter to this effect asking him to let me have it back. For you see, if a play is sent off before the end of the month it may be chosen for a performance; there is no chance otherwise!”—Now this dramatist was an extremely enlightened, intelligent man. Nevertheless he believed that if a play was despatched on a definite day it would be accepted, even if, owing to being unfinished, it had to be returned. From this incident you can see how things which people are apt to despise creep into some hole and corner, out of which they raise their heads at the very next opportunity.

This is especially the case with a child. We believe we have managed to rid him of something, but straightaway there it is again somewhere else. We must learn to look out for this. We must open our hearts when making a study of man, so that a true art of education may be based on an understanding and knowledge of the human being. Only by going into details shall we be able to fathom all these things.

Today then, as I was saying, religion, art and science are spoken about as though they were entirely unrelated. This was not so in long past ages of human evolution. Then they were a complete unity. At that time there existed Mystery Centres which were also centres for education and culture, centres dedicated at one and the same time to the cultivation of religion, art and science. For then what was imparted as knowledge consisted of pictures, representations and mental images of the spiritual world. These were received in such an intuitive and comprehensive way that they were transformed into external sense-perceptible symbols and thereby became the basis of cultic ceremonial. Science was embodied in such cults, as was art also; for what was taken from the sphere of knowledge and given external form must perforce be beautiful. Thus in those times a divine truth, a moral goodness and a sense-perceptible beauty existed in the Mystery Centres, as a unity comprised of religion, art and science. It was only later that this unity split up and became science, religion and art, each existing by and for itself. In our time this separation has reached its culminating point. Things which are essentially united have in the course of cultural development become divided. The nature of man is however such, that for him it is a necessity to experience the three in their “oneness” and not regard them as separate. He can only experience in unity religious science, scientific religion and artistic ideality, otherwise he is inwardly torn asunder. For this reason wherever this division, this differentiation, has reached its highest pitch it has become imperative to find once more the connection between these three spheres. And we shall see how in our teaching we can bring art, religion and science to the child in a unified form. We shall see how the child responds in a living way to this bringing together of religion, art and science, for it is in harmony with his own inner nature. I have therefore had again and again to point out in no uncertain terms that we must strive to educate the child out of a knowledge that he is in truth a being with aesthetic potentialities; and we should neglect no opportunity of demonstrating how in the very first years of life the child experiences religion naturally and instinctively.

All these things, the harmonious coming together of religion, art and science must be grasped in the right way and their value recognised in those teaching methods about which we have still to speak.