A Review of John Milton Gregory’s “The Seven Laws of Teaching”

Like many classics, John Milton Gregory’s The Seven Laws of Teaching is a book which is read because it is assigned. If reading the book were merely an option, few people would make it beyond the first few lines. “Teaching has its natural laws as fixed as the laws of the planets or of growing organisms. It is a process in which definite forces are employed to produce definite results, and these results follow as regularly and certainly as the day follows the sun,” begins Gregory, and by my count, there’s not a single passage in the thirty-thousand words which follow that ever breaks from the imperative, dogmatic, and humorless tone set on the first page. The Seven Laws of Teaching is not a book that is apt to win any converts to the profession, nor to make the teacher on summer break look forward to resuming their work in late August.  

At the same time, it’s for this reason the book has a paradoxical charm.  

A good deal of the pedagogical instruction which is popular in our day banks rather heavily on being affirmative, positive, and inspirational. The reader of modern books about pedagogy is supposed to sigh often over the mystery of the universe, the wisdom of children, and the beautiful brokenness of our present condition. Gregory’s book has none of this, though. The Seven Laws is a book about teaching which is written by a man for other men—and not just other men, but men who lived before the advent of the automobile, the airplane, or the popularization of indoor plumbing or electric light. Nonetheless, Gregory’s only real concern is describing the intellectual relationship between teacher and student, which technology has not changed. 

What is more, there is no mention of quizzes, tests, grades, parent-teacher conferences, transcripts, or college anywhere in Gregory’s book. All of his thoughts about teaching are both unencumbered and uninformed by all the extraneous political and social considerations which weigh heavily on the modern instructor. In this, The Seven Laws of Teaching oscillates easily between purity and naivete.  

While it wouldn’t be fair to say that Gregory has a narrow view of teaching, nearly everything he says about pedagogy centers on “knowledge.” Almost nothing is said of “wisdom.” As such, he believes that teaching is a science, not an art. It is for this reason that he can lay down “laws” of teaching rather than principles and never feel the need to hedge his bets, provide qualifications, or state exceptions—and yet, Gregory often speaks on principle and some of his most helpful thoughts take the shape of proverbs. Otherwise, though, Gregory believes that teaching is not a supernatural endeavor, but a natural one, and is no less predictable in its inputs or results than the quadratic equation or the Law of Universal Gravitation. In the same way a scientist need not be winsome, witty, humorous, kind, or virtuous to make discoveries or prove theorems, so, too, “No one who thoroughly masters [the seven laws] and uses them need fail as a teacher…” 

A good education includes instruction in subjects that can be mastered (knowledge) and subjects that cannot (wisdom). At a certain point, a student will be as proficient in his times tables as is humanly possible, whereas no student masters a book like Paradise Lost. Because his educational interests are confined to subjects that can be mastered, Gregory’s highest aspiration is the self-motivated student. He asserts, “True teaching, then, is not that which GIVES knowledge, but that which stimulates pupils to GAIN it. One might say that he teaches BEST who teaches LEAST.” Claims like these would later solidify into that assertion (or slogan) which was so popular in the first wave of classical education: “We teach students how to think, not what to think.” The teacher is not so much bequeathing a spirit to his student, or the body of a civilization, or a proper hierarchy of loves, but the ability to figure out things for himself. Tools of inquiry which may be employed however the student thinks best. However, the greatest teachers (Elijah, Christ… or even just Steven Spielberg) form pupils who are like themselves in temperament and soul.   

Having stated these criticisms and reservations, Gregory’s book is also the distillation of much experience and accordingly has many pearls to offer. The Seven Laws is strongest when Gregory’s comments quickly connect with classroom phenomena common to every teacher. “A review is more than a repetition. A machine may repeat a process, but only an intelligent agent can review it… But the repetitions of a review are not made the same hour. They are spread over days and weeks, and hence a new element is brought into play. The lapse of time changes the point of view…” writes Gregory, and the reason that some of my own reviews have felt pointless immediately becomes clear. Repetition need not be a carbon copy of the original. A good review requires students to see the same thing, albeit from different angles and in new contexts.  

Given his dogmatic mood, Gregory’s strength as a writer isn’t in his ability to explain himself, but his ability to speak in “well-driven nails,” as Solomon once put it. I found myself anxious to get to the “Rules for teachers” section which concluded each chapter because the itemized, axiomatic format worked better for the author than the discursive format. “Repress the desire to tell all you know or think about the lesson or subject,” he says, not really explaining himself, but leaving the reader to (profitably) figure out why. “Do not answer too promptly the questions asked, but restate them, to give them greater force and breadth…” Many teachers do this intuitively, though Gregory’s observation codifies it, and allows the teacher to do with intention what may have only been done before by accident.  

The Seven Laws of Teaching is a worthwhile read, though I am non-plussed to see it named as “the best book on pedagogy” in numerous five-star reviews on Good Reads. Any evaluation of this book must not only contend with the substance of the arguments, but with the reputation this book obtained in the classical education movement, but only marginally maintains. The first wave of classical Christian education (1980-2000) was almost entirely unconcerned with pedagogy. Rather, new books were replaced with old ones, and new subjects were replaced with old ones; the conviction that all these things must be taught differently was still to come. It was during the first wave that Gregory’s book took root, though this was largely because books about pedagogy weren’t in high demand. One was good enough. But the second wave of classical Christian education (2000-2020) was entirely given over to pedagogy, classroom culture, and rode the popular wave of #liturgy which was then ascendant in American Christianity. During this time, a number of fine books on pedagogy were published, The Seven Laws was no longer the only pedagogy game in town, and John Milton Gregory’s vitality to the movement came into question.  

The third wave of classical Christian education began with the pandemic. It was at this point that classical Christian education became self-reflective and began coming to terms with the diversity of political opinions and cultural temperaments that were (uncomfortably) squashed into the same social phenomenon. Oddly enough, it was just at the point of this realization that classical Christian education opens its doors even wider to accept a deluge of refugees from the public schools that were either shuttered, online only, or else so beclowned with COVID safety protocols as to be useless. The recognition of this political diversity inaugurated the early stages of a bifurcation in the movement which is far for complete. On one side of the divide, we find schools that responded to the recognition of intense political disagreement in the movement by attempting to recast the movement as apolitical. On the other side, schools that doubled down on Aristotle’s assertion that education is “inherently political.” While both sides still share a number of slogans, values, and a common vocabulary, the apolitical side tends to thrive in large schools set in metropolitan cities, and the political side is more common in small, rural schools. Apolitical schools speak of aiming to help students “flourish,” whereas political schools aim to “form” students. The former prefer to speak of “cultural engagement” (or “culture care”) and adopt a less judgmental stance toward secular values, the latter are comfortable with the idea of a “culture war,” and are both more likely to attack secularists and to be attacked by them in return. All this to say, The Seven Laws of Teaching wasn’t written in a mood, or with goals, that is likely to excite adherents of either side. “He teaches best who teaches least” is a non-starter on the political side, and “Teaching has its natural laws as fixed as the laws of the planets or of growing organisms” is a non-starter on the apolitical side.  

At this point, The Seven Laws of Teaching is a book whose ongoing presence in faculty development is defended more than it is assumed. Unlike a book like Daniel Coupland’s Tried & True, wherein the good parts are generously windfallen about the ground and may be gathered up with both hands at will, the valuable and worthwhile parts of The Seven Laws of Teaching are scanty enough in its pages that they must be plucked off the high branches only with much effort. If and when the book is finally replaced, classical education will have no great cause for weeping. A hasty salute will be sufficient.